A “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: Camp Mccoy

Norman Parminter and Mitchell Lipensky certainly fell within the punk category. They didn’t want to be activated, but if it did happen, “What the fuck can we do about it?” Norman had said. “And really,” Mitchell had replied, “it is the South Pacific, after all! And what could be so terrible? It might even be fun; no more school for a while, and soldiers in uniform always have girls to fuck around with. And when it’s over, say in, oh, about six months on the outside, and we do come home and go back to school, well fuck the football team! You’n’me, pal, we’ll be real heroes.

Oh, yeah!

And once again, a vigorous, emphatic…

Bullshit!

_______________________________________________________

June 27, 1950

Camp McCoy,

Sparta, Wisconsin

“Don’t…

“…take no silverware!” A burly, sweating soldier wearing a white chef’s hat and a grimy T-shirt with hand-painted corporal stripes on both sleeves yelled as each group of men came within hearing distance.

“Ya ain’t gonna be getting’ nothin’ you’ll need silverware for, just sandwiches an’ milk! Don’t take no fuckin’ silverware!”

Looking beyond the long rows of stainless steel steam tables, Mitchell saw a half-dozen men sweating over the scouring of huge pots and pans and the mopping of the linoleum-covered floor. Must be regulars, \he stupidly thought.

“Okay, fall in!”

Hardly finished with their peanut butter and jelly or bologna sandwiches, the men of Charlie Company were reassembled, marched back to their barracks, and shown the proper way to stow their gear in the wooden trunks at the end of each bunk, and the ‘Army’ way to make that bunk.

The bunks were horizontal springs on a steel frame with a three-inch thick mattress. On the top of each mattress was a thin pillow, a wrinkled, folded sheet, a pillowcase and a musty smelling Army-issue olive green blanket.

“Here! You can bounce a quarter off it, see?”

Showing them how, Martinez had made a bunk and when dropped, the quarter bounced twice.

“This is how them bunks is to be made, an’ to be sure, we’ll be havin’ inspections every mornin’ before chow at…” hesitating, smiling, “0530”

“ ‘Five-fuckin’-thirty’! Sarge, we gotta be up an’ have these here fuckin’ beds made by five-fuckin’-thirty?” PFC Jason Linville moaned.

“Yeah, Linville! An’ not only that, but you gotta be shaved’n’dressed in the uniform of the day an’ this here barracks an’ grounds all gotta be policed, too!”

“Jesus!” a high-pitched voice squeaked. “When the fuck’s reveille?”

Not having to look to see who’d spoken. “ ‘Caraboolad’, you fuckin’ ‘A-rab’! What the fuck you worryin’ about? I hear all you fuckin’ A-rabs pack their tents and skedaddle before daylight…” A few men laughed. “…before the cops get there to see what you pricks swiped the night before.”

“I ain’t no fuckin’ A-rab, Sarge! I told you a thousand times I’m ‘Armenian’!”

“Don’t mean a flyin’ fuck to me! You’re what I say you are an’ to me you’re an A-rab…

“0445!”

There was silence for a moment, then the men realized what he’d said, and another voice moaned, “4:45! We gotta get up at a quarter-to-fuckin’ five?”

“Yeah, you gotta! An’ see how nice the U.S. Army is to give you fuckers all that time to do all that stuff before chow… Oh, by the way…” as though it were an afterthought, “when you assemble it’ll be with your ‘pieces’, ’cause I’m gonna inspect them, too. An’ you better be on time ’cause chow’s at 0530.”

****

The rest of that afternoon, till chow call at 1730 hours, 5:30, was spent in camp orientation.

****

Supper comprised of tough, semi-dry roast beef, peas, mashed potatoes with thick, brown gravy, fresh salad with a selection of dressings consisting of French dressing, bread and butter, milk or coffee, and vanilla ice cream sandwiches… All of which Mitchell Lipensky ate with great zeal.

After supper, until lights out at 2100 hours, squads were assigned and their duties outlined.

The newly formed five-man mortar squad that Mitchell and Norman had ‘volunteered’ for was given the designation of ‘Charlie-Zebra-Two’. Norman was assigned as squad leader with Mitchell as second in command.

The weapons had been sent ahead via military truck and now, as the serial numbers were called, each man stepped forward to receive the ‘Garand M1 rifle’ assigned to him at the time of his first training session in the armory in Chicago. Side arms were also issued to those men receiving special assignments.

“Li-pimp-sky, Parminter, front an’ center!”

Handing it to him, “Here,” looking at Mitchell, “An’ you remember,” Martinez said, “this ain’t no fuckin’ toy.”

