of O four hundred. Because neither of us is a particularly aggressive or hostile type, we gradually bring the KPs onto our side, or, maybe, we go over to the side of the KPs, whichever way you want to look at it. We’re friends to everybody.
The cook is satisfied because we’re getting the work done, so he has hardly anything to do. We develop all kinds of short cuts, more efficient ways to do things, not a particularly difficult task.
Logan and I work out a system to keep the stove burning overnight by feeding it just before lights-out and wrapping the coal in wet newspapers. So now the KPs come into a nice warm kitchen, with the tables set and most of the work already done. We begin to think being cooks would be great. The cook even recommends that we be sent to cook’s school. Also, our company is the only one where everybody is begging to be on KP. Logan figures if we can gain control of the KP lists, we can even charge!
We gradually find out that the food being served is so terrible because of the way it’s cooked. Nobody in the country is eating the way we’re supposed to be being fed. It’s actually food fit for kings. These great big beautiful pork chops come in, at a time when meat rationing is tough for civilians, and this cook takes those hundreds of pork chops and dumps them in a big pot of boiling water. Then he pulls them out dripping wet and gives them a little frying on the griddle with greasy oil so they’ll look better, as if they’d been fried or roasted. But they taste like cardboard and are as tough as shoe leather. They only look like pork chops. We talk the cook into letting us do more and more of the cooking while he sinks slowly into his private stew, alcohol.
Logan is teaching me how to cook. We start making things like Beef Stroganoff instead of stew, chipped beef in garlic sauce instead of ‘shit on a shingle’. We even get so we can do a fair job of broiling steaks, giving a choice: rare, medium or well done. That’s quite a trick with two hundred people to be fed in less than an hour. The KPs get into the spirit. The Captain promotes the cook from staff to tech.
Around this time, some of us are given a chance to take our first furlough. I go home to California where my folks have moved from Philadelphia while I’ve been gone. Logan will take his furlough when I come back. He’ll double up and handle both ends of the job, do all the cooking. I have twelve days travel time. This plus the ten-day furlough comes to twenty-two days. With a little manoeuvring on the weekends at each end, I have twenty-four days altogether. I feel paroled. I’m going to be out of the army, on my own, after almost six months as a prisoner. It seems like a dream come true.
For the first time I visit my parents in California. I meet the woman who becomes my wife six years later. We dance a lot. There are great bands, big swing bands in Southern California then. We dance at the Casa Manana and the Casino Ballroom. Jimmy Dorsey, Harry James, all the big ones play. Most of the men dancing are in uniform. It’s a great furlough. When I come back, I find I’ve been put onto the duty roster again! I can’t believe it.
Logan is at cook’s school and the cook had been broken to private. There’s another cook who doesn’t want cook’s helpers, KP pushers. I’m back on the line in a line outfit. I feel I’ve been rooked. I have been!
Much later, I learn that in the battle of the Ardennes when everybody, truck drivers, clerks, cooks, even the regimental band are put up on the line, Logan shoots himself in the arm with a carbine. If you do a thing like that you’re supposed to hold your hand over the rifle and shoot through a cloth, between the bones. I thought he’d have done a better job of it. Or maybe it really was an accident.
SERGEANT HUNT
Before we’re shipped overseas, I’ve been reassigned to Regimental Intelligence and Reconnaissance, called I&R. Somebody scanned my records and found my AGCT score. I move from K Company to Regimental Headquarters company.
It’s even better than being a KP pusher. We’re given special training in patrolling, using high tech (for the army that is) phones and radios, we get to drive jeeps, trucks and weasels. Weasels are a kind of personnel carrier that has tracks and can go through water. We’re even sent back to Benning for parachute jump training. In two weeks we make five jumps. They won’t let us make the sixth because then we’d be eligible for paratrooper jumping wings, which would have given us fifteen dollars extra a month.
The Master Sergeant of Regimental Headquarters is a special kind of person. He could well be one of the meanest people I will ever know, but he is always smiling and laughing. He has small eyes and a big stomach. He’s ‘regular army’ and a southerner. I don’t know how smart he actually is, but when it comes to running an infantry company he’s a genius. He runs a company as if it’s his own private army, set up for his personal profit. We privates, and everyone else, are his serfs.
The Company Commander and other officers love him because they don’t have to do anything. The Company Commander is just decoration in this company. Twice Sergeant Hunt is offered a commission and refuses. He lives better, eats better, and makes more money with all his schemes, than the Regimental Commander.
But he makes one mistake. He gets too greedy; and somebody, somewhere along the line, discovers that Hunt’s been having marital allotment cheques sent to three different women in three different states. He’s a trigamist. He could get away with this because he signs the allotments himself. He has one wife in Alabama, one in South Carolina and another in Mississippi. There’s a court martial and he’s broken all the way down to Private. He has to make up for the fraudulent allotments and he does. I think he’s a rich man by that time, anyway.
Anyone else would have wound up in Leavenworth, but he can call in some of his chits, and officers like him. He’s moved into the regular barracks like the rest of us, and we have a new Master Sergeant shipped in.
Now everyone who’d ever been given a hard time by him jumps on Private Hunt. His life isn’t worth living. Shaving cream is squeezed into his toothpaste tube, he’s short-sheeted every night and has to remake his bed before he climbs into it. There can be anything, spiders, scorpions, snakes, condoms full of water, anything, under those blankets. But he never says anything, he just smiles, crinkling his eyes; throws these things on the floor, and puts everything back together.
He has all the shit details; latrine duty, KP, and pulls hard guard. Even lousy PFCs try to make his life miserable. He only smiles his fat smile with flesh bunched up around those small eyes. To me he looks more dangerous this way, his shirt sleeves showing where his old master stripes had been when he was top kick. I make a point of staying away from him.
He’s older than any of the company officers, including the new CO, by far. Probably in his late thirties, he seems like an old man to us. He just keeps his mouth shut, does whatever he’s told, no matter what, even things he doesn’t have to do, like mop the barracks floor every morning before reveille. And nobody knows arm regulations, word and verse, as Hunt does. I’m convinced something bad is coming.
It doesn’t take long. He somehow manages to be transferred to ‘C’ Company. Then, nobody ever went up through the ranks the way Hunt does. He stitches each new rank on with big loose stitches until he’s finally back to three up, three down, with the diamond of a Master Sergeant. These he stitches on tightly.
Starting right then, he begins arranging transfers from Headquarters to C Company of about twenty non-coms and PFCs. These twenty are those who had given him the worst time. We all go down to look at the bulletin board every morning with dread. We never hear from any of those soldiers again except to see their names on the demotions list, if they had any rank. He wears them down, one at a time. Since then, I’ve harboured a fear of big, smiling, fat, southerners. It’s a form of personal bigotry.
WATER
