Eating away my warm welcome

Hungry as I was, I was glad to be eating last.

“Gimme five,” a voice beyond the screen door shouted, indicating that the next five diners should enter. Each meal brought a different method of determining who went next. As we stood in two rows, some drill sergeants would take five from one row and then five from the other. Others would send in the closest five to the door. Still others would be more inventive, choosing arbitrarily or through some unknown criteria who or what number were next to enter.
Eating in the Army rarely qualified as a pleasure, especially in basic training, except that trainees were always hungry at meal time. The simple act of filling our stomachs was a pleasure, regardless the taste of the food.

I was happy to be eating last because the drill sergeants monitoring chow couldn’t eat until all recruits were fed. We had about as long as they took. Troops at the start of the line had no time to eat. Back of the line also meant larger portions, and occasionally, seconds. Which, it turns out, isn’t always a good idea.

Drill Sergeant Moore stood before the door deciding who would go next. Inside, Drill Sergeant Bartlett made sure no one lingered too long over their lunch. Leeway came only to those who prayed first, and even that had a limit. We could hear him clearing the chairs.

“Shovel it down and move the fuck out,” Bartlett yelled. “What you waiting for boy?” His drawl was transplanted Kansas, not originally from there but bred into an existing accent more southern.

Moore’s method for moving the line today came straight from the Smartbook, “The Soldier’s Handbook,” the compendium of all that need be mastered during basic training. He stopped the line five feet from the door, asking questions of the next five Joes. Anyone who answered correctly moved up to the door. If a question were answered incorrectly, the troop waited while Moore asked the one behind him.

According to Army standard operating procedure, basic training was officially over. In a system called OSUT, basic trainees finished basic training in nine weeks, then moved on to five weeks of advanced infantry training. We were about 10 days into that, but with no change in venue and with the same drill sergeants breathing down our necks all day, it still felt a lot like basic.

The next five through the door, I stood at attention, marched one step forward, and returned to parade rest (a modified position of attention). Moore quizzed me on the maximum effective range of the weapon I was learning about that day, and the answer—which I can’t remember now—rolled crisply from my tongue. Behind me, I heard Deblois (they pronounced his name deb-lee-ous) deliver the wrong answer. The guy behind him advanced.

I don’t remember our lunch options that day. They usually had a second choice of entrees in case of allergy, and plates sat atop the counter already made up. We could get our own salads and deserts, both already prepared. The dessert counter caught my eye.

Nothing says “I love you” like a creamy, chocolaty cup of pudding. A perfectly formed dollop of whipped cream on top sold me. “I love you,” I told myself by taking a cup of pudding. They rarely offered pudding. Usually it was cookies or pie, occasionally cake—and then, usually something with re-hydrated fruit and unnaturally colored frosting. Drill sergeants always made note of who ate dessert, especially those who had weight problems when they arrived. I had not, and no drill sergeant ever looked twice at me for taking dessert.

I ate it first and then plowed into my meat substance. As I was finishing the pseudo-potato, I heard the most magical words I’d heard in 10 weeks, “Everyone’s welcome to seconds on dessert if they want,” the lady at the counter said. I nailed off my veggies like a ravenous rat working its way through a meat farm, ate my cornbread and ran for the dessert counter.

Apparently, I don’t hear so well.

As I turned, prepared to love myself again, Bartlett called my number. “313, just what the fuck are you doing?” I don’t remember exactly what he said, but that was the gist. I looked up in confusion. Was I about to have it taken away?

“So you think my orders don’t apply to you, Davidson?” He asked as though I had done something wrong. I could see his flippant albino eyebrow bouncing around above his freckled red face. His lip twitched like saliva was about to cascade past his chin and fill a coffee cup. I never wanted to slap anyone so bad in my life.

I stood at parade rest with the pudding directly out in my right hand.

“You hard of hearing or something?” He had walked away from his plate and was now so close he spat on me as he spoke. “Apparently,” was not the answer he wanted to hear. “Did you not just hear me tell third platoon to stay the fuck away from the dessert counter?”

“No, drill sergeant,” I said. “I didn’t hear you.” I started to turn toward the dessert counter as I said “I’ll put it back.” But he was having none of that.

“That’s unsanitary,” he said. “Do you think anyone will be able to eat that after you’ve had your dick-slappers all over it?” He motioned to my table and tray. “Sit down and enjoy it, 313, because you’ll be paying for it.”

I didn’t actually want it anymore, but I sat to eat it. As I started, Bartlett came over and told me to meet him upstairs in our billet when I was done. And, he said, “Pray to God you get there before I do.”

When he was gone, I finished it, knowing that I was going to suffer. While I was picking up my tray, Moore asked to look at my pudding cup. “I know you finished that like you were told,” he said. Sweat shined on his bald, black head as he smirked. “You better hurry. Drill Sergeant Bartlett doesn’t like to wait.”

Drill Sergeant Bartlett was an asshole. Not that it was part of his job, I believe it was part of his personality. In his introductory speech to our platoon, he informed us that his transfer to our company would include a few days in the vintage WWII billets because his wife had started a disagreement, and after too much “lip,” he said, “I knocked the bitch out.” Quite fitting, he thought, to coincide with reassignment to a unit whose motto was “death before surrender.”

I beat him by enough time to catch my breath. I heard him coming up the stairs. I did every exercise he could think of until every muscle couldn’t do it any more. Then, he started again. After about 20 minutes, he sent me to get ready for duty formation.

At formation, Bartlett had the entire platoon doing pushups for not looking out for me. “You might think this is Davidson’s fault,” he said, “but he wouldn’t have gotten up for pudding if you lazy cocksuckers had been looking out for him.” He emphasized “cocksuckers” because they weren’t supposed to say things like that. It was Bartlett’s way of saying he wasn’t afraid to break the rules. “This is not Davidson’s failure,” he said. I wished above all else that he would stop saying my name. “This is third platoon’s failure and it has resulted in Davidson failing individually.”

Apparently, only Bartlett saw it that way. I heard shit from everyone in the platoon at some point that week. Toward the end of it, I started blaming them outright for being whining pussies and told them I had every intention of doing it again.

They watched me like hawks at every meal.

And each time Bartlett had dining duty, he’d ask how I was enjoying dessert. When he monitored the line, he’d ask if I was planning to have seconds. On graduation day, they had a reception for family and friends after touring the barracks and grounds. Bartlett told my dad how I had stepped up in the face of an angry platoon and won, simply by applying a little psychological warfare.

It seems the only thing that stood out more than my eating a second helping of dessert was how I dealt with the backlash from it.