____________________________________________________________________
Waiting… Waiting… It started.
Taps.
The sad, melodic sound of the bugle wafted throughout the camp. Hanging on air, it seemed to echo as a second bugle, at the far end of the sprawling compound, began a scant second after the first.
He remembered, and this sad, sweet, all but forgotten memory of his childhood returned. Closing his eyes, thinking, When I open my eyes I’ll be nine years old, and at Baylor.
Taps:
Day is done.
Gone the sun.
From the lake, from the hills, from the sky.
Mitchell opened his eyes. But he was not nine years old, nor was he at Baylor Military School.
He looked to the right and looked to the left.
In the vague, muted moonlight he saw the two rows of cots and heard the breathing and rustling of fifty men…
He closed his eyes again….
__________________________________________________________
July 11, 1950
Camp McCoy, Wisconsin
He looked to the right and looked to the left.
In the vague, muted moonlight he saw the two rows of cots and heard the breathing and rustling of fifty men…
He closed his eyes again….
****
“Hey! Hey, you! Par-min-ter!”
“Wha, wh’sa matter?” Jarred awake by a hand roughly shaking his shoulder, he opened his eyes, then closed them against the harsh glare of a bright flashlight.
“Par-min-ter, get your ass up!”
“Huh? I ain’t Parminter!” Jerking his thumb to the right, “He’s there.”
Leaving his face, the light moved to the strip of adhesive tape on the bed frame, then up again, to the clipboard held in the man’s hand. “Oh, yeah, you’re Li… Li-pin…”
Pulling the blanket over his head, “Lipensky.”
“Yeah,” Pulling the blanket down again. “Lip, uh, whatever the fuck your name is, get your ass up, I want you, too!” Shaking him again, “You up?”
“Yeah! Yeah, already! I’m up!”
The soldier pulled the blanket completely off.
Wearing only underwear, Mitchell shivered in the cool night air.
“I wanna see your fuckin’ feet on the fuckin’ deck!”
Sitting up, shifting his body to the side of the cot, putting both feet onto the floor, “Okay, see!”
“Yeah! Get ready an’ report to the mess in ten minutes! You hear?” Not waiting for a reply, the light left Mitchell’s face and, traveling four bunks down the line, “Par-min-ter, get your ass up!”
****
The closer they came, the more pronounced the sounds became: The clanging and scraping of pots and pans; the movement of feet on wooden decking; the thunking of heavy refrigerator doors; harshly given orders; swearing, talking, and the delicious aroma of…
“Jesus, but that coffee smells good!” His apprehension over KP momentarily overcome by the smell of freshly-brewed coffee.
Holding the screen door open, giving Mitchell first entry, “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Well, well, well, if it ain’t my ol’ pal, Lipensky!”
“Oh, shit!” Hearing the booming voice, he stopped walking.
“That’s that guy that had the run-in with Martinez.” Norman said.
“Come on in, Mitchie, don’t be bashful. We’re ol’ pals.”
“How’s he know you?” Norman asked as they began the walk around the barrier of stainless-steel steam tables that separated the kitchen from the general mess area.
“That’s Skorupski. I was hoping he wouldn’t remember me.”
“Who the hell’s Skorupski?”
“A schmuck, a real schmuck I went to Baylor with.”
A white chef’s hat sitting squarely atop his head, “Imagine that!” Skorupski stood behind a huge black range stirring a large pot of oatmeal with a long-handled spoon. His bulging stomach hung over a tightly-tied, dirty apron and a food-smeared T-shirt stretched across his overly ample chest. “I thought I knew you when I saw you that time with Martinez, only it took me a little while till I remembered who you was. Ain’t too many guys around as pretty as my ol’ Jew pal Lipensky.”
“Uh-oh.” Norman said from the corner of his mouth.
“Grab a cup’a’jo if you want.” The chef’s hat wiggling, Skorupski motioned with his head towards a large spigoted pot sitting on a low fire at the far end of the second range.
Each taking a cup from a rack on a table, going to the range, the boys took turns holding it under the steaming spigot.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad.” Norman whispered. “If he knew you when you were kids, maybe he’ll give us some easy stuff to do.”
“I don’t think so.” Mitchell looked at Skorupski, who was still stirring oatmeal. “He’s a prick, and besides, he hates Jews.”
“You!” Pointing the dripping spoon at Norman, “put one’a them trays,” pointing to a stack of large, deep trays that were sitting on the sink, “into the steam table,” pointing, “there.”
