EVERYBODY’S DANISH – Army Chow & the Knife
By fred | June 11, 2010
EVERYBODY’S DANISH
ARMY CHOW
I have no bitch about the food in the army. Several times I was in charge of the supply detail to get the kitchen supplies. The food supplied to the mess was the best. What the various cooks would do it was something else – still there were some cooks that took real pride in their work.
We had an old Mess Sergeant only a few years away from retirement and he kept up the quality. One shift, of his cooks, was really not too good – they would never make it in any restaurant, at least any one that I would eat at regularly. The Sgt was always bitching that he had to keep watching them every second.
There are a certain set of rules that attend the Mess hall. You line up for mess, no breaks for any rank except for Officers. You stood in line, first man there is the first man in. If you lined up and wanted seconds, fine, but you better damn well eat it. The Mess Sergeant would be standing at the garbage can by the bins of dirty dishes. He was also rated by the weight of the garbage. If you dumped a bunch of food in the garage cans, and there were too many garage cans of uneaten food, he got a ‘gig.’ Old Tech Mess Sergeants do not like to get a ‘gig,’ and they would let you know about it. “If you take it eat it,” the old Sgt would yell.
If there were platters or bowls of food on the table the guy that emptied the dish last had to go get more. Often there would be a small spoonful left in the bowl or platter. Finally some guy that was really hungry would say, “Shit, I guess I have to go.” You would think it was a major chore to go get a bowl filled. Of course, the trick was to outfox the other guys, some guys were pros at this, they never had to get off their butts to fill the bowls.
The company officers often ate with us, at a head table. I have to think this made a difference. Captain Skelton would often be there for breakfast, lunch, and once in a while even dinner.
The one time I have never seen so much food in my life was Thanksgiving. The families of the older Sergeants, Corporals, and all the enlisted men that were the cadre were invited as company guests. The old Mess Sergeant had all his best cooks doing what they did best. Pies, all different kinds, cakes, cookies, piled high. Turkeys, huge hams, mashed potatoes, stuffing (several kinds), sweet potatoes, vegetables, several kinds of gravy, French rolls, soft rolls, cranberry sauce, for a guy that loves food, it was heaven on earth. There was loads of ice cream to pile on the pies and cakes.
I remember one of the sergeant’s wives looking at it all and patting her husband’s tummy and saying, “I see why you like to eat with the company all the time.” She had four kids and turned them loose on all that food, probably happy as hell she did not have to cook it, or clean up afterwards.
I understand that almost four hundred were fed that day. Still there was food left for days later. I think we all ate so much we were almost sick.
Some food it decidedly a little strange. For breakfast most of us were used to bacon, sausage, ham, and eggs. Maybe pancakes, or hot or cold cereal, stuff like that. Oh, we got that stuff, but once or twice a week we got a piece of toast covered with a vile gravy mess, mingled with fine pieces of chipped beef. Say hello to an old army favorite called, ‘Shit on a shingle,’ ‘SOS’ for short.
In the beginning we hated the stuff, but there was no alternative. You could just have some toast and milk or coffee, but this was not much for hungry eighteen and nineteen year olds that had a lot of field stuff to do. You had to get something in you for breakfast.
Months later, as we were shoveling in the ‘SOS’ one of the guys said, “Hell, I am getting to like this crap, I must be sick.”
The one thing on the Mess menu that we all hated was liver. Now liver is a Danish delicacy, a tasty item, if sliced thin, and fried properly with some onions. The stuff we got was awful. Hunks of liver in thick greasy gravy, nobody would eat it. The old Mess Sergeant also did not like the full garage cans. Most of us would hike up to the canteen and buy a hamburger with our few dollars. The Serge did not like this at all.
What that old bastard did was hold all the liver in the company freezer, then serve it for several days straight at the end of the month,—right before pay day when everyone was broke. Even the Captain bitched. The old Sergeant said, “Captain, you don’t have to take all the crap I get from regiment with those full garage cans.” And so it went month after month. We learned to save a couple of bucks for the last days before pay day or we were doomed. I remember one guy that was broke and had to eat the liver saying, “If you keep holding your nose, and swallow fast, you can’t hardly taste the stuff.”
THE PLATOON SCREW UP, THAT WE ALL LOVED
Before I go any further I have to tell you about the biggest ‘screw up’ in the platoon, and probably the whole company for that matter. He was a Mexican American guy. He turned into a good friend, he was loyal, and I swear he would literally lay down his life for a friend. I think his name was spelled ‘Laszlo,’ don’t quote me on that. We called him a lot of names, among them were ‘fuck up’ and a few others, standard army language – however ladies may read this so I will not repeat them all – because if anyone in the platoon would screw something up it was the Knife.
