Next Phase #11: Cow Plops

July 27 Through August 3, 1950

Camp McCoy

Sparta, Wisconsin

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.

“Norm, I forgot to ask. About your idea? Skorupski, remember?”

                                                               ***

Commencing 0600 the next day, the entire twenty-four hours was to be spent in combat drills, weaponry indoctrination under combat conditions and nighttime maneuvers. This evening before was to be devoted to the cleaning of weapons and checking of equipment. An early bedtime was suggested and most of the men, exhausted by the march and maneuvers, needed no coaxing. With the exception of a few that were not yet ready for sleep and those having extra duty, all were in their tents sleeping—or attempting to sleep—on the blanket-covered earth.

“Sarge, me’n’Lipensky’s been looking for you.”

In the mess tent, drinking one last cup of coffee, smoking one last cigarette, looking up as the boys approached, “So, I ain’t been hidin’.”

“Sarge,” Norman asked, “how’s it work here?” motioning about the recently cleaned and vacated mess tent.”

“What the fuck you mean, ‘how’s it work here?’”

“Mind if we get some coffee?”

“Sure. It ain’t mine. Help yourself.”

Taking cups from the rack, they poured themselves coffee.

“Sarge,” seating himself directly across from Martinez, “the non-com in charge here…” Norman again motioned about the huge tent. “Does he sleep here, with the rest’a the guys?”

“Yeah. He’ll be relieved tomorrow when the chow wagon comes from camp with lunch, then the new guy has duty till he’s relieved at 0900 the next day. Why? You guys thinkin’ of strikin’ for cook?”

“You kiddin’, Sarge? Ol’ Lipensky here’d eat up all the profits.”

“Not if chow’s anything like tonight.”

“Wha’z’a’matter, La-pimp-sky, you don’t like liver’n’onions?”

“That’s what they call it, huh? A little tough, wasn’t it? Kind’a like the sole off an old boot.”

“Sarge,” Norman asked, “where’s the mess non-com sleep?”

Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “There’s a tent behind the mess that’s his.”

“He sleep alone? I mean, anyone share the tent with him?” 

“If we were under real field conditions there’s be two non-com cooks sharin’ the tent, but here, he’s all by himself.”

Thinking, So far, so good. Remembering how they’d been woken the morning he and Mitchell had KP, “How’s he get up?” Norman asked. “The sentry wake him?”

Martinez had been a few men down the line when Norman and Mitchell had the run-in with Skorupski. Suspecting these questions had something to do with that, “Nah, he get his self up. Why all the fuckin’ questions?”

Thinking, Yeah! “Oh, nothin’ Sarge, Just curious, that’s all.” Taking a sip of coffee, spilling the rest onto the grass, “Guess we’d better not drink too much’a this stuff if we wanna sleep tonight.” Looking at Mitchell, “Come on, Mitch, let’s hit the hay… Night, Sarge, and thanks.”

“What the hell was that about?”

“My idea. Come on!”

“So, is it going to work? You wanna let me in on it?”

“Look, I can’t slug it out with Skorupski, ’cause big as he is, if he falls on me he’ll squish me. Besides, there’s gotta be something in the regulations about fighting a non-com, so anything we do to that fat prick gotta be, uh, kind’a sneaky.”

“Sneaky’s good. You got a sneaky idea?”

“Oh, yeah.” Norman smiled. “You bet’ch’ya… Come on.”

“Come on where? Where we going?”

“Jeeze, Lipensky. You ask so many questions.”

Making a short loop through camp, returning, following Norman to behind the mess tent, “Why’d we come back here?”

“Had to wait till Martinez left so we could get these.” Handing one to Mitchell.

“Come on.”

“Where we going?”

“The latrines.”

“The latrines! Why, you gotta shit again?”

“No,” Norman said, “I don’t gotta shit again!”

“Yeah,” taking one, “knew they’d be here,” he gave one to Mitchell.

Though it was scarcely twilight, and though most of the troopers were asleep, not all were, but no one noticed two privates walking through camp carrying shovels and pails.

“Come on!” Butting his butt with a pail, coaxing him to move faster, “We gotta find enough to fill these pails before it gets too dark.”

Passing the outer perimeter of the mown area, “Find some what before it gets too dark?”

“Bullshit.”

“What’d I say?”

“No.” Norman laughed. “We’re looking for bullshit.”

“We’re out here looking for bullshit?”

“Yep,” Norman said, “that’s what I said. We’re looking for bullshit.”

“Real live bullshit?”

“Don’t know how alive it is, but… Yeah, here we go.” Putting the pail down, Norman shoveled a large, flat, dry plop of cow manure, laid it across the top of the pail and punched it in half with the tip of the shovel, causing it to fall into his bucket.

“I can’t believe it! We’re really looking for bullshit! Why?”

