CH.3 — Another Day, Another Detail

The last thing I want this first day of basic is a sudden wake-up siren. I want it to go off on my terms, not theirs. I want to ease into the moment, not have it spring-loaded on me.

I call on a skill I developed in college. “Bonanza” sleeping. A one-hour episode at a time.

2 a.m. Still forever until 5:00. Rest secure. Rest relaxed. Rest unscreamed at. Another sleep cycle. I check my watch. A minute after 3. I’m really good at this. Time to re-review my plan for the morning. At 4:45, I’ll sneak to the bathroom, fatigues in hand. I’ll take a leisurely piss and, with any luck, a shit. I’ll get dressed ahead of the cycle. Plenty of time to pull up the socks, lace the boots, calm the nerves.

Game plan finalized, I re-enter dreamland. Stay there while Hoss eats, Adam broods and Ben complains to the banker about the interest rate on his loan. It’s 4:04. Wake up to guys’ moaning. I pick out the girls’ names. Rhonda, Tanya. Donna. Anita. Give myself pep talk. You can do this. You’ve got more common sense than you think. Just let someone else go first and do what he does. Go back to sleep. Think of Ben Cartwright, patriarch of a land mass only slightly smaller than the plains of the Serengeti. Think of Little Joe getting the girl, but not consummating the act because the friction from his chaps would start a range war. Still plenty of time until lights come on. I rest satisfied-lover style with pillow propped up and hands folded behind my head. 4:20. I’ll be pissing soon. 4:30. I’ll be dressing soon. 4:40. Nobody else is stirring. They’re sucking the last minutes of sleep out of the bottle. Somebody coughs. Must be air in the nipple.

How can they be snoring at a time like this? How can they be so confident they can handle the morning without a head start? They should be like me. Heart racing faster than a Jimi Hendrix power set. Another anxiety to fuel an aircraft carrier.

I grab the fatigues, cap, socks and boots from under the bed and sneak into the toilet. Uncertainty clocks in. Should I dress first or brush my teeth? Should I wear my watch? What if I stay in the bathroom too long and lose my advantage? Should I use the foot spray? Will they think I’m a pussy if I use Chapstick?

I order myself to be decisive. Watch, yes. Shit, no. Foot spray, yes. Lip balm, no.

4:56. Finish dressing. 4:57. Lace boots. 4:58. Adjust stupid-looking cap.

Suddenly Haddox bursts into the room.

“Let loose your cocks and grab your socks,” he shouts.

A guy’s foot is dangling off the top bunk. Haddox yanks it. A troop left a towel on the floor beside his bed. Haddox snaps it an inch from the unfortunate’s nose.

He seven-league-boots it down the long row of bunks. So much to say. So few syllables at his disposal.

“Get the fuck dressed. Move the fuck out of my way. What I just stepped in better not be piss, soldier, or you’re one dead dick.”

Haddox trashes an open footlocker and throws an unattended electric shaver against the window.

One flustered guy put his Army-issue boxers on backward with his ass looking out the hole. Haddox makes the thoroughly frightened guy stand at attention while he lectures on the right way and the wrong way to stow one’s privates.

I turn my attention to making my bunk. Top sheet pulled tight and something called a hospital corner on the sides. Waldspurger showed us yesterday. You hold the flap like so and then you pull it over until the crease makes a 45-degree angle.

It looked easy when he did it. Tuck, tuck. Fold, fold. Then squish under the bed.

But I have trouble. The sheet is full of wrinkles. I try to beat them out. No good. I manage a flap, but it’s lopsided. I try again, but can only muster a 5-degree angle. Will Haddox notice? Did he take geometry?

Carouthers complains that his laundry bag isn’t where he left it last night and one of the white motherfuckers must’ve stolen it and, oops, ever mind, it’s in his closet.

I try to relax. I’ve done all I can to pass this inspection. Now it’s up to my underwear, socks and pistol belt.

The DI walks around the room tugging on blankets and pillowcases. He stops in front of my shoes, checks for star-light, star-bright and, finding none, kicks them across the room.

But he saves his serious anger for my bunk.

“Is this made to the best of your ability, troop?” he hollers, his face two inches from my face.

“Yes, uh, sir. Very much well made, sir.”

“I ain’t no goddamn sir. I work for a living.”

