Metamorphosis
Frank Heads West
Ten minutes after pulling out of the downtown terminal, the thirty-five-seat Vista-Liner bus was smoothly cruising westbound on US90 towards San Antonio. Although it was a bit smaller than Greyhound’s vaunted Scenicruiser, the German manufactured Kässboher model VL100’s ride was buttery soft—its powerful Detroit Diesel 8V-71 effortlessly pushing the sleek aluminum alloy body up the gently sloping landscape toward Texas hill country.
In addition to the twelve newly minted Air Force recruits, about ten other folks had boarded the bus in Houston; most probably heading to San Antonio but surely a few with final destinations even further west. Since there were a few seats to spare most of us chose to sit by ourselves—each sinking into our own world of uncertainty and fear.
During the haste and confusion of the enlistment process earlier in the day no one had found the time or opportunity to introduce himself to one other, and now seated quietly in the dimly-lit bus in our high-backed upholstered seats, most of us alone and staring out the window, it seemed that there really was no opportunity to do so.
As the softly growling diesel pushed us further west, the night’s deep darkness quietly wrapped itself around the bus, its inky black sheath pierced by the rumbling coach’s bright twin beam headlights. On either side, far in the distance, the night’s murkiness was randomly perforated by the star-like twinkling of thousands of sentinel porch lights, silently guarding their otherwise unlit homesteads.
Fighting off a growing drowsiness, my forehead resting comfortably on the cool window glass, I let my mind wander, soon finding itself dredging up those ephemeral memories of events that had ultimately put me on this bus. I came to the shocking conclusion that the determination that had pushed me to go through with this enlistment astounded me as much as it probably did everyone else that knew me in those days.
But what no one could ever know, or feel, was the bitter disappointment and crushing disillusionment that had grown within me due to my parents’ almost dogmatic dedication to the Pentecostal church, and particularly its flawed leadership. Add to that their ever-escalating and most violent verbal quarrels, and my mother’s sudden obsession with extracting her pound of flesh—one dollar at a time—for having given birth to me, pretty much convinced me that something drastic had to happen.
Since my graduation from high school I saw that I was going nowhere fast; if I didn’t make a move to change my circumstances I would end up living my life out in this ghetto neighborhood. Somehow I just couldn’t (and wouldn’t) picture myself married to some ever-pregnant neighborhood girl, surrounded by a covey of snotty, whining ragamuffin brats, and spending my free time drinking cheap beer while sitting on the porch in a pair of dirty khakis and a grayed-out “wife-beater” undershirt.
The frustration I was feeling knowing that I had no future there finally took its toll on me, and as I turned eighteen that August of 1960, I found I just couldn’t take it anymore. So without fully realizing the enormity of the decision I was about to make, I began to make plans to leave home forever. The day that I decided to put my future into my own hands will forever exist to me as a seminal moment in time; I will always remember this “fork in the road” event as the defining moment when my life changed forever.
As far back as I could remember I had always followed, without question, the decisions made by my parents. I had never been a rebellious kid, not even during those terrible hormone-filled early teen years when parents and their offspring typically square off as the hardwired ideologies of their two very different generations clash noisily as they grind by each other. Since I had been sociologically quarantined in a religiously induced “time-out” during those particular years, not only did I not have much of an ideology, sadly it would take me a few more years to finally develop one. Consequently, by the time I reached the “age of consent” I was several years behind my peer group in social development, and not really equipped to face the pressures and temptations that typically face young people out on their own for the first time. And because of this lack of preparation (call it immaturity) I caused myself, and others, a lot of psychological agony and made a lot of bad decisions.
A sudden change of tone in the bus’s engine quickly brought me out of the funk that I’d settled into for the last hour or so. As the driver coaxed the powerful transmission down a couple of gears, the darkness outside began to surrender itself to rapidly passing brightly lit signs announcing various gas stations, liquor stores and motels. As the small, brilliantly illuminated buildings increased in number the bus slowed and the engine in the rear gave out a low complaining moan. We lurched to the right as the coach pulled off the main road and onto a large concrete parking area already filled with several other large buses and a sprinkling of cars. The lot fronted a cluster of tightly grouped neon-lit structures, each announcing their particular brand of cheap and greasy fast food.
“First stop!” The driver’s gravelly voice announced over the bus’s tinny speakers. “Exit the coach carefully please! We’ll be here for fifteen minutes, so please make sure you’re back in your seat and ready to go at that time. Food and snacks at the various stores outside and bathrooms in the back. FIFTEEN MINUTES!” A sharp hissing sound came from the rear as the air brakes decompressed and a slow shudder passed through the body of the vehicle as the engine droned and clunked to a final stop.