Laszlo came from a very poor family that moved around the country picking crops. We was about five feet, nine or ten, slender, and tough as nails physically. He had black wavy hair, and a thin, heavily pock marked face. He had made it through school, just bearably, he said. He had a slight Spanish accent, and a terrific sense of humor. The conditions could awful, the worst, in some ‘exercise,’ or march in the rain, we could be cold, soaking wet, tired as hell, feeling like crap, did not matter, as far as he was concerned – in the army he had it made, loved it, and showed it.
We also called him ‘Knife,’ mainly because he loved his bayonet. He would sit and sharpen the thing for hours on end. A common joke was that if you ran out of razor blades to shave, just borrow Laszlo’s bayonet. This got a little scary one day when he and another bigger guy got into an argument. Laszlo grabbed the bayonet, and was going for the guy with this skinny, extremely sharp, long, hunk of steel. Several guys grabbed Laszlo and fortunately that was that.
Some of the guys wanted me to report it to our Platoon Sergeant, I sure did not like that idea. I knew Sergeant Rogers always figured we should take care of our own problems. Instead, minus the bayonet, I took him out in the hall and we sat on the steps and had a heart to heart talk. For some strange reason that was the start of our being friends. As acting platoon sergeant Laszlo was a pain the butt, but a hell of a nice pain in the butt, and for some reason he treated me as h brother, an older respected brother.
It is hard to explain the reason. I guess the fact that so many of my best friends at Poly High were Mexican Americans that we got to be so close, he said it was because I never talked ‘down’ to him whatever that met. He would tag along every where we went on the post, he would ask me to correct his grammar, manners. He said he wanted to learn to be a Gringo not a Mexican he said. He wanted to make the Army a career and figured he should not ‘act’ Mexican. I wish I could explain this better, the guy just wanted to improve, to fit in, and he did, when I left the army he had re-enlisted for a four year tour of duty and was going to be the best damn cook the army had. I will lay bets he was!
We had two boxers in our platoon. You already know about Leonard, the other was another Mexican American by the name of Sanchez. He was a little shorter than Laszlo, stockier, and fast. He said he had boxed professionally. I remember a few days after Leonard had rearranged my face, he looked over at Leonard and asked him how well he figured he could do against someone that knew how to box, not Leonard picking on some amateur like Fred.
He kept giving Leonard the needle, and a few days later Leonard had enough. He said, “If you weren’t such a little shit, I’d clean you up.” Sanchez said, “Don’t let that bother you none, let’s go down to the basement and put on some gloves, I always wanted to see if you were all mouth, and just beat up on amateurs, guys that don’t know how to fight.”
I really think we all figured that Sanchez had really gotten in over his head. They got in the square we called a ring, Leonard was steaming mad, and went right for him. He couldn’t touch him. Sanchez would dodge, faint to the left, and move the other way. He was beautiful. Of course, he couldn’t connect on Leonard, with his guard up, it was a real draw. Finally Leonard stood in the middle of the ring, dropped his guard, and said, “You little son of a bitch you really can fight.” He went over and grabbed Sanchez in a bear hug and that was that, they were friends ever after.
After that ‘fight’ Leonard was always begging Sanchez to go a few rounds. He said that sparring with small fast guy like Sanchez was the best training he could get.
I am bringing this up for several reasons. Laszlo looked up to Sanchez, even more so after going those rounds with Leonard. One day when we were on a break Sanchez said to Laszlo, “What do you think would have happened that day if we hadn’t taken that bayonet away from you?’ Laszlo sort of looked at the ground, and shook his head. Sanchez said, “They would have put you away in the stockade and thrown away the damn key. Better you learn to use these,” as he raised his fists.
The long and short of it was that Sanchez would take Laszlo down in the basement and after a few months Laszlo looked awful good, and most of all confident. A side effect was Sanchez telling Leonard that they should teach Nielsen how to box. Just getting off the floor time after time and swinging was not going to do it.
I don’t think either Sanchez or Leonard ever were happy with my boxing style. I would ‘telegraph’ my punch, meaning they knew exactly when I was going to try and hit them. They did however teach me how to protect myself. With those big gloves, we would get in a ring and they both would use me for a punching bag. Eventually, you learn how to protect yourself. Leonard figured that in a free for all, if I could protect myself, and eventually get a good one in now and then, I would be all right. I had no intention of ever again getting in a real fight, not if I could help it.
We had another name for Laszlo, and that was ‘Fungus among us!’ Sounds sort of strange, but 50 years later I still laugh when I think of those words.
