U.S. Army, Camp McCoy

Sparta, Wisconsin

 July 27 Through August 3, 1950 

By order of Captain Trainor, the six-man mortar squad had been reduced to four men consisting of Mitchell, who, by way of walkie-talkie, hypothetically, was to receive and repeat firing coordinates to Norman, who, hypothetically, was to find them on a grid map, make the proper elevation settings on the sighting device and, when ready, give Mitchell the order to fire, and he, hypothetically, was to drop the two-and-a-half-pound, six-millimeter projectile into the tube, where it would make contact with a firing pin, that, with a loud ping, would fire the round out of the tube where it goes up, arches in the air, drops, lands, and explodes, hypothetically, someplace, hopefully, within the general vicinity of the ordered firing site. Ferris and Linville were to be ammo carriers, moving back and forth from the, hypothetical, ammo dump to the mortar site wearing pocketed ammo vests holding ten projectiles each.

“What if one’a them fuckers goes off?”

“Then, Linville,” Martinez smiled his wicked smile. “your mama becomes a rich woman.”

“My G.I. insurance?”

“Yeah, Linville. Your G.I. Insurance.”

“Fuck that! Better my mama should stay poor.”

“Okay, you two guys, kind’a, know how it’s done.” Spoken to Norman and Mitchell. “I want you to head up there…” Martinez pointed to a high knoll about eight-hundred yards away, “an’ dig in.”

“You go with ’em,” pointing to Linville and Ferris. “Leave the vests there an’ haul ass back here. If we do get the order to fire—an’ I really doubt we will—then it’ll be, at the most, a couple’a rounds, so it don’t make no sense for the four’a you fuckers to lay around there soakin’ up the sun on Uncle’s time. An’ remember, there’s supposed to be gooks dug in there somewhere, so the four’a you stay low an’ don’t bunch up!”

He looked at his watch. “Okay! Go, go!”

Running in a low crouch, carrying the tube nestled in his arms, the weight of it, combined with his precarious posture, all but caused him to fall flat on his face. The base strapped to his back, Norman followed Mitchell, and Linville and Ferris, their rifles at “port,” held close to their chests to keep the heavy vests from bouncing too badly, followed closely behind.

“Stagger yourself!” Martinez yelled through cupped hands. “God-damn-it! One round could’a killed all’a you fuckers! Stagger yourselves, an get your fuckin’ asses down!”

Crouching even lower, the four men fanned away from each other.

                                         * 

Looking skyward, taking the helmet off, swiping his sleeve across his forehead, “Think Martinez forgot we’re here?”

As instructed, they’d dug a shallow foxhole on the ridge of the shadeless knoll, set and leveled the mortar, and, as they’d been instructed not to break radio silence, they had been waiting for two hours, listening for their walkie-talkie to crackle to life.

The heat of the sun unmerciful in a cloudless sky, their fatigues drenched in perspiration, as utterly uncomfortable as they were, in answer to Mitchell’s question, Norman said…

“I gotta shit!”

And, speaking the knowledge that had been handed down from generation to generation, “Normie,” Mitchell answered, “If you gotta go, you gotta go.”

“Yeah, sure, and I know what’ll happen soon as I get started. Sure as shit the sarge’ll call and I’ll be stuck with my pants down!” Grimacing, he bit his lower lip. “Fuck it! I can’t wait.”

Grabbing the G.I. shovel, he crawled out of the foxhole, went a few yards and, on both knees urgently scrabbled at the earth, clearing a small area of the high grass so that it wouldn’t stick his anus or tickle his scrotum. Finished, lowering his pants… “Do you mind?” …and underpants, he squatted.

Turning away, “No, s’okay, go right ahead.” Facing in the opposite direction, Mitchell could clearly hear the liquid sounds that emanated from Norman’s bowels.

“Damn it!”

Turning, Mitchell looked at Norman, who was still squatting with his pants and underpants bunched around his combat boots, looking inside his helmet. “What’s the matter now?”

“Your remember Martinez telling us to be sure to carry toilet paper in the webbing of our helmet liners, just in case?”

“Yeah, sure. You forgot to?”

“No, schmuck, I didn’t forget to!” Reaching into his helmet, removing a sodden mess, he held it forward for Mitchell to see, then making a fist, moisture from his perspiration squirted from between and ran through his clenched fingers. “Got any you can spare?”

“Sure, pal,” he smiled. “But it’ll cost you.”

“Cost me?”

“Yeah, say, uh, tonight’s dessert.”

“Lipensky, you dick!”

“Only kidding.” Taking his helmet off, he looked inside.

The neatly folded half-inch-thick pad of toilet paper, that he’d put beneath the webbing before the start of the march this morning, had soaked up better than eight hours of perspiration and, also, was a saturated mass of unusable tissue.

“Sorry, mine won’t work too good either.” Removing it, he squeezed, letting the moisture trickle over his fist.

“What’ll I do?”

“Beats me, Norm.” Giggling, “Shame you don’t have a corn cob.”

“Don’t be so fuckin’ funny. This is serious. How’m I supposed to wipe my ass?”

Shading his eyes, looking about, “Leaves,” Mitchell said.