“Look, we both want to even up with Skorupski, right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, I’ve thought about a, uh, sneaky way to do it, and the great thing is, it’s so sneaky that he’ll never guess that we—or, for that matter, anyone—did it.”

“What? Did it, what? What the hell we doin’ with shit?”

“Giving it to your pal, Skorupski.”

“Okay,” Mitchell said dubiously, “if you say so.”

Not understanding, but more than willing to join any venture that would give him the opportunity to even up with Skorupski, especially if he didn’t get caught, Mitchell also began to look for cow plops.

Soon both buckets were filled to overflowing with lumpy, dry cow manure.

“Okay, now what?”

There was still a smidgen of light, and still, two privates with shovels and pails might as well have been invisible.

“Follow me,” Norman said.

Pausing at the duty cook’s tent, they heard the loud drone of Skorupski’s snoring.

“Now what?” Mitchell asked.

“Come, Igor.”

“Yah-voll, Herr, Doc-tor Franken-shtine.”

Going to the mobile water tank alongside the mess, placing his bucket beneath the spigot, “Find me something to stir with.” Norman turned the handle, allowing a dribble of water.

Taking but a moment to find a tent stake, “This do?”

“Ack, so, Igor!” Taking the stake, he began to stir, but the lumpy contents within the buck were still too dry.

“Herr, Doc-tor Franken-shtine, could use a bissle more blood, perhaps.”

“Ack, so.” Turning the handle, allowing a thin stream of water to run into the bucket, he stirred… And the dry manure reactivated and an earthy, “I’d say it looks about right, don’t it?” pungent odor erupted from the bucket.

“As an expert on bullshit, I do tend to agree with you.”

Moving his pail aside, Norman placed Mitchell’s under the spigot.

“Mmmm! My dear, what is that divine essence?”

“La cowshit… Now look,” Norman whispered, “It’s got to look like a cow really shit there, so when you dump it out, kind’a let it plop, kind’a naturally, so it kind’a spreads out, kind’a, you know, like kind’a shitty.”

“Yeah,” Mitchell grinned. “Kind’a like a cow with diarrhea.”

“Yeah, just like.”

Using their best U.S. Army stealth, the two crept to the tent, listened to Skorupski’s snoring a moment, then, glancing about, seeing no one, Norman knelt, tilted the bucket and emptied the gloppy, reconstituted contents slightly outside, and in the exact center of the tent’s pyramid-shaped opening.

Forming a mound of manure, Mitchell, without the slightest hesitation, did the same.

Rinsing the buckets, they replaced them. They brought the shovels back to the latrine, and, so long as they were there, the boys relieved themselves.

“See you in the morning, eh.”

“Yeah, Mitch, if not sooner.”

Removing his boots outside the tent, Mitchell crawled through his side of the opening, laid down on the blanket-covered earth and pulled the blanket over himself.

There was a rustling as Caraboolad turned his back to him… and emitted a loud ejection of stomach gas. Caraboolad, Mitchell thought, you fuckin’ A-rab!

                                                                  ***

At 0344, Corporal William, Skorp, Skorupski, as his mental alarm did on most mornings—if he hadn’t been drinking the night before—awoke him a minute before going off. Slapping the plunger on the clock so it wouldn’t ring, he stretched, farted, and wondered, Wha’ the fuck’s that awful, shitty smell? But passing it off as his own awful, shitty smell, as he did every morning, fondling his urine-swollen penis, that had worked its way through the slit of his G.I.-issue boxer shorts, as always, enjoying the feel of his hand, throwing the blanket back, sitting up, pulling the bottom blanket to under his buttocks, spreading his legs from side to side, thinking of the sight, feel, and smell of the one female he’d copulated with: his heavy-set, big-busted, hairy, hairy-crotched first cousin—once again thinking, Jesus, I stink—taking about a minute, Corporal William, Skorp, Skorupski worked the flesh of his penis until he ejaculated onto the grass between his spread thighs.

Not wanting to put his still-engorged, still-seeping penis back into his already urine-stained shorts, Corporal Skorupski, with his elongated penis dangling through the slit of his U.S. Army-issue shorts, crawled through the opening of the tent on his hands and knees, and…

“Huh?”

Stinky-smelly-slimy? Wet?

On his hands! On his knees! On his penis!

“Huh? Shit? Shit! How’d a fuckin’ cow get in this fuckin’ camp? Shit!”

The sentries wearily marching the perimeter looked in the direction of the shouting, but as it stopped within seconds, shrugging their shoulders, continued their monotonous patrol.

Norman, Mitchell and Martinez awoke, listened to, “Shit! How’d a fuckin’ cow get into this fuckin’ camp? Shit!” smiled and went back to sleep.

  (A "Becoming" Excerpt)