“Yeah, sure.” Going to the sink, Norman took a tray, went to the steam table and fitted it into the opening that Skorupski was pointing to, but the boiling water moved the buoyant tray off the retaining lips and turned it sideways, causing it to sink on its side to the depth of the boiling water. He attempted to fit the now hot tray into the opening, but, again, it floated off.
Watching, amused, “Hold it down!”
Steam fogging his glasses, wincing in pain as the water burned his fingers, Norman attempted to hold two sides of the tray as Skorupski, using pot holders, the muscles of his arms bulging with the weight, lifted the oatmeal off the stove and carried it to the steam table. Tipping the large pot, he let the lumpy contents splash into the tray, weighing it down, but also, purposely splattering Norman’s bare arms and clean fatigues with molten oatmeal. Helplessly, Norman looked at Mitchell, who, shrugging his shoulders silently mouthed, “He’s a prick!”
Tossing the pot in the sink with a loud clatter, Skorupski yelled, “Wash it!” to Norman, then turning to Mitchell, “You! I wanna talk to you!”
Following him outside, he waited as Skorupski took a crumpled package of Camels from his right sock, lit one, then, jabbing a finger into Mitchell’s chest said, “What the fuck you doin’ here?”
“What do you mean, what the fuck am I doin’ here?”
“Just what I said! Jews don’t volunteer to join the fuckin’ Army. You kike, fuckers go to fuckin’ college to become fuckin’ lawyers’n’doctors’n’fuckin’officers!” he said vehemently.
“Skorp…”
“While you’re in this here place,” vaguely motioning about, “it’s Corporal Skorupski to you, asshole!”
“Yeah, Corporal Skorupski. First off, I’m too young to go to college, and secondly it ain’t none of your fuckin’ business why I’m here, but I’ll tell you anyway! I’m here because I fuckin’ wanna be here!”
“You sheeny, cocksucker! I hope they ship your fuckin’ ass to Korea and them fuckin’ gook bastards blow it to fuckin’ pieces… You ever see that other asshole, your dago buddy, Rizzo?”
“Yeah, I spent some time with him last year.”
“In his neighborhood?”
“Yeah, in his neighborhood.”
“It’s a wonder them fuckin’ wops didn’t tear your head off and shove it up your sheeny ass.”
“Yeah, a couple of ’em tried,” exaggerating just a bit, “and Frankie’n’me me beat the shit out of ’em.”
“Oh, yeah, Lipensky, I’ll just bet you beat the shit out of ’em.” Taking a deep draw on the cigarette, he smiled. “Actually, you have no idea how glad I am to see you an’ your buddy in there.” Cocking his head backward, “He’s a Jew, too, ain’t he? Well, seein’ as I know you so well, I’m gonna give you’n’your pal the best jobs I got.” Taking a final drag on the cigarette, Skorupski flipped it into the darkness. “Uh-oh,” looking at his watch. “0430. Come on, Lipensky, time to put your ass to work.”
****
Inside, Norman had been put to work by one of the other mess officers and, still at the sink, up to his elbows in soap suds, he was trying to keep even with a growing mountain of dirty pots and pans.
Opening a refrigerator door, reaching inside, “Lipensky, start fryin’!” Skorupski began tossing three-pound
packages of bacon at Mitchell, who, unaware that they were coming his way, missed the first two. “Or, bein’ as it ain’t kosher an’ you are maybe you can’t.”
Glaring at him, “Nah, I love bacon!” Mitchell said, catching the next ten packages thrown.
The fat sizzling and popping in all directions, causing pinpoints of pain to course up and down his bare arms, the thin slices of bacon, some of it burned and brittle and some of it pink and practically raw, were scooped off the griddle—to make room for more—and thrown into a serving tray until all 36 pounds were set into the steam table between the oatmeal tray and a tray of watery, scrambled eggs.
“You clowns…” speaking to this day’s complement of eight kitchen helpers—two each from four of the eight platoons that this mess would feed—“better grab some chow an’ take a crap if you gotta, ’cause in a few minutes the troops’ll be stormin’ through here an’ then you fuckers won’t even have time to take a piss.”
As the three mess non-coms served the meal, the eight orderlies scoured the pots and pans. Cups, glasses, silverware and the compartmentalized metal trays were put into a steam washer, washed, removed while hot and put back on the racks for the men still coming thorough the line. After each meal the floor was swept and tables scrubbed. After dinner, the stove and steam tables would be scoured from top to bottom and the entire mess swept and swabbed so that when the next day’s crew of cooks and KP orderlies came on duty everything was shipshape.