The majority of the passengers began to stir and stretch, finally getting out of their seats and easing out into the narrow aisle. As I stepped out I saw that several of the guys from my group were standing in the aisle intently staring in my direction. It was then that I remembered that I was the money man and would have to fund their food and snack choices. As I carefully walked towards the front of the bus, one by one, the group fell in behind me. I worried that somehow I’d end up short of money before we even got to San Antonio as I didn’t know how many more stops we’d make or how many more hours we’d be on the road. As I stepped off the bus and onto the slightly damp concrete I decided that since I was in charge of the group, and more importantly, the money, I’d be making the food and snack choices from here on out. I stopped to make sure all the group was together, then motioned for them to gather ‘round.
“OK,” I said to my sleepy-eyed charges, “we’ll need to pick one place only to get whatever food or drink you all want. That way I can pay for everyone at the same time.”
“How about that 7-11?” One of the guys asked. “I need to pee and their restrooms are usually pretty clean.”
“Fine with me,” I said, “is that OK with the rest of you guys?”
I got blank looks and a couple of nods, so I turned and headed to the green, red and white striped store with the ragged group in tow.
A few minutes later and a few dollars lighter, I settled back into my seat sipping on a Coke and munching on a couple of “Texas Peanut Patties”—basically pink round caramelized sugar discs embedded with peanut halves. Great for the teeth.
Maggots and Other Nice Things
After a few hours of mostly dark and smooth highway—and after making a few more stops for bathroom breaks and such, I finally succumbed to a numbing slumber coming on the heels of the mountainous sugar high created by a few more “Peanut Patties” and a couple of “Payday” bars.
From very far away I heard, “….Antonio main terminal…” Then, “…on to El Paso with final destination, Los Angeles (pronounced ‘las eng gah leez’). Everybody off for a head count.”
Shaking off the heavy mantle of sleep I slowly realized that I was staring into a bright overhead light positioned right outside my window.
“Hey, mister group leader…” I heard from my left. “Hey, we gotta get off now. You want help with the folders?”
I took a deep breath and tried to get my brain engaged. Turning my head I saw one of the guys from my group looking quizzically down at me.
“Hey, come on now. We gotta go. The other guys already got off and are waiting for you!”
Scooting off the seat I extended my left leg out to find the center aisle. “OK, OK. I’m up.” I managed to say.
During the long trip the stack of folders had managed to shift towards the back of the overhead and part of the cord had come loose. With a little help I was able to round up the folders and lift them off the rack and down onto the aisle seat. There, I quickly re-tied the cord and hefted the stack in front of me as I dragged myself to the front of the bus and out the door.
The terminal was larger than the one in Houston and even at this late hour was bustling with buses arriving and departing, passengers milling about, some pulling outlandishly large pieces of luggage, while others had no luggage at all.
Finding the rest of the group loitering by the large doors leading to the interior of the terminal I did a quick count to make sure no one had gone AWOL on me.
“Anybody see a blue Air Force bus anywhere?” I asked to no one in particular. A couple of heads wagged ‘no’.
“All I seen is these Continental buses here.” One of my charges said. “Maybe it’s out on the street somewhere.”
I looked both ways and saw that the terminal pretty much took up a whole city block. If the Air Force bus was on one of the streets we’d have to do some walking to find it.
Picking the street closest to us I picked up my stack of folders and headed in that direction. Clearing the large bus entrance doors I stepped out onto the sidewalk, looking right and left. About a half a block to our right, parked on the curb, was a large blue school bus with the letters, ‘USAF’ painted in large white block letters along the rear exit doors.
“That’s it!” I said to no one in particular, and started walking rapidly in its direction.
As I got near the front of the bus the two front doors swung open. I slowed a bit and looked behind me to make sure everyone was still headed in the same direction.
“Hi,” I said tentatively to the rather large black man dressed in a tightly starched green uniform—a highly polished high-top boot casually resting on the lever that operated the doors. “Is this the bus to Lackland Air Force Base?”
“Who’s asking?” he said, raising the bill of his matching green cap to expose his bright white eyeballs.
“Uh, Frank…no, basic airman DeLeon—group leader from Houston. And these are my guys.” I threw a quick thumb over my right shoulder as I tried to balance the folders on my left knee.