My shoulders are in reverse as far as they’ll go. I’m puckered up so much my lips look like a wad of chewing gum.

Haddox leaves me like this while he noses around my bunk. Suddenly, he grabs the top sheet, jerks the thing completely off and throws it on the floor. I’ve never seen such a display of power. This guy could undress a statue.

I’m praying he’ll walk away. I don’t do linen so good when I’m by myself. I’ll never get through a command performance.

But Haddox stands there with hands on hips. The fate of 40 footlockers can wait until my mattress gets properly attired.

I grow six extra hands. They slap at each other in a vain attempt to create a crease. A fold is out of the question.

I look at him helplessly in the manner of a beached octopus.

“Goddamn, you’re pitiful.”

He kicks the bunk twice and then moves in for the kill.

But he’s interrupted. The DI is needed in the toilet. It seems there’s a piece of shit in the shower.

“The men are refusing to clean it,” the messenger reports. “Something about E coli.”

Haddox stares clean through me.

“I’ll be back and this bed better be made.”

The six hands beget six more hands. Then the skeletal frame they’re attached to shakes out of control.

I fall back on the bed, which only worsens its condition. I don’t care. The condemned man might as well be comfortable.

I put the pillow against my face. A solution presents itself. I’ll smother myself. It’ll drive Haddox crazy knowing that he was so close to killing me, but didn’t get the chance.

Then I feel a fist. The pillow offers little in the way of protection. The Army needs to make these things better.

Eyes watering, I try to stand. But something is in my way.

Carouthers.

But he tucks as he talks. And folds.

“Uh, what are you doing?” I ask.

“Fixing your goddamn bed,” he replies.

I decide to make his hitting me in the face a complete non-issue. He’s at the crucial hospital-corner stage of the procedure and I don’t want to break his concentration.

He pulls the sheet tight and does the squish bit. In 90 seconds, he has taken what was an out-of-shape, wrinkled bunk and turned it into a sleep zone worthy of the front of a Wheaties box.

“Uh, thanks. You really bailed me out.”

Carouthers ignores me. A response would require an interpersonal exchange and our relationship hasn’t progressed to that point.

But he helped me, something he didn’t have to do.

And he didn’t call me a motherfucker.

Something to build on.

We hear that Haddox successfully arbitrated the bathroom work stoppage by threatening to have the E coli served for lunch.

He returns in a trot, hollering that he’d better damn well see a tight-ass bunk.

Which he does.

A 40-year maid at the Holiday Inn couldn’t make a better bed.

Haddox tries to yank the sheet out. It will not be moved.

He tosses a quarter on my bunk. The coin rockets halfway to the ceiling.

The dumbfounded DI walks away. He knows he’s been had, but doesn’t know how. Hmm, only gone for five minutes. Is that enough time to air-mail a perfectly made bunk from one of the service academies?

I leave him to ponder the shipping costs. We’ve got breakfast to swallow and, later, a sit-down with company commander Litton. He spoke to us briefly when we got out of the cattle cars. Jawline riveted in place. A chest full of medals. Temples indented as if they’ve been stamped at the foundry.

But what I noticed most was his adam’s-apple hair. A giant tuft that can’t be contained by mere collar. I stood in awe. He has more hair there than I have around my pecker. Never mind his command record, this alone qualifies him as a leader of men.

First, a class on military traditions and customs. Where we learn:

“The chain of command is the President of the United States. Then the Secretary of Defense. Then the Secretary of the Army. Then the Chief of Staff of the Army. Then the Army commander. Then the corps commander. Then the division commander. Then the post commander, brigade commander, battalion commander, company commander, platoon leader, squad leader and then me.”

I’m thinking, if it gets down that far, might as well give Ho Chi Minh the keys to the Oval Office.

Then a class on map-reading. Where we learn:

“For accurate compass readings, stay 55 meters away from high-tension power lines, 18 meters from any motor vehicle, 10 meters from telephone wires, two meters from machineguns and a half meter from steel helmets.”

Then a PT session of jumping jacks, wind sprints, bending-over exercises and seeing how many sit-ups we can do in a minute.

Nothing to it. I’m not even breathing hard. I wish they’d say, look, guy, we won’t make you fold anything or shoot anything, but we’ll run your hind parts off and make you do calisthenics until you develop hinges. I’d coast through this place.

