The Cement Caper
LT Lynn W Grace
When military units, or individual soldiers, come across extra supplies with trade value, they rarely passed up the opportunity. This story takes place at Fort Lewis, where I was serving as a training officer during a time when the war in Vietnam was ramping up. As units shipped out for combat, they often left behind equipment and materials they couldn’t take with them.
Next to our training area was the combat engineering company of the 4th Infantry Division. When we noticed they had shipped out, curiosity got the better of us. That evening, our captain and executive officer took a casual walk over to their building, which, as luck would have it, was unlocked. Inside, they discovered what could only be called a gold mine — stacks of cement bags. Back then, cement, plywood, and paint were prime commodities—hard to come by and always useful, whether for quick repairs or bartering.
So, after dark but before taps—when the trainees were supposed to be in bed—we asked for volunteers and explained the nature of the task. Around 35 to 50 trainees stepped forward. They formed a single-file line and marched over to the stash. One by one, each soldier hoisted a bag of cement onto their shoulder and carried it back to our building, where we stored it in the basement. The whole thing reminded me of a trail of ants, each one quietly and steadily doing their part. By the end of the night, we had moved somewhere between 200 and 250 bags—more than enough for future trades or quick projects.
The real test came four nights later when I was serving as Officer of the Day, responsible for the entire battalion during off-duty hours. As I arrived at Battalion Headquarters, the battalion commander—a thoughtful and well-liked Lieutenant Colonel—greeted me with a hand on my shoulder. “Lieutenant Grace, I have a favor to ask.” I replied, “Yes, Sir,” doing my best to sound calm and collected.
He led me to a window and pointed to a telephone booth sitting in a muddy patch at the intersection outside. He asked if I could find a way to get a cement slab poured underneath it. I replied, “Where would I get any cement?” He smiled and said, “I don’t know, but I know that you are a very resourceful officer”. Maybe you could scrounge up a little. It wouldn’t take much..My thoughts were racing. Did he know about the stash? Was this a test?
I decided to take the risk. I called the senior sergeant on duty at Company D and asked him to round up a few guys who knew cement work. Within half an hour, four or five showed up and got to work. They pulled the booth out, poured the slab, and had it all back in place within a few hours—clean, neat, and solid.
Early the next morning, I returned to my training company before the Colonel made his rounds. By mid-morning, I got a call—he wanted to see me. When I arrived at his office, he stood, shook my hand, and said, “Terrific job, Lieutenant. Where did you get the cement?” I leaned in slightly and said, “That’s a professional secret, Sir.” He paused for a moment, then grinned and replied, “You’re right.”
Years later, I happened to visit Fort Lewis while on vacation. The phone booth was long gone, but the cement slab was still there. I could still make out my initials and the date, faintly scratched into the corner. I pointed it out to a couple of soldiers nearby. They weren’t impressed. But to me, it was a small monument to a memory that still makes me smile. I never did find out if the Colonel knew the whole story.