“OK, ‘Group Leader’ dee-lon. Get yo ass up here and gimme d’em folders.”
Shooting a quick look behind me to again make sure no one had panicked and tried to escape, I climbed up the two steps and handed the stack to the driver.
“Put d’em on da floor and take that string off.”
I softy dropped the stack and undid the tidy bow that I’d spent some time perfecting earlier.
“Gimme the folders one by one.” The driver said, stifling a yawn. I noticed that on his sleeve was sewn an insignia with a blue and white star with four stripes, formed somewhat like wings. I wasn’t sure if he was a sergeant or something else.
Taking no chances I said, “Yes sir!” In my best military voice.
“Shit boy, I ain’t no sir! I’m just Smitty. Now when we get on the base, anyone you see with anything d’at even looks like a fucking stripe on his sleeve, you better say ‘sir’. Otherwise yo ass is grass.”
Hmm…, I thought. There’s that ‘ass/grass thing again. Must be an Air Force thing.
“OK.” I said quickly.
Looking at the first folder he asked, “So, youse dee-lon, right?”
“Yes s…., yes!”
“OK, since youse the group leader, you take this here first seat on the right.”
I grabbed the brightly polished hand pole and swung myself into the right front seat, happy to finally be rid of those damn folders.
Smitty began to call out the names on each folder, asking the respondent to sit in a particular seat on the bus. Soon he slammed the doors shut, deposited all the folders in a large metal basket directly behind his seat, and fired up the engine. Twenty or so minutes later we were being waved onto the base by a sharply dressed gate guard. He had stepped out of a small dimly lit building with large windows, next to which a large red sign announced, “ALL VEHICLES MUST STOP!!!” Taking a position between the building and the sign, the guard, wearing a light tan long-sleeved shirt, matching colored pants neatly bloused into his highly-polished black high top boots, stood ram-rod straight, left arm extended straight out, hand high signaling for us to stop. Smitty turned the bus’s headlights off while slowing to a crawl. In a split second the guard’s left arm dropped behind his back as his right arm magically popped into view in a Nazi-like salute straight out from his body. The arm then suddenly bent at the elbow and snapped in towards his chest. At the same instant Smitty switched the headlights back on, and accelerated the bus abruptly, snapping my head backwards into the seat’s rigid backrest. As we zoomed by the guard I realized that he’d been wearing dark sunglasses under his gleaming white helmet and was sporting a pretty large black semi-automatic pistol at his waist. Pulling myself back into a sitting position I wondered if I would ever come close to looking as sharp as that guard did, or if sometime in the near future I’d also be given a gun.
My thoughts were cut short as we made a sharp turn and came to an almost screeching stop. Standing on the corner were two men, each wearing short stove-pipe looking caps and dressed in green, highly creased uniforms. They were standing at what I’d learned was “parade rest”, and they looked extremely unhappy.
Smitty pulled the door open and the younger of the two men stepped in to the bus, right foot on the floor and his left still on the first step.
“Smitty? What’cha got here?” The man asked, his cap pulled down so low over his eyes the bill almost touched the tip of his nose.
“Oh,” Smitty began, while at the same time reaching over his shoulder and pulling the stack of folders up from the wire basket. “…just a few pounds of fresh meat. Here’s the scoop on ‘em.” He handed the stack to the man who promptly passed it on to the other man still standing on the curb behind him.
“Listen up!” Smitty suddenly yelled to the back of the bus. “These are your DI’s.” (drill instructors). Pointing to the sergeant just inside the bus he said, “This here’s Sergeant Prince. And the gentleman behind him is Sergeant Rice. You’ll be going with them for the rest of your journey tonight!” I thought maybe I should get up and introduce myself as the group leader but fortunately thought better of it.
As Sergeant Prince slowly turned his head up and to the left, one of the recruits—a heavy, slightly overweight black guy with very large expressive eyes, who was sitting in the seat directly behind Smitty, stood up quickly and extended his right hand.
“Hey there, Sarge! How’ya doin tonight? My name’s Austin, and I’m from Houston. I’m sure glad to meet you!”
I saw Smitty’s mouth drop open and his eyes go wide. As I glanced over to Sergeant Prince I thought I might have seen a glint of hellfire begin to illuminate the underside of his cap’s bill.
Without seemingly moving his jaw or his lips, I heard Sergeant Prince roar: “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME, YOU FUCKING MAGGOT?!”
