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EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK:
Christmas, Mail Call And Peanut Butter Cookies
We loved
getting mail. My family and friends are not big on writing
letters and neither am I. However, when I got a letter or card,
I really enjoyed it. I sometimes thought this was how a convict
felt whenever he gets a letter from the “outside.”
Although I
loved boot camp, it still was a treat to hear from civilians. I
can understand why convicts even enjoy getting letters from
strangers.
To my surprise,
a girl I went to school with wrote me letters while I was at
Parris Island. Normally she would have never given me the time
of day - she ran with an elite crowd.
You know the
type, into all the extracurricular school activities. She was
expected to go to college and meet her future husband who would
be in the banking industry or some such shit.
In the letters
she told me how exciting it was for her to know that I was
becoming a Marine and going to Vietnam to fight for my country.
She felt that
soldiers, particularly Marines, were sexy and that she found it
very romantic when men would risk everything in combat… even
their lives.
She asked me if
it was okay for her to tell others that we were having a
relationship -
I couldn’t help but wonder what she meant by
relationship.
She was even so
bold as to send me a picture of her displaying her extraordinary
body in a bikini that leaving little to the imagination.
This surprised
me as she had always come across as priggish. The joke among all
of us guys at school was that she would drive her husband nuts
with her beauty and lack of interest in sex.
I wondered what
my buddies would say if they knew she was writing me; telling me
how she hoped that while I was in boot camp, it would be great
if I managed to be alone so I could touch myself as I thought
about her diddling herself.
She said she
couldn’t wait for me to graduate boot camp and visit her before
going to Nam.
It was weird
and I could help thinking, “Holy Christ. Here is a girl who
would not even sit at the same table with me during lunch
because it might upset her social standing and now she’s talking
about diddling herself in some weird pornographic fantasy.”
I always
thought she was a tease, but now I wondered how much was teasing
and how much was outright flakiness.
All said and
done, I did enjoy receiving the few letters that she wrote. I
never did get a chance to talk to her about diddling herself nor
did I ever get to find out how much was teasing and how much
would have led to a good railing.
Most of the
recruits were elated getting a letter from home, but sometimes
they would get a “Dear John” letter from their wife or
girlfriend telling the poor trapped sap that they were leaving
them for some Jody
(the name for any no
account male civilian that was likely sexing up your wife or
girlfriend).
They were
heartless bitches, telling their guys that they were glad they
were in boot camp so they would not be able to get in the way of
them fucking some Jody. At the time, I sometimes felt blessed
that I didn’t have a girlfriend to fuck me over.
Some recruits
got so freaked out that they tried to commit suicide or make it
look like they had tried, so they could be sent home; some of
them were.
It made me even
more thankful I had a near-stranger writing me letters telling
how she was diddling herself while thinking of me wearing my
military regalia in the midst of combat.”
“This can be a
fucked-up world at times.”
We didn’t just
get letters, good or bad; sometimes we got care packages. The
drill instructors watched us open the packages to make sure no
contraband such as drugs, weapons, or pornography got into our
hands. Usually it was food or snacks.
The drill
instructors would make the recruits who received the goodies
share them with the rest of the platoon regardless of how meager
the rations were.
A week before
Christmas, my mother and my sister made a huge batch of peanut
butter cookies. I think that since my stepfather Jake was a
former Marine, he probably warned my mother and sister to make
plenty for the whole platoon. The box of cookies was huge and
there were enough cookies to give each recruit five cookies
apiece.
I was pleased
with my family’s foresight, since I loved peanut butter cookies.
My drill
instructors called me, “Chimera, front and center!”
They made me
open the box in front of them so they could check for
contraband. The drill instructors each took a few cookies for
themselves.
Then one of
them said, “Okay, go ahead Private Chimera, stand here and eat
your cookies.”
I was confused.
They forgot to tell me to share the cookies and being a sharing
kind of guy, I said, “Sir, the private requests permission to
speak to the drill instructor, sir!”
“Speak,
Chimera,” one of them said.
I said, “Sir,
the Private requests permission to share the cookies with the
rest of the platoon, sir!”
My D.I. said,
“Chimera, if I wanted you to share those damn cookies, I would
have instructed you to do so. They’re your cookies and I want to
make sure that you finish them.”
I said, “Sir,
there are more cookies here than I can eat, sir!”
He said, “Well,
Private Chimera, you damn well better eat them all.”
I felt glum but
I said, “Yes sir.”
I started to
eat the cookies and felt dismayed, as I knew the task was
daunting—peanut butter cookies are very rich and filling.
I put one in my
mouth and then another and another, until they eventually lost
flavor and appeal.
After eating
about thirty of them, I said, “Sir, the private would like to
speak, sir.”
The drill
instructor asked in a tired voice, “What is it, Chimera?”
I moaned, “Sir,
the private would really like to share the cookies with the rest
of the platoon, sir.”
I had hoped he
was merely fucking with me. Surely, at any second, he was going
to take mercy on all of us by letting me share the treasure of
cookies.
Perhaps he had merely
forgotten and would be grateful to me for reminding him.
He said, “Eat
all of those damn cookies, Turd.”
I relentlessly
shoved one cookie after another into my mouth. My stomach was
bloated and I felt like Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke” when he
declared he could eat fifty hard-boiled eggs in sixty minutes.
In my minds eye, I made my brave wager, “I can eat fifty
peanut butter cookies in sixty minutes.”
I know I beat
that record, but I could not meet the task of finishing the
entire box of cookies before explosively puking up half the box.
I was bent
over, feeling clammy and sweaty as I continued to retched up on
the deck loads of half digested, chunky looking peanut butter
crap.
I was made to
clean up the mess and then ordered to hand out the rest of the
cookies.
Some of the
guys were not affected by my misery or the vomit, so they
greedily chomped down the cookies.
Other recruits
who had looked at my cookies with envy now begrudgingly accepted
the sentence of eating what was left over.
All of us wrote
to our parents, girlfriends, wives, and friends, “Please do not
send enough food for the entire platoon!
Please, please,
please only send one of two portions for me and me only,
otherwise we will be punished!” To this day, my teeth clench at
the sight of peanut butter cookies.
There have been
more than a few nights since boot camp when I have had
nightmares of those little fucking ‘Keebler Elves’
turning into my Drill instructors, tying me up and sadistically,
force feeding me those hellish peanut butter cookies until I
explode.
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HOMEPAGE TO ADVENTURES IN MARINE BIOLOGY
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