A “Becoming” excerpt in sequence:

Thistles& Bull Shit

“Okay, you two guys ‘kind’a’ know how it’s done.” Martinez pointed to a high knoll about eight-hundred yards out. “When you get there, 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!”

June 27 Through August 3, 1950

Camp McCoy

Sparta, Wisconsin

Running in a low crouch carrying the tub nestled in his arms. The weight of it combined with his precarious posture all but causing him to fall flat on his face. The base strapped to his back, Norman followed Mitchell then 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 yourselves’!” 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 out.

****

Looking skyward, taking the helmet off he swiped a 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, had been waiting for two hours, listening for the walkie-talkie to crackle to life.

The heat of the sun unmerciful in the cloudless sky.

His fatigues drenched in perspiration, as uncomfortable as he was, in answer to Mitchell’s question, Norman said… “I gott'a shit!”

And speaking the words of wisdom 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’s I get started... Sure as shit Martinez’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 Norman urgently scrabbled at the earth, clearing a small area of high grass so 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.”

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 under 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 questioned. “Ain’t no trees! Don’t see a 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 with the situation. “Mitchell, what?”

“You know what ‘Northern Toilet Paper’s’ motto is, don’t you?”

Beyond embarrassment. Also becoming 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 some of 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 also. 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, laughing so hard he could hardly speak, “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 wiggled himself out of his pants and G.I.-issue shorts. Squatting again, he wiped himself with the shorts, threw them as far away 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 particularly 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 two and a half yards away, his voice carrying, hearing Martinez’ tirade . “Is the sarge mad?” Norman asked. “Sounds like he’s kind’a mad.”

“Nah, he just wants us to ‘get our ‘fuckin’ asses back 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.

“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 and 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 on the bench 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? The sentry wake him?”

Martinezhad 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 he spilled 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.” Normansmiled. “You bet’ch’ya… Come on.”

“Come on where? Where we goin’?”

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

Making a short loop through camp, returning, following Norman 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,” handing 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 out here 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?”

“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 and seeing no one, Norman knelt, tilted the bucket emptying the gloppy, reconstituted contents slightly outside and in the exact center of the tent’s pyramid-shaped opening.

Forming a runny 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’ then, 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 and 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.

TEDIUM ANDREALIZATION

Mitchell marched two four-hour late night watchs and had another greatly extended march and had KP once again, fortunately not with Skorupski, but unfortunately it was on the day he was to fire his sidearm, so he never had the opportunity to shoot his beloved .45, or for that matter anything else, because the troops were never given liberty, so neither boy had any idea of how potent they may have been to the girls of Sparta, Wisconsin, whom somehow lived through the ordeal of never meeting either of them.

By the time the five-week period at Camp McCoy was finished, Norman and Mitchell had had more than their share of playing soldier, and the thought of Korea and what it ‘really’ meant had frighteningly begun to sink in.

August 3, 1950

 “ ‘Fall in’! Tench hup! Dress right dress! Tench hup! Right-shoulder arms! Left face! Forward harch!”

The entire command was to pass in review then board the trucks that would take them to the trains that would return them to their respective armories.

“ ‘Hup-two-three-four! Hup-two-three-four’!”

The command, accompanied by the stirring music of the Camp McCoy band, marched the perimeter of the parade ground.

Passing the commanding officer, camp officers and their guests in the review stand…

“ ‘Eyes, right’!” Heads and eyes snapped to the right.

After the second progression around the parade ground, the command broke into individual companies that formed row upon row of helmeted, armed soldiers.

Speaking through an echoing microphone, “Men,” the commanding officer said, “the Thirty-Third Division is being activated!”

There was a rustle and stirring within the ranks.

“Quiet down!” the platoon sergeants whispered from the corners of their mouths. “Take it easy! You’re at parade rest! Shut up!”

Within seconds all eyes and ears strained forward.

“You will return to your homes to put your affairs in order,” the commanding officer continued, “and will be issued further orders within the next thirty days.” Hesitating a moment, “…It has been brought to my attention that a goodly number of men in the ‘Thirty-third’ are underage.”

Leaning forward, Norman and Mitchell glanced at each other.

“By directive of the Commander, U.S. Army, Washington, D.C.: ‘Any enlisted man under the age of eighteen years must step forward and be honorably separated, unless otherwise directed by his commanding officer from this now-activated military force’.”

Pausing once again, he looked from one end of this standing army to the other. “Your company officers will take your names upon arrival at your regimental armory and the processing of your discharges will commence immediately.”

Pausing once again, his eyes again swept the entire complement. “To the rest of you men, may God bless you and return you safely to your families.” Snapping to attention, he saluted.

“ ‘Tench-hup! Present arms’!” The salute was returned.

Dropping his arm to his side, doing a smart about face, the commanding officer returned to his seat.

****

After ten, three-hour weekly drill sessions and one, five-week summer training camp, Mitchell Lipensky and Norman Parminter were honorably discharged from the U.S. Army, and in the future, for the record, Norman and Mitchell were considered to be veterans of the Korean War.

Norman was one month past his sixteenth birthday and Mitchell approximately three weeks from his sixteenth birthday.

 End Camp McCoy sequence

Nexr “Becoming” excerpt in sequence:

“Ina” (Careful)