Litton gives us the firm, but fair speech. Don’t wise-ass to the DIs. Don’t leave your footlockers open. Don’t fuck over your buddy. Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard it before.

Then he talks about Vietnam. The trip-wires. The punji sticks. The explosive devices intended not to kill, but to blow off an arm or a leg. Men get immune to death, he says quietly, not to seeing one pants leg swaying in the breeze.

“I’ve been there,” Litton says. “Twice.”

I don’t doubt it. He didn’t get all those stripes on his sleeves because he had some free time with a sewing machine.

“How many of you are regular Army?” Litton wants to know.

About 100 hands go up.

“About 50–50, right? Half regular Army and half National Guard and enlisted reserves.”

I listen hard for a negative tone, something to indicate he thinks we college guys are pussies for taking the easy way out, and he’s going to make it as miserable for our bunch as he possibly can.

“How many of you RAs knew you could probably get in the Guard or reserves if you tried hard enough?”

The show of hands is less than two dozen.

“You just took what the Army gave you, right? The Army didn’t tell you there was a choice. The recruiter said sign here and that’s what you did.”

Measured agreement among most of the RAs.

“You NG and ERs, how many are college boys?”

Almost all.

“You RAs, how many of your daddies could afford to send you away to school?”

No hands.

“How many of you RAs finished high school?”

Less than half.

“You know you’re probably going to Vietnam, right?”

More murmuring in the affirmative.

“Kill as many goddamn VC as you can, right?”

The RAs don’t know what to say. We don’t either.

“Poor man’s Army,” Litton grunts.

If Ford Leonard Wood is a newspaper, this was its first editorial.

The captain puts the cap on his poison pen. Enough point of view. Now it’s back to hard news.

“I’m gonna push you these next eight weeks. The DIs are gonna push. The cadre at the rifle range are gonna push. Some of you will ship out for Southeast Asia. Some of you will ship out for a steno pool in Pottstown. We don’t have time to go back and forth to see which is which. So we train like you’re all going for a walk in the jungle. Everybody got that?”

He presses the point until he gets a loud enough, “Yes, sir!”

Litton wants to know if we have any questions.

I’m dying to ask about his adam’s-apple hair. Does it itch? Do the ladies like it? Is it a good place to hide ammunition?

But I keep quiet.

Litton calls us to attention and announces he will conduct the daily barracks inspection for he first week. If you think your DI is hard to live with now, he warns, wait until your platoon comes in last.

Another session on personal hygiene. We look at slide after slide of rotting teeth that ages ago said “So long” to the gum line. Guys start nodding off after the 20th picture of pus. We’ve been up since before 5, our stomach linings have finally negotiated a peace settlement with breakfast and fourth-stage gingivitis looks better with eyes shut.

One of the DIs from Charlie Platoon is in charge. Sensing a rapid loss of audience, he adds fresh slides to the mix. Suddenly, there’s 100 percent interest in teeth that have chewed their last.

Unclothed women. And in much better focus than the pus.

Every fourth or fifth flick of his switch calls to the screen a rouged, pouty vision of heaven.

But only for a second.

Then it’s back to looking at incisors that tried to bite their way through a minefield and suffered heavy casualties.

“You want me to start this class all over again,” the DI threatens.

We assure him that’s not necessary.

“Then you gotta prove you’re paying attention.”

He has 200 Alpha Company willing students. Just tells us how we can help.

“Every time you see a naked chick, you holler ‘pussy’ as loud as you can.”

No problem.

Slide of inch-deep cavity. Slide of tooth being yanked out. Slide of blood cascading down that’s left of a bicuspid. Slide of 46-inch tits.

“Pussy!”

Third-year dental students aren’t any more alert than we are. And our knowledge base is growing. Slow me a few more extractions and I swear I could perform the procedure.

We march to guard duty. Where we learn:

“All guards in a combat zone are exterior guards. The first type of exterior guards are listening posts where two or three men hide in the bushes and listen. The second type of exterior guards are observation posts where more than two or three men climb up in a tower and observe. The third type of exterior guards are patrols where more than two or three men go out on patrol and may or may not hide in the bushes.”

It’s after 8 p.m. when we finally get back to our barracks. The inspection report is posted on the bulletin board. I was gigged for shoes, brass and handkerchief. But my bunk passed.