Austin all but fell back into his seat but managed to stutter out, “Wha…um…wha….maa…?”
Sergeant Prince stepped up to the floor of the bus with both spit-polished and immaculately laced shin-high combat boots, and pulled himself up to his full-blown height of about five feet and eleven inches. Placing his perfectly manicured hands on his hips and bending slightly at the waist he bellowed at a now horribly frightened Austin: “DO YOU HAVE A FUCKING DEATH WISH? YOU PIECE OF DOG SHIT!! HOW DARE YOU ADDRESS ME AS ‘SARGE’. HOW DARE YOU ADDRESS ME AT ALL!! YOU ARE NOT GOING TO SURVIVE THIS FUCKING NIGHT, COCKSUCKER…MUCH LESS BASIC TRAINING IN MY FUCKING BELOVED AIR FORCE!!”
Austin stood there frozen—half leaning forward, right arm extended, his hand loosely hanging off his now very limp wrist.
“G-gu-gosh sarge, I’m sorry. Ah’s just tryin’ to be frenly…” he managed to utter.
Prince took a very well measured half step—putting his nose just about two inches away from Austin’s.
“SORRY? YES, YOU ARE SORRY! A SORRY PIECE OF SHIT!! AND, WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT HAND DOING THERE? DO YOU WANT ME TO PUT MY DICK IN IT? DO YOU WANT TO JACK ME OFF?”
Austin instantly dropped his hand and broke into a big toothy smile.
“Damn sarge, that’s funny. Naw, I was just gonna shake, you know, your hand. Haw, yo dick in my hand…jack you off…” Austin managed to get his nose around past Prince’s face and look back at the rest of us, “hee, hee that’s really funny.”
Even though I was still in my military infancy I knew that Austin had just marked himself as the “goat” for the next six weeks.
Prince did what I thought would be impossible: he actually got even closer to Austin’s nose without touching it.
“OH, YOU THINK I’M FUNNY, IS THAT IT? YOU THINK I’M A FUCKING COMEDIAN SENT HERE TO ENTERTAIN YOUR BLACK ASS? YOU ARE A PATHETIC MOTHERFUCKER WHO DOES NOT DESERVE TO BE BREATHING THIS GODLY UNITED STATES AIR FORCE AIR!!” The spittle flying out of Prince’s mouth, back-lit by the street light on the opposite corner of the intersection, was literally bouncing off Austin’s face.
Out of the corner of my eye I detected a slight movement a bit to my right and saw that the other drill sergeant, Rice, had stepped up into the bus. In a low but non-threatening voice he said, “I think Airman Austin needs to step out of the bus now and show us just how many push ups he can do while the rest of us go off and enjoy a bit of midnight chow.”
Prince closed his mouth but did not move his face a millimeter back from Austin’s. He was breathing hard, eyes peeled, nostrils flaring and his lower lip pooched out over his upper.
Austin had grabbed on to the vertical hand pole and was standing back almost on his heels.
“Sergeant Prince.” Rice said softly but firmly. “I think Austin needs to give us about a hundred right now. Let’s offer him the opportunity to show us his manliness.”
Prince took a step back and Rice stepped out of the bus. With no change in his facial expression, Prince let a bit of atmosphere fill back in between his face and Austin’s.
“Step out here, maggot!” Prince ordered, as he stepped backward off the bus and on to the cement curb. “NOW!” He growled.
Eyes peeled, mouth half-open Austin took a couple of tentative steps forward, left hand wiping his face hurriedly. “Yes, sir!” It was the first thing he’d said or done right that evening.
After Austin had exited the bus Sergeant Rice stepped in. Looking at us from under the bill of his cap, arms crossed with his legs slightly spread, he stood there staring intently as we heard Sergeant Prince order Austin to the ground. It was then I noticed that the Rice had one more stripe on his uniform sleeve than Prince was wearing, making him the senior officer of the two.
“Listen up!” he said in a low, yet forceful voice. “When I say so, you will exit this vehicle through this front door and form up on…” he turned and looked at me. I jumped ever so slightly.
“What’s your name?”
“DeLeon…sir…” I responded.
“DeLeon!” Turning back to look at the rest of the now shocked recruits he repeated, “You will form up on Airman DeLeon.”
As I stepped off the bus, following Sergeant Rice, I tried to keep my eyes averted from where Austin was laying prone on the dewy grass breathing hard after having completed maybe ten or twelve push-ups. Prince was haranguing him, calling him every vile name he could think of, apparently trying to inspire him to complete the rest of the ninety or so push ups that he still had left.