I guess it all started one day after a particularly long march. We were in the platoon area, everybody was taking there boots off and examining their feet. A few of the guys had ‘athletics feet’ which made it even worse for them. Raw open tiny sores between the toes. One of the more astute guys mentioned that athletics feet was caused by a ‘fungus’ growth. I remember Laszlo yelling, “There’s fungus among us!” at the top of his lungs. As tired as we were, we all had to break out laughing.
We could be marching along, after a long day in the field, tired as hell, and out of the blue old Laszlo would yell, “There’s fungus among us!” As tired as everyone in the company was, you still had to laugh. Eventually it got to be a standard joke. On the way back from the field, our Field First would yell, “Laszlo, how are your feet?” Laszlo would yell back, “Sergeant, there’s fungus among us,” at the top of his lungs. Everybody would start to laugh, the Captain, the Lieutenants, all of us, you would just start to relax and let it all hang out and forget the tough day.
The Captain and the Field First both said that in combat, Laszlo would be worth fifty men. He would keep everyone loose, hell to Laszlo everything was fun, want something not fun, — try working in the fields, bent over for hours picking crops in the blazing hot sun. In the peace time army however, Laszlo was a screw up, pure and simple. Thing is he wanted to learn to improve, he was doing that but it would take a lot more than just the 12 weeks of our basic training to accomplish that.
He had very clean personal habits, his boots were shined so you could see your face in them. His rifle was cleaned to perfection – the rest could be a mess. If someone was out of step in the whole company, it was probably Laszlo. He would slouch as he marched, rifle at a weird angle. Didn’t brother him, but it sure as hell bothered the officers and our Field First.
His foot locker would be in complete disarray for inspections. I finally had to have Sanchez check it carefully before inspection. If someone’s bed was not made ‘tight’ for inspection, guess who?
He was so darn happy in the army, and so darn friendly it got him into trouble. Even during training when an officer was the nearest thing to God, or even a regular army Sergeant for that matter was considered unapproachable, he would walk right up and start talking to them. Oh, he was courteous, but it was just not done, especially by a lowly recruit.
Laszlo pulled more Kitchen Police duty than anyone in the company, the funny part was that he loved it. He was good at it. The Mess Sergeant said when he did pots and pans they were clean, you could see your face in them. He got to be buddies with all the kitchen Staff sergeants, all the regular army cadre. Giving him extra duty in the kitchen wasn’t punishment to him, it was a treat.
The whole thing had to do with the rough life he and his family had. He said food wasn’t always so plentiful, except for maybe beans and tortillas. He said here he could walk in the company’s kitchen and have any thing he wanted, anytime he wanted it. It was like a dream.
He would write letters in Spanish to his family, and send $30 bucks each payday out of the $80 some dollars he got every month. He would keep telling his brothers to do their best in school, and when they got old enough, to join the army.
I am getting ahead of myself here, but eventually after Advanced Infantry Training the Mess Sergeant asked the Captain to send him to Chef’s school. He graduated in about ten weeks and came back to the company as one of the best cooks we had.
For reasons we will get into next he felt he ‘owed’ me and the Captain. The Captain was the guy that said he could go to Chef’s school and be a cook. He would do anything for him.
After I got out of A. G. (Adjutant General) School and worked at regiment, I could get anything out of that kitchen, anytime I wanted it. He told all the cooks to ‘take care’ of his buddy Fred. If I got hungry for a hunk of pie piled with a load of ice cream at say 10 P. M. in the evening all I had to do was my head in the kitchen door and ask. If Laszlo wasn’t on shift the cooks would usually say “You know where the stuff is, fix it for yourself.” If Laszlo was on shift I got sat at a table and he would haul out a whole pie and a gallon container of ice cream and we would have a snack together. Hey, your old buddy Fred knew how to pick his buddies! Often other buddies would send me to the kitchen to ask Laszlo for a stack of sandwiches, he never let us down.
With the Captain, it was a riot, Laszlo knew stuff the captain liked and disliked. For one thing, the captain wasn’t so hot for scrambled eggs. The Captain, if he was having breakfast always ate what the troops ate, so he would quietly get in the back of the line. Laszlo would spot him and yell, “Captain, go sit down, I fix you something you like.”
In the beginning I don’t think the Captain was to hot for this special attention, but by that time he knew with Laszlo it was impossible to argue, so he would go in the mess to the officers table and sit down. Soon a platter with eggs over easy, ham, sausages, hashed browns and buttered toast would be rushed to him by Laszlo. Everything just the way he knew the Captain liked it. The Captain would shake his head, grin, and say, “What can you do?” as he started to shovel it in.
NEXT – THE GENERAL’S PARTY
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