And it will pass tomorrow and the day after and the day after. That’s because I’m going to call on yet another of my bedroom skills: coffin-sleeping. I can stretch out and remain almost completely motionless the entire night. My heels don’t cause the covers to ride up. I don’t toss and turn. I don’t even scrunch the pillow. When I wake up, the bed looks like a strip of cellophane spent the night on it, not a 180-pound man. I’ll sleep on top of the sheets and keep Carouthers’ tuck-and-fold handiwork in place for the rest of the cycle. A top o’ the morning bunk first time, every time.

The mail brings a package from Dad that includes three letters from newspaper editors who read my funny articles from college.

“Unfortunately, this material does not work for our newspaper and, I daresay, not for any other publication” — Miami Herald.

“You, sir, fail to understand that writing does not come out of thin air” — Boston Herald.

“The article about the brassiere that shines in the dark to show male students the way was poorly thought out and extremely offensive. I didn’t look at the other samples” — Kansas City Star.

I look at the bright side. One editor made it all the way through the bra column. Maybe he just didn’t like the part about the flashing lights in the cups. Maybe next time I’ll take out the batteries.

It’s clear that bras make for interesting reading. I make a note to write a funny article about a lonely man who buys the newspaper just to clip out the Maidenform ads. The walls of his apartment are a tribute to cleavage. Thanks, Kansas City.

I put the returned columns under my boxers. There’s a typewriter over in supply. Maybe I can get in there long enough to crank out new cover letters for Philadelphia, Houston and Salt Lake City.

Ya comes in and asks for some gum.

An idea hits.

“I want to write stories for newspapers when I leave this place,” I tell him.

“So?”

“It would help if you give me some feedback on some of the things I’ve written. Who knows? You might even like them.”

He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a fuck book.

“Is it anything like one of these?”

“Close,” I lie. “Real close.”

His face drops.

“But I hate to read.”

“The words will fairly fly by. Trust me.”

“Aw, shit. OK.”

This is great. I have an audience for my work.

“It’s real simple,” I explain. “You read one of my stories and tell me what you think.”

Ya looks at his watch.

“You got five minutes. If I ain’t finished by then, too bad.”

Not exactly the attitude going in that I’d like from my one-person sample group, but I’m not complaining.

“Which article would you like to read?” I ask, pulling out a sheath of papers. “Nixon’s expansion of the war. Coed dorms. A teacher who got fired because his hair was too long. Suicide-not-so-prevention centers.”

Ya determines the suicide story is the shortest by five lines.

“This one.”

He starts in on it in the manner of a convict breaking rock.

“Don’t mind me,” I say, getting my pen in the ready position. “I’m just going to make a few notations. You proceed with the text.”

“What kind of notes?” he asks suspiciously.

“I call it my guffaw meter. I watch your reactions when you get to the funny parts. If you smile, it’s one point. A chuckle is two points and a guffaw is three points. Fifteen points for a column is considered a good score.”

“What’s a guffaw?”

“When you laugh out loud.”

“I don’t do that unless Haddox gets his dick caught in a drill press.”

“Look, all I ask is that you don’t fight the feeling. If you’re overcome with hilarity, let it run its course.”

Clearly, this is Ya’s first time with a humor-measuring mechanism.

“It’s hard enough to get from one word to the next,” he says. “I can’t do it at all if you gonna look at me.”

“All I ask is that if I make you laugh, you laugh with every inch of your being. Anything else and you skew the test results.”

Ya looks as if he’s about to be executed. If I coax so much as a grin out of him, I ought to be the head writer for the Bob Hope Show.

“Are you relaxed?” I want to know. “Can I get you anything? Maybe some Fritos.”

“Let’s get it over with.”

He reads. I watch.

Suicides have been on the increase in this country in the past few years. In some of the larger cities, notably San Francisco, Suicide Prevention Centers have been provided by the city at no cost. Volunteers man the telephones and follow a standard procedure.

They are taught not to panic, but to be gentle and persistent in getting the necessary information. A call like this one perhaps would not be very unusual to one of these busy people.

R-R-R-R-Ring. “SPC Desk 2. Are we in time? I know that’s a silly question but it gets us off to a good start. Now what’s your problem?”