“Stop here!” Rice abruptly directed, pointing to a spot on the dark ground. “And stand at attention!” I stood stock still, hoping that what I was doing now somewhat closely resembled the ‘attention’ position he required.
“All right, the rest of you line up behind DeLeon and stand at attention like he is!” He voiced these orders while standing directly in front of me and looking back over my right shoulder. For the first time since arriving on the base I now got the opportunity to get a good look at Sergeant Rice. While Prince was just short of six feet, looked incredibly fit, and seemed to be no more than thirty, Rice appeared to be at least ten or fifteen years older and looked a little softer. In spite of having his green DI cap literally screwed onto his head and wearing his haircut high and tight, I could see that what hair was visible was a fine steely gray.
“Don’t bunch up, Godammit!” Rice said loudly, “Leave about two feet between you and the guy in front! You can gauge the distance by stretching your right arm straight out in front and placing your hand on the guy’s shoulder in front of you”. I felt a hand tentatively touch my back then anchor itself on my right shoulder. “Once you got your distance let the guy go. I don’t want any fucking romances starting up here tonight!” The hand instantly left my shoulder.
As he looked over my head, squinting as he assessed the uniformity of the line, I noted that Rice had a pretty deep-set of crow’s feet shooting out from the corners of his stony blue eyes. And even though his exterior demeanor was hard and resolute I somehow sensed that beneath that façade lived a kind and soft-hearted man. A few weeks from now I would find that my assessment of Sergeant Rice’s true character would prove to be pretty accurate.
“I know you all don’t know how to march properly…yet…but when I give the order you will start on your left foot and move forward—in step! We’ll be marching to the chow hall; about two blocks away, to have a little midnight breakfast. I know it’s late, but I imagine you’ve had nothing but shit to eat since you left Houston, so we’re going to feed you a righteous Air Force meal before you bed down for the night.”
He made one last look back over my head, then executed a neat little ‘about face’ in front of me.
“SQUAD! FORWAAARD…MARCH!” Then, every time his left heel hit the ground: “YOUR LEFT—YOUR LEFT—YOUR LEFT—RIGHT—LEFT!”
And so, the pathetically ragged line of misfit-looking teens began to move forward; led by a skinny and very nervous Latino kid as he marched briskly away from his old life and into a new, and hopefully exciting one.
As we marched, leaving the bus and Austin behind us, Sergeant Prince’s voice echoed melodically into the night: “IS THAT ALL YOU GOT AUSTIN, YOU FUCKING MAGGOT? YOU CALL THAT A PUSH UP ? DON’T FUCKING LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT, I’M NOT YOUR FUCKIN’ MOTHER! GIVE ME TEN MORE, ASSHOLE! UP, DOWN—UP, DOWN—UP, DOWN……”
Pushing Prince’s voice out of my mind I tried to concentrate on my marching rhythm. Occasionally the guy behind me would get out of step and the toe of his shoe would bite down on one of my heels, momentarily also putting me out of step. After a few times I found that if I did a little skip I would magically fall back into step with Sergeant Rice. Wow! I thought. I’m getting the hang of this marching thing.
I felt my stomach tighten then growl softly as we were marched in the direction of a large brightly lit building; then pleasantly into a delicious aromatic wave of frying bacon wafting lazily in the damp night air. (Your left—your left—your left—right—left…)
The Three S’s
The noise was deafening. At least a hundred—maybe even two hundred, mostly men along with a slight scattering of women, were sitting at four chair tables arrayed in neat rows in the enormous building aptly named, “Main Dining Hall”. We marched in through a door that would’ve probably allowed a fully-loaded cargo plane to taxi in and park with no problem at all. There seemed to be no windows and the ceiling was at least thirty feet high, dotted with large canopied high-wattage lights placed about six feet apart from one another, giving the interior of the building a bright and slightly harsh appearance. Once through the door Sergeant Rice made a slight right turn and guided our group to a large counter that was marked, “Civilians and Non-Carded Trainees”.
Sitting behind the counter a beefy airman, not much older than me but wearing a neatly pressed green fatigue uniform and sporting two wing-like stripes on this sleeve, greeted Rice cordially and presented him with a form on a clipboard and a pen.
“Evening, sir. This group yours?” On his shirt, just over his breast pocket his name tag said, ‘Schneider’.
“Yup,” Rice responded as he began to fill in some blank spaces on the form, “there’s a few more at the barracks bedded down already. Prince brought’em in earlier. ”
“How many?” The airman asked.
