UNCLE BOB

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As I reflect on it now, there has never been anyone quite like "Uncle Bob."

Uncle Bob was also known as Sergeant First Class Robert Hoehne (pronounced Haney). In his reserve career, he served as Section Chief of the attached personnel team, Headquarters, 2nd Battalion, 116th Field Artillery, Lakeland, Florida. He was my immediate supervisor there. We served together for a decade and a half, and it was yours truly who moved into his military position when he retired from the Florida Army National Guard.

Uncle Bob was, (to say the very least), a colorful sorta guy. 

In his civilian role, Bob was an elementary school math teacher. However, I never knew him in that particular capacity. 

One of the first memories I have of Uncle Bob was his humor, and one example in particular. We were making our way through the chow line one day during, (what is referred to as), a "home drill." (We weren't out in the woods). And since we had apparently done an "overnighter" in the armory, and were being served grits, Bob looked at the assistant cook, and said, "I'll have one grit!" (Did I mention Uncle Bob was from New Jersey)? Well, he was.

My old friend, (he was my friend), had a habit of using one phrase, in particular. If he liked and respected you, he would say, "He (or she) is a good person." I'll always remember his tendency to say those five words.

Uncle Bob would, at times, pick me up for weekend drills. He drove a 1970 something Ford Fairlane paneled station wagon. I will always remember that vehicle. For whatever reason, the attached section, a 3-4 soldier detail, were given the wherewithal to drive their own personal vehicles to two week annual training. The entire contingent of our section always rode with Bob. 

One evening as we were approaching Camp Shelby, Mississippi, I happened to be driving that old Ford Fairlane paneled station wagon. As I approached a traffic light in some little non-descript town, the light turned yellow. And as I touched the gas pedal, thinking I could surely get through the light, the yellow became red. And then, a different color of light altogether appeared behind our vehicle, and the sound of a police siren.

The police officer demanded I pay the ticket immediately, or return in a few weeks to contest the ticket. (Needless to say, I paid). I have always been convinced that the cop was hiding behind some nearby trees, and had changed the traffic light with an electronic clicker. And I have always been equally convinced that he put that money in his pocket. 

And speaking of driving to our two week annual training in a civilian vehicle, once when we were drilling at Camp Blanding, Florida, and had a day off, Uncle Bob, the rest of our section members, and I drove into Jacksonville. At least, that was the supposed destination. However, on the way to where ever I thought we were going, my section chief pulled that old Ford Fairlane 500 station wagon into the parking lot of, well, I will spare you the details. I only knew I wasn't going to into that establishment. Ultimately, I sent another fella into get him, and another soldier; who had, I thought, overstayed their welcome there.

No one worked harder than Uncle Bob. In the reserve, a soldier's retirement pay is based on a point system. Each weekend drill day, and each day of the two week active duty tour is worth x number of points. My section chief volunteered for additional days at the unit, lending a hand to the active duty troops, in order to earn additional points. Did I mention that a reservist does not begin collecting their retired pay 'til he reaches age 60? Ironically, Uncle Bob lived to be... 59. He never saw a penny of his hard-earned retirement pay; (though I presume his wife received it).

I have a favorite photo of my friend. He is lying on a cot in an old green canvas Army tent. Our unit had been activated after the 1992 hurricane which devastated Homestead, Florida. Hurricane Andrew "did a work" on thousands of homes and businesses, and irrevocably changed the lives of untold numbers of men, women, and children.

Sergeant Hoehne loved to talk about his home state of New Jersey. He often spoke of "going down to the shore," or more precisely, "going down the shore." 

I like to think Uncle Bob is somewhere enjoying a bowl of grits, (well, cream of wheat), lying prostrate on his beloved shore, and gazing wistfully upon the rolling waves. 

by SSG William McDonald, (U.S. Army, Ret.)