“I’m tired of living. I’m lonely. I have no friends and nobody cares about me.”

“Of course they do. Don’t be silly. What’s the name and Social Security number? Joe J — we don’t take first names. Just last name and number, please. The other phone’s ringing.”

“Jones — 228–65–7635.”

“Thank you, Jones. Now tell me why you feel this urge to kill yourself.”

“I haven’t had a job promotion in 20 years. I caught my wife in bed with the paperboy. The Ku Klux Klan gave me control of three counties and my daughter married a Negro.”

“Where are you now?”

“In a pay booth on top of the Mutual Building downtown. It had your number on the door so I thought, what the hell.”

“You did the right thing, Jones. What kind of a funeral would you like? We’re sort of a middleman for the Undertakers Syndicate. We get 25 percent.”

“Methodist will be all right. I never went. Hey, how much does that cost?”

“How much would you like to spend?”

“As little as possible. I just want to die.”

“That rules out a lot of things. You probably want an old sea captain to officiate instead of a priest. Burials at sea usually save $400. But since you have no friends, you’ll have to rent four pallbearers.”

“Can’t you just get two strong men?”

“All right, Jones, but you’re cutting it tight. We had one poor fellow who didn’t have enough money for the gravediggers, so we just let his body decompose on a park bench. By the way, what’s the height and weight? Medium build, I hope. One time somebody took our $200 plan and cheated the hell out of us. He was seven feet tall and weighed 400 pounds. We had to hire a bulldozer and a crane to handle him. We would have lost money but his wife drove the bulldozer so we cleared 10 bucks.”

“I’m normal. Six feet tall and 200 pounds. Look, I just want to die as inexpensively as possible.”

“Very well, Jones. Here are some tips to save money. Take some nude photos of your wife and we’ll make a program out of them and push them at the graveside ceremony. Add some poetry. Maybe that last letter. You should also consider where you will jump and how you will land. The programs won’t sell if people have to look at a busted-up head and body. One guy jumped off a 75-story building and his bill included $300 more than usual. It took that much for the sanitation department to put him back together. I would suggest pills. That way, the undertaker can make you look real contented and peaceful. Nobody will want to buy your programs if they think you died with a chip on your shoulder. Also, you save three hours of an undertaker’s time.”

“We’ve also been requested to try to sell you a dark suit. They’re usually $50, but if you buy sight unseen it’s half price. The reason I offer this, Jones, is that you fall in the Poor-Friendless category and most of these guys are in pretty bad shape. One wino wanted the cheapest possible so we buried him in his Jockey shorts. I’m glad he didn’t sell programs. His own mother wouldn’t have bought one of his ugly body lying in state.

“Jones, it’s been great talking to you, but our time is up. As you can probably tell, we’re all clinical psychologists trained in this sort of thing and we don’t come cheap. As we say, your time is our time…for a little while.”

Ya is expressionless. He might as well be reading the Constitution.

No score.

I can’t believe it.

“What’s the matter with you? Sea captain, renting pallbearers, can’t you just get two strong men — that’s funny.”

“I told you I don’t laugh.”

“Hire a crane, get his wife to operate the bulldozer, cleared 10 bucks? You’re holding back. I told you not to do that.”

Ya shrugs his shoulders and hands back the pages.

“Next time, write about pussy.”

Dear Carl,

Just a few lines to let you know I’m at this shit depot. One thing that helps me get up in the morning is the hope that one day a scared basic-trainee-to-be will seek my sage advice, and I’ll be able to come through half as well as you did that night back at the dorm.

You painted a perfect picture. How the DIs try to stress you out. How the fate of the free world depends on how well we fold our socks. How if you never want to be found, all you have to do is move to Central Missouri.

I’ll put this Haddox asshole against any DI you or anybody else ever had. You see the other cadre members talking with each other. Sitting together at the PX. Getting in and out of each others’ cars. They take a break from this crap. Probably go home to their wives and laugh their asses off.

Not Haddox. Never takes off the mask. Never orders himself to fall out. Like our man Ya says, he’s ate up with it.

Our other DI is the complete opposite. Just a few minutes ago, Skebo was shining his boots to “L.A.Woman.” Waldsburger sticks his head in the door, says a polite hello and walks down the hall humming, “Never saw a woman so-o-o alone.” It’s like he’s really one of us, but he can’t let on until the eight weeks are over.