“Eleven here, from Houston, and one on the way later with Prince. Full course.” Rice instructed.
“OK,” Schneider said, “no problem. Section C twelve will be yours tonight.” He took the clipboard and pen from Rice and pulled the paper form off adding it to a stack already on the counter.
Rice looked back at us. “OK, listen up!” Pointing to the right side of the building, “Over there is the serving line. Follow me there and grab a tray. I won’t be eating, but follow me down the line. Take as much food as you want, but,” then he lifted his head slightly so we could all see his eyes under the bill of his cap, “you will eat everything you put on your tray. If your eyes are bigger than your stomach and you order more than you can eat you will pay dearly! Every tray will be as empty when you finish eating as it is when you first pick it up! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
A scattering of ‘yes, yes-sirs, yup and uh-huhs’ echoed out from our group.
From the back of our ragged line I heard, “Can we get seconds?”
Rice moved to his left to try to see who had asked the question, then quickly decided just to answer to the whole group. “There will be NO seconds! But you may pile as much food as you think you can eat at one time. But, again!! NO LEFTOVERS!”
Satisfied that we all understood he turned and headed toward the serving line.
Because this meal was technically breakfast (it was a bit after midnight), all manner of American breakfast fare was being offered. Toast was being dumped into a large cloth-lined basket from what appeared to be an open-ended oven housing a metal conveyer belt. The white bread was being loaded from the rear by a very bored cook sitting on a high stool surrounded by scores of plastic bagged loaves. I grabbed a couple of slices and moved on.
Piles of oranges, apples, bananas were arranged behind “spit guards” at the beginning of the line. Following were deep open refrigerators with racks of boxed milk, chocolate milk, a variety of juices, and yogurts. Bacon, sausage links, sausage patties, and fried ham steaks were piled on large metal pans that were constantly being refilled by men dressed completely in white, their heads covered by matching white paper caps. They seemed to all be streaming in non-stop from a room behind the serving line, no doubt housing several giant stoves and ovens.
As I slid my metal tray along the three highly polished metal tubes I was just visually overwhelmed by the amount of food that was being displayed, all for my taking. The aroma was heavenly, and the variety was astounding.
I had never, ever, seen this much food—freshly made and all in one place—not even when our church had once hosted a weekend conference and the kitchen sisters in the dining room had served over two hundred people. I remember thinking that that particular feat was awesome!
After putting a couple of strips of crispy bacon, a sausage patty and a link on my plate, I arrived in front of a flat metal cooking grill. It was about four feet wide and three feet deep, and on its spitting hot surface were at least three dozen eggs. Four cooks were tending the grill, each with a large flat-handled spatula: one chopping and turning a mound of scrambled eggs, while another flipped the dozens of eggs, one after another, while the third was continuously breaking eggs over the grill, shoving one group to the scrambled side and the other to the “sunny-side up group. The fourth cook was yelling as we approached the grill: “scrambled, well, medium, or sunny side up? Let’s go!! How many?” Once you made your choice he’d deftly scoop the eggs with his spatula and slide them onto your metal tray. It was a swirling, non-stop egg ballet—a veritable egg assembly line of the highest caliber.
After having two eggs, over-easy, plopped onto my tray I scooted left and arrived at the waffle/pancake/French toast station. The grill here was about half the size of the previous one, but it was just as full of pancakes cooking away in various stages of completion.
Two cooks here—one pouring the batter while the other one flipped and served. “How many? Come on, I ain’t got all night! One? Two? Three?” Mindful of Sergeant Rice’s admonition I meekly asked for one. “Just one?! Shit, not even worth my time…,” and a perfectly round golden-brown pancake flew onto my tray, landing on top of my eggs.
The waffles were being dumped into one of the large rectangular silver pans as they were popped out of the six or so slowly-rotating black waffle irons, and gleaming metal pitchers of hot maple syrup were placed on white folded cloth towels just past the grill. I passed on the waffles, drowned my pancake in syrup and slid on to the next treat.
This one boggled my mind a bit. Yet another bored server was standing behind a large stainless steel cauldron that was filled with a thick white gravy-like substance with what appeared to be pieces of browned hamburger meat floating on top. He was stirring it lazily with a large wooden spoon and as I slid up to his station he asked, “Shit on a shingle?”
“Pardon me?” I said a bit confused.