0632: “You two!” Crooking his finger, “Follow me!”
Skorupski led Norman and Mitchell to the rear of the mess hall and outside, where…
Sitting in the drab morning light were two milk crates and one large, galvanized washtub. On the top of each milk crate was a potato peeler, and in the dirt, centered behind the crates…
“Holy shit!”
Centered behind the milk crates were more potatoes than either boy had ever thought existed.
“Fill that tub with water,” pointing to a water hose attached to a spigot. “Peel them spuds an’ when the tub gets full dump the water and haul ’em inside so’s we can cut’n’cook ’em.”
Mitchell and Norman looked at each other, the mountain of potatoes and, finally, Skorupski.
“All of ’em?” they both asked incredulously.
“Yeah! Bet your ass, all of ’em! An’ you’d better get your asses in gear ’cause,” glancing at his watch, “it’s 0637 an’ we gotta have them spuds cookin’ in a couple’a hours.” Turning away, Skorupski looked back. “Oh, yeah! An’ be sure to dig the fuckin’ eyes out! I hate spuds full’a fuckin’ eyes.”
Their faces, necks and arms were sunburned and covered with smears and blotches of white potato starch from where they’d swatted at flies and mosquitoes. The heat of the July sun radiating through the pants, shirts and fatigue hats they wore, they would have moved to the shade, but there was no shade. Their hands and fingers were nicked in a dozen places from the unwieldy potato peelers and, at the same time, stiff from starch and wrinkled from water. Their backs, shoulders and legs ached from sitting hunched on the low wooden milk crates and…
“Damn it!” Standing, Norman pulled a sliver from the seat of his pants. “This thing’s killing my ass!”
They sat angled towards each other with the tub to their front and the potatoes to their rear. As neither boy wanted to look at the remaining pile, they’d reach blindly for a potato, peel it, dig the eyes out, toss it into the tub, rinse their hands, swat at a fly, scratch a mosquito bite, and reach for another potato.
“Shit,” Mitchell moaned, “how much more we gotta do?”
“I don’t wanna look.”
Poking his head through the door, “Hey, you!” Skorupski yelled, “Get some’a them spuds in here, on the double!”
Standing, painfully straightening their backs, each grasping a handle, tilting the tub, pouring most of the water out, the boys carried the near-filled tub into the steamy kitchen.
“Dump ’em here!”
The potatoes spilled into the double sink, “Hey, you’n’you!” Skorupski called on two other men, “Quarter ’em!” to cut the potatoes into quarters. “You, two!” pointing at Norman and Mitchell. “Back outside!”
Going back outside, “Oh, shit!” they couldn’t help but see the remaining potato pile. “Oh, shit!” they moaned in unison. “Oh, fuck!”
1115: The mess crew had lunch.
1145: The first of the troops stormed through the door.
****
After the last soldier left the mess hall and the last of the after-lunch duties were performed, “You two,” crooking his finger again, Skorupski pointed to the door, “Follow me!” and walked outside. “Seein’ as you two shit-heads…” he said, smiling, “done such a great job this mornin’, I just naturally figured that you’d just love to do it again.”
Both thinking, You son-of-a-bitch! each said, “Oh, no!”
Because the mountain of potatoes that had so laboriously, so slowly, diminished that morning had, once again, sprung from the bare earth.
1505 (3:05 p.m.) Standing, Mitchell stretched, and…Pop!
“Huh?” Norman looked up. “What the hell was that?”
Looking at his left wrist, flexing it again…Pop!
Doing the same with his right wrist… Pop!
“What the hell you doin’?”
“Don’t know, Normie. Every time I do this…” leaning closer, he flexed first the right… pop… then… pop… his left wrist and his bones made a popping sound. “Maybe it’s because of the way I’ve been holdin’ the peeler’n’potatoes.”
Sitting in the torrid sun, feeling hatred for Skorupski, his entire body had been tensed and for the past two hours he’d held both the peeler and potatoes tightly, and he’d also held his jaw clenched and now, feeling the tension, opening his mouth, Mitchell moved his lower jaw to the right… pop… and to the left… pop.
“Jesus, Mitchie, you sound kind’a like popcorn. Does it hurt?”
“Actually, no,” popping again, “it doesn’t hurt at all.”
If he didn’t do it, possibly it would have gone away. But the more he popped the more he was compelled to pop and when he didn’t pop he felt a kind of tension in his wrists and jaw. By the time he finally went to bed that night, humming Yankee Doodle, discovering a new talent, Mitchell was able to accompany himself with his bones.