We’re almost to the end of the first week of classes. On Monday, we ship out to the rifle range for the first time for what they say will be pretty much a routine occurrence until we finish the cycle.

I’m scared. Never have I fired a weapon. Never have I wanted to fire a weapon. I have daily dread that I’ll do something wrong and ending up shooting somebody. Please write back if for no other reason than to tell me how you got through it.

Rodriguez, my squad leader, sometimes plays guitar in clubs around El Paso. Says his idea to have me clean the heat duct with a pipe cleaner came to him in a song.

Skebo, one of my three roommates, lives in a commune. Housing is free in the dozens of log cabins. Meals are free in the common kitchen. Utopian society, Skebo says. Neighbors love neighbors and nobody worries about cash flow. Children have names like Astar, Sky and Queen. Nary a Bob and a Helen. Meditation is encouraged. Psychedelics aren’t, Skebo tells me, but all-night boogies are a happening thing after the elders to go sleep.

Carouthers is one roommate. He’s big and black and says he hates whites. But he made up my bed for me this morning, so I’m not so sure. Apperson is the other roommate. He’s little and white and a career criminal. Doesn’t talk and doesn’t want to get talked to. So we leave him alone.

This idiot Peavey is well on his way to becoming the platoon fuck-up. The DIs don’t like him because he has the attention span of a foil ball. We don’t like him because he’s a lying little snot. The troops are cleaning the bathroom the other day and he comes staggering in like he’s high on something. Holds an empty bottle of pills like he tried to OD. Starts babbling and almost falls down in the shower.

Then Ya comes up, pries open Peavey’s mouth and whacks him in the back of the head. Small chunks of green, red and yellow come out.

“Sweet Tarts,” Ya says. “Boy tried to fool y’all.”

It seems Ya saw the stash of candy, saw the pill bottle, saw Peavey practice bobbing and weaving, and added it all up.

Peavey begged us not to turn him in, and I guess we won’t. But he’s at the bottom of the algae pond and I don’t see any surface bubbles any time soon.

Well, that’s about it. Downshift the dump truck once for me.

Garret

Dear Osgood,

Still padding your wallet on “Jock Time,” or do you have too much dignity now that you’re a senior?

You were the best, man. The government ought to study your nipples and develop a new compound for making bullets.

No doubt you’re sitting back, sucking on a cold one and celebrating your №299 draft lottery number. Maybe you’re wondering what those of us are doing who weren’t so lucky with the little white balls.

Making it, that’s what. Not making it up. And definitely not making out.

Khrushchev died and all hell broke out at the Attica prison in New York. Did I hear about it with any dispatch? Hell, no. Out here, only generals have TV sets and they probably get lousy reception. And newspapers? You’re more likely to see a Dead Sea Scroll.

One of the things we have to do to pass basic is get a decent score on the PT test. The events are the mile run, horizontal bars, the inverted crawl, bent-leg sit-ups and a serpentine course the DIs call dodge-and-run. I’m not so great on the bars, but there’s a set outside the barracks and I get plenty of practice. I can do a ton of sit-ups and I’m in the top five when the platoon goes for a trot. You know me. I love to worry. But I’m quietly confident the physical part of this shit won’t beat me.

We also have to pass a test on all the classes — map-reading, first aid, military traditions, manual of arms and such. No problem.

Then we have to shoot down a minimum number of targets with the M-16. Big problem. I barely know which end the bullet comes out.

They’re giving us a chance to go to a St. Louis Cardinals football game on Sunday, but I’ll skip it. We’d have to wear the uniform and march in and out of the stadium by platoon. I’d like nothing better than leaving this place for a day, but not if I have to play soldier in the public sector.

I get fire guard about every fifth night, usually the 1 to 2 a.m. shift. We’re supposed to walk up and down the hall holding the stupid paddle, but most of us just sit on the front step and write letters. If you’re really brave, you sneak downstairs and get a Coke and a pack of peanuts out of the vending machines. A DI is supposed to be in the CQ to prevent such lawlessness, but most of the time they’re conked out. Or reading fuck books.

I’m not the platoon guide or a squad leader, so that means I have KP. We run-of-the-mill types can look forward to putting it once every two weeks. I had my first session two days ago. It was everything the other guys in the platoon said it would be. The stinkiest day of my life.