Looking also, “Leaves?” Norman asked. “Ain’t no trees for a mile! I don’t see a fuckin’ tree anyplace! Do you?”

“No, schmuck, not tree leaves. Weed leaves.”

“Mitch, please, if you see anything, bring it to me!”

Thoroughly enjoying the situation, “Hey, Norm?”

Becoming thoroughly exasperated, “Mitchell, what?”

“You know what Northern toilet paper’s motto is, don’t you?”

Beyond embarrassment, getting tired of squatting with his pants bunched around his combat boots, “Goddamnit, Mitchell, find me something already!”

Giggling, “Okay,” crawling out of the foxhole, “keep your, uh…” giggling again, “pants on. But you do know what their motto is, don’t you?”

Sighing, “Whose fuckin’ motto?”

Slithering to a low-growing mound of milkweed, carefully ripping the dark-green leaves off, “Northern toilet paper’s motto.”

“No!” Sighing again, “I do not know what Northern toilet paper’s motto is. Pleeese tell me.”

Finding another weed, taking those leaves, too, giggling once more, “Your shit is our bread and butter.”

“Huh? Oh, come on!”

“Yeah, Norm. ‘Your shit is our bread and butter.’ Really, it’s their motto!” Now laughing aloud. “I wouldn’t shit you!”

Whether he did see humor in the situation or whether he was merely humoring him, laughing, too. “Very fuckin’ funny.”

Crawling back, handing him a fistful of leaves, “Pee-U! Parminter, you stink!”

“You think maybe you’re a rosebud?” Grabbing the leaves, “Ouch! Lipensky, you dick, these things got thistles.”

“Well, yeah!” Laughing so hard he could barely speak, “What the hell you think I am, the fuckin’ A&P?”

“Schmuck!” Laughing so hard he had to keep himself from falling over backwards by supporting himself with his back-stretched arms. “How the hell’s a guy supposed to wipe his ass with leaves with thistles?”

“Don’t know, Normie.” Lying on the ground with tears streaming from his eyes, “I got another one, Normie.”

“Oh, shit!” Crying, too. “Another what?”

“Another motto: You’re…” wiping his eyes with the palms of his hands, “You’re in the groove with Northern Tissue!”

“I said it before and I’ll say it again: Lipensky, you’re a dick!” Standing, Norman stepped out of his pants and G.I.-issue shorts. Squatting again, he wiped himself with the shorts, threw them away as far as possible, stood again and put his pants back on.

“Charlie-Zebra-Two!” The walkie-talkie crackled to life. “Charlie-Zebra-Two! From Charlie-Zebra-One! Come in Goddamnit!”

Scurrying to the foxhole, grabbing the walkie-talkie, smashing it against his ear, pressing the transmit button, “Charlie-Zebra-One,” Mitchell said, “from uh, Charlie-Zebra-Two, over.”

“Charlie-Zebra-Two!” Martinez screamed. “Wha’ the fuck you two fuckin’ clowns doin’ up there, dancin’? I tol’ ya to keep your fuckin’ heads down an’ it looks like you’re doin’ a fuckin’ war dance! Over!”

“Charlie-Zebra-One from Charlie-Zebra-Two… No, we ain’t doin’ no war dance, but, Parminter, uh”—not knowing the word defecate and rather sure the word poop wasn’t exactly U.S. Army issue—“hadda shit… Over.”

The walkie-talkie silent a moment, then, “Charlie-Zebra-Two,” remembering the many times when he had to defecate under adverse conditions, “excuse noted… Fold up an’ come home.”

“Charlie-Zebra-One. Did you say come home? Over.”

“That’s what I said, Zebra-Two. Come the fuck home.”

“We ain’t gonna get to shoot the mortar? Uh, over.”

“No, you ain’t ‘gonna get to shoot the mortar’! Over.”

“Charlie-Zebra-One. How’s ’bout the ammo?”

Not a person of infinite patience, “Jesus K-rist! Do I gotta tell you two fuckers everything?” The walkie-talkie crackling again, “Fold up the fuckin’ mortar, put the fuckin’ ammo vests on an’ get your fuckin’ asses back here on the fuckin’ double! Fuckin’ over an’ fuckin’ out!”

Though he wasn’t holding the walkie-talkie and was minimally a yard and a half away, his voice carrying, hearing Martinez scream, “Is the sarge mad?” Norman asked. “Sounds like he’s kind’a mad.”

“Nah, he just wants us to‘get our fuckin’ asses there on the fuckin’ fuckin’ double! ‘Fuckin’ over an’ fuckin’ out’!”

“Well, gee,” Norman said facetiously. “I sure hate leavin’ the fuckin’ Ritz here.”

Putting the mortar rounds back in the vest pockets, “Me, too, but you do know what the man said, Mister Parminter?”

Detaching the tube from the base, “I’m not too sure, Mister Lipensky, what did the man say?”

“The man said, ‘Get your fuckin’ asses back on the fuckin’ fuckin’ double’!”

“Jeeze, on the double fuckin’ double yet!”

Each wearing a mortar vest, the boys walked leisurely down the hill