He looked up from his stirring and asked again, this time a bit impatiently, “I said, SHIT ON A SHINGLE—S.O.S, or not?”
I hesitated for a couple of seconds, and as I sensed that he was about to say something unintelligible again I said, “No thank you,” and moved on.
Since I was the first of my group to get through the line I grabbed my tray and looked for Sergeant Rice. I spotted him standing near the far corner of the huge dining room with his hand in the air. As I approached him he pointed at the first of three, four seat tables.
“These are ours,” he said. “When everyone’s done…” and he looked at his watch, “say, twenty minutes from now, put your trays in the scullery window and form up outside again. Think you can handle that, DeLeon?”
“Yes sir,” I answered quickly, not being too sure what a ‘scullery’ was, but knowing better than to ask. “But what about Austin?” I wondered out loud.
“He’s coming through the line now,” Rice said, pointing his head in the direction of the serving line. “Make sure he eats fast. I want to see everyone outside by zero-zero-thirty, because you all need to be bedded down by zero-one-hundred. Understand?”
“Yes sir,” I said confidently—again, not too sure what zero-zero-thirty was.
I didn’t realize just how hungry I really was until I began to eat. Then it seemed I didn’t get enough on my tray. I thought how I should’ve tried the S.O.S.
Austin came walking up to our tables with Prince on his heels and boy, did Austin look bad. His face was shiny moist and rivulets of sweat were still dripping down his forehead and off his chin. His jeans had huge wet spots on the knees and his shirt was literally sticking to his skin, due either to sweat or from the dew on the grass he’d been laying in.
“Find your seat over there, dickhead,” Prince growled, pointing at the last empty chair at the third table, “and you got exactly ten minutes to finish all that shit you decided to pile on your tray. And don’t you dare leave one fucking crumb!!”
“Yes sir, boss…I mean, Sergeant Prince…sir.” Austin stammered, and quickly shuffled over to the table.
“DELEON!!”
I almost choked on my mouthful of pancake, but managed to swallow quickly.
“SIR?” I said quickly as I put my fork down and stood up as fast as I could, nearly upending my chair.
“Did Sergeant Rice give you instructions?”
“Yes sir,” I responded, “he said to have everyone finished and out front by…zero-zero-three-zero.”
I didn’t dare look Prince in the face so I just looked off to his right—again hoping I was standing at attention.
“Finally! Someone who can take and remember orders! You do know what zero-zero-three-zero means, right?”
I froze momentarily, but suddenly I realized that I was staring at a large clock that was hanging over the big entrance door. Instead of being numbered with the twelve on top and the six on the bottom, I saw that there were two zero’s where the twelve should’ve been—and the twelve was at the bottom where the six should’ve been. The little hand was now just to the right of the double-zeros, and the big hand was where the ‘three’ should’ve been. I concluded that it was now about zero-zero-fifteen; or twelve-fifteen AM.
“Yes sir,” I now said with a bit more confidence, “I’ll have them out in about fifteen minutes.”
“Good,” Prince said, “and make sure Austin’s completely done with his chow, or he’ll have Hell to pay!”
“Yes sir!” I turned to look at Austin, and I wasn’t sure if he was scooping food into his mouth at a frightening rate because he was that hungry or because he was trying to finish on time. No matter, I had decided that one way or the other he’d be done and we’d all be outside by twelve-thirty.
We were all five minutes early, waiting out by the large entrance doors. I didn’t know how long the gigantic dining room was open, but the parking lot was full of cars and people in all sorts of uniforms, and even some civilians kept pouring in. I decided this had to be a twenty-four hour operation.
I heard Sergeant Prince before I saw him.
“OK, airmen! Let’s try to form up two-by-two. I want the tallest guy at the left-front position and the shortest one at the right-back position. Everyone else fits in according to height.”
It didn’t take long for Prince to lose his patience as we jockeyed around trying to figure out who was taller than whom, and which one of us was going to be the runt in the back.
“Goddammit you fucking yokels! Can’t you tell who’s taller?”
He grabbed a couple of us by the collar and dragged us around into position until he was satisfied that we were finally in line correctly. I ended up being the fourth in the first line.
Heading to the front of our double line Prince spun around and called us to attention.
“AH-TEN-HUT!!”
We did our best to look attentive.
Doing another one of those neat little turns Prince was now about two paces in front of the tallest of us on the left line with his back to us. Rice took up a position at the rear.
“FOR-WARD….HARCH!!” (I think he meant ‘march’, but it sure sounded like ‘harch’).