Felling a thrill as Martinez handed him a burnished, brown leather holster wrapped within a web belt containing a U.S. Army issue ‘Colt .45 automatic pistol’. “Yeah, Sarge. Thanks.”

Going to his cot, pulling the flap open — the first time Mitchell Lipensky had ever held a real weapon— he removed the pistol. Even though there was no clip in the handle,— knowing from movies—pointing it downward nonetheless, he pulled the slide to be sure there wasn’t a round in the chamber, then let it slide forward with a sharp, metallic ‘sklickk’. Hefting the gun in his hand, enjoying the weight and feel, “Hey, Sarge,” he asked. “When we gonna get the mortar?”

“Them weapons’ll be issued you guys in the field, an’ you’ll get your indoctrination on ’em then, too… Now listen up!” addressing the entire barracks. “You fuckers got about an hour till lights out, so I suggest you field-strip them M1s an’ make sure they’ll pass inspection tomorrow mornin’.”

Going to his partitioned quarters at the far end of the barracks. “Oh, yeah!” Turning about, smiling evilly. “Almost forgot.” Martinez said, “You guys that ain’t done it yet, better check tomorrow’s duty roster before lights out.” Stepping inside and closing the door behind him, he immediately heard the rush of feet as fifty men rushed to the bulletin board and, within seconds, as each man found his name, the groans from those assigned work details: ‘KP.’ Guard and field-latrine duties for tomorrow. for their first full day at Camp McCoy.

“Sarge,” knocking on the door, “it’s Lipensky’n’Parminter.”

“Yeah! What’d’ya want?” He knew what they wanted.

“Sarge, what do we do?”

“ ‘Bout what?”

“ ‘Bout tomorrow’s work detail.”

“Go to bed!”

“Go to bed?”

“Yeah! That’s what I fuckin’ said. Get in the fuckin’ sack!”

****

Wearing only U.S. Army-issue skivvies, Mitchell lay with the blanket covering to his waist. His hands crossed beneath his head, waiting, he stared at the ceiling…

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….

 June 28, 1950

Camp McCoy, Wisconsin

“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 he put 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 traveled 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 scent 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.”.

“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.

“ ‘Skorupski’. I was hoping he wouldn’t remember me.”

“Who the hell is he?”

“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 metal spoon. His bulging stomach hung over a tightly-tied, dirty apron and a food-smeared T-shirt stretched across his chest.

“Thought I knew you when I saw you with Martinez. 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, 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 guys were kids, maybe he’ll give us some easy stuff to do.”

“Doubt that.” Looking 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 serving 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 attempted to fit it into the rectangular 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 empty oatmeal pot into the sink with a loud clatter. “ ‘Scrub’ it!” Skorupski yelled to Norman then turning to Mitchel. “ ‘You’! I wanna talk to you!”

Following him outside, he waited as Skorupski took a crumpled pack of ‘Camels’ from his right sock, pulled a cigarette up, lit it and, jabbing his finger onto Mitchell’s chest. “What the fuck you doin’ here?”

“What do you mean, ‘what the fuck am I doin’ here’?”

“Just what I said!” He said vehemently. “Jews don’t volunteer to join the fuckin’ Army. You fuckin’ kikes go to fuckin’ college to become’ fuckin’officers!”

“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 for 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.”

“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 old wooden 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 milk 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’?” 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 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 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 blindly reach 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 tilted the tub, pouring most of the water out then 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’!”

“You, two!” pointing at Norman and Mitchell. “Back outside!”

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. “You two,” crooking his finger, Skorupski pointed to the rear door. “Follow me!” Walking outside. “Seein’ as you two shit-heads…” he said, smiling, “done such a great job this mornin’, I just naturally figured, havin’ all that experience, you’d just ‘love’ to do it again.”

 Both thinking, You ‘son-of-a-bitch’! Both said, “Oh, no!”

Because ninety percent of the mountain of potatoes that had so laboriously, so slowly, diminished that morning had, once again, sprung from the near bare earth.

****

1505 (3:05 p.m.) Standing, Mitchell stretched, flexed his wrists, 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.” Straining his jaw and wrists... 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 seemingly was compelled to ‘pop’ and when he didn’t ‘pop’ he felt a kind of tension in his wrists and jaw that almost compelled him to ‘pop’.

****

By the time Skorupski excused them and the boys were finally able to get into their bunks that night. Softly humming, ‘Yankee Doodle’, Mitchell Lipensky discovered a new talent as he was able to accompany himself with his bones.

Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence:

                             "Forced March"