The fire guard woke the three of us up at 3:30 a.m. so we could be at the mess hall by 4. The cooks had been slicing and stirring for an hour. They have even worse attitudes than we do. Bitching, cussing and jumping our asses for having the audacity to be only amateur food preparers.

I wanted to say, look, shitheads, you’re permanent party. You signed up to awaken in the middle of the night and spoon out lard on the bacon trays. You should have thought about 4 o’clock in the morning when you raised your right hand at the induction center, and said I do solemnly swear to set out the butter patties.

But I keep quiet. I will do nothing and say nothing that could increase my time at this place by 15 seconds. Pop off to one of these sauteed bastards and no telling what he’d do. Or who he’d tell. Better to just stay out of the way.

Dining room orderlies pour coffee for the DIs, fetch pancake syrup for the DIs and pick up napkins that the DIs dropped.

This is bad duty. You would need a promotion to be an indentured servent.

Back-room guys stand in front of gurgling, steaming garbage disposals, and scrape off plates that have been refitted with cigarettes, matches and nasal matter to reflect diners’ disgust with the meal.

This is worse duty. You feel like a decal on the back of the trash truck.

I did the dining-room gig for breakfast and switched off for lunch and dinner. I’d rather have food stuck to my skin than be a lackey.

In between meals is the worst. You can’t leave the mess hall. Then you’d go on report and the enlistment judge would prescribe extra time. You’re not expected to do a great deal of work other than wheel new caldrons into place so they can be filled with more shit nobody is going to eat. You just have to be there.

The other KPs hid behind pallets of brown beans. I went to stall № 2, locked the door and assumed the position. I’m thinking, hey, they can’t accuse me of goofing off if my pants are down.

In all my life, I had never gone to the bathroom for more than five minutes. If it hasn’t come out by then, it’s not going to. But this is different. Out there is getting yelled at for not knowing the correct end of a potato peeler. In here is peace. I hummed Beatles lyrics. Dylan lyrics. Jim Morrison lyrics. Paul Simon lyrics. Then I wrote the words on the walls. Even though I wasn’t very comfortable — try sitting with your pants at your feet and leaning over to reach the composition area — I lost myself in lyrics that took me back to college. Inspired out the ass, I drew pictures of miniature hippies carrying guitars and driving beat-up vans and sitting under a tree waiting for something groovy to happen.

Osgood, I was in there almost two hours. So long I actually did shit twice. What started out as a way to kill time became a shrine. Why don’t you make some discrete inquiries at the Smithsonian? Maybe they’d be interested in a free-standing example of how the counter-culture lives within the nation’s war machine.

Just a thought.

Before supper, I was merely in serious need of a shower. After supper, I smelled like a six-month garbage strike.

And did we get to go back to the barracks as per the usual time, or 45 minutes after our last customer phlegmed in his mashed potatoes? Hell, no. This had to be the night before the mess hall’s IG inspection. Cooks, cooks’ bosses and KPs were comrades in cleanser.

We didn’t get dismissed until after 10 p.m., an hour past our bedtime. I excused myself from my two mates on the walk home. They didn’t care how filthy they were. Jump into bed and start snoring.

That doesn’t work for me. I must be clean or I can’t even close my eyes, much less sleep. I remembered a hose outside the first-aid classroom. We took a drink in between tying off tourniquets, but spit it out because the water tasted like a corroded door knob. But it would do to wash off flesh scum.

The problem was that the building is almost a mile away. Did I want to walk that far? Did I want to risk getting spotted by the MPs?

Yes and yes. In front of God, crickets and a pile of rotten roofing tiles, I got naked and hosed myself down. I didn’t know when I’d get the chance again, so I gave myself the most intense cleaning of my life. Another minute and I would have flushed out an eyeball.

I felt good about myself. The Army had thrown everything it had at me — filth, asshole cooks, a day without end — and I battled to at least a standstill, if not outright victory. An hour after feeling like I had been hung out to dry at a landfill, I felt more antiseptic than the Joint Chiefs’ hand dryer.

Better sign off. If you get the chance, send me a picture of your nipples. Sign it “With Love.” I’ll show it to the cadre. Maybe get out of here yet.

See you later.

Garret