Not all us remembered to start off on our left foot, and for the next twenty or thirty feet there was plenty of stumbling and a lot of double-skipping coming from the twelve of us—and a whole lot of swearing coming from Sergeant Prince.
Mercifully we finally arrived at a group of about six low-slung buildings, three on each side of a large concrete pad with their front doors facing each other. We were stopped at the second one on the left.
“GROUP HALT!!” We stopped…sort of.
Prince asked us to turn to our left and face the front door of the building. “This here, gentlemen, is going to be your home for the next six weeks. It is building ‘B’ located in quad Delta. Do you think you can remember your new address?”
A bunch of very scattered ‘yes-sirs’ bubbled out from our group.
“We’re going to march you in there and you’ll be assigned a bunk. You’ll have about five minutes to take a piss, wash your face, strip down to your skivvies, get in the rack and be dead asleep. If you’re not, the night guard in the barracks will report to me and I’ll have your ass doing push-ups until the sun comes up! IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?!!”
The ‘yes-sirs’ came out a little less enthusiastically and a bit more whiney.
“Questions?”
Austin, who ended up as second tallest in the left line raised his hand.
“What was it that I said that you couldn’t understand, Austin?” Prince asked, as he took a step forward.
“Well…sir. What if one of us has to also take a…you know… a doo-doo?”
Mentally rolling my eyes, I figured we’d find Austin dead on the concrete in the morning.
“AUSTIN? DID YOU LEARN ANY FUCKING ENGLISH IN SCHOOL?” Prince had all but run around the front of the line and was now yelling in Austin’s left ear.
“Yasser! I shore did!” This, Austin delivered while looking straight ahead.
“YOU HAVE FIVE FUCKING MINUTES…FIVE FUCKING MINUTES…FROM THE TIME YOUR BUNK IS ASSIGNED UNTIL YOU’RE SAWING LOGS! IF YOU CAN WORK A SHIT IN THAT AMOUNT OF TIME THEN GOOD FOR YOU. OTHERWISE, YOU’LL BE SLEEPING ON THE FUCKING QUAD!!”
Prince’s face was almost purple and his fists were knuckled up. He slowly looked up and down the line trying to see if anyone else had anything else to say. No one did.
Later, after having been ushered into the large well-lit structure we were assigned our bunks; and having taken care of all personal business in the less than personal ‘latrine’, Sergeant Rice came out of a room at the end front of the building on whose door was a large sign that said: “RICE”. Prince had long since disappeared into the other one that said, “PRINCE”.
“LISTEN UP!”
We all stopped doing whatever we were doing.
“At zero-four-fifty-five, you ladies will be gently awakened by me, and/or Sergeant Prince. At zero-five-hundred you will be in formation out on the quad.” He paused for effect, but all he was getting from us was twelve puzzled looks as we all apparently tried to do the math.
“That means,” he said dramatically, “that you have exactly five minutes to shit, shower, and shave,” he paused again, rolling his eyes over the group, “make your bunk, dress yourselves in your nasty civies (civilian clothes), and be formed up on the quad for roll call.”
I didn’t sleep too well that evening due to a combination of my over-worn clothes, the thin uncomfortable mattress, and having to endure the sounds and smells of thirty, or so, other men all thrown together into a characterless single floor wooden building.
Earlier, and just before I’d slipped between the slightly starched sheets I’d visited the rest room, now known to me as the latrine, and I was stunned at what I saw. It was a large rectangular room with open doorways at each long end. Taking the two wooden steps down onto a white tile floor, the opposite wall was lined with about twelve wash basins—complete with a one foot square mirror centered over each one.
Built into the wall on the right, and all the way to the floor, were twelve long white enameled urinals—about three feet apart from one another. Protruding from the opposite, or left wall, were about fifteen shower heads, with hot and cold water faucet handles under each one. In that area the floor was angled down to allow the water to flow into three large circular drains cut into the tile floor.
But what shocked me more than anything else was the line of ten plain black-seated commodes, sitting not more than two feet apart from each other and jutting out from the wall opposite the basins. In all my life I had never been naked in front of anyone else and now I was expected to “shit, shower, and shave” in front of strangers. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to complete the act of bowel voiding while thirty other men were in the same room, all showering, shaving, and peeing at the same time. I wondered if my drill sergeants would allow me to “go” in the middle of the night while everyone else was sleeping. Common sense told me no. So then I thought, maybe I’ll talk Austin into asking them for me.