The folklore about mysterious pissers or in my case, shitters, seems to go hand-in-hand with military reminiscing. Back stories about someone pissing in the commander's coffee cup have even preoccupied major war motion pictures. I would be remiss if I did not mention my brush with my platoon's, intestinal specter.
Along the way I traveled through Army time with a couple of New Yorkers named Dep and Hutch. They were a couple of dudes that signed up for the Army under the guise of one of those recruiting schemes - "The Buddy System." And, they actually made it to the same duty station together. Very few of these arrangements ever panned out to fruition. But my two chums from Queens were survivors. And, it just does not seem right to talk about one without the other. In fact, us guys often referred to them as "Dep and Hutch." They just came as a packaged deal.
They cut a strange profile together. Dep was a tall, dark, solid, and lanky polish fellow. Hutch was a little Irish guy with red hair. I remember Hutch seemed prone to colds and flu. One time in particular I recall him getting pneumonia and spending a long bought in the Army hospital - long enough where we had to go see him because at one point his situation looked pretty grim.
Dep always told me his own capstone event in life was being told by a New York judge he had two options: be a guest of the State of New York; or, join the Army. I remember him showing me a picture of himself standing in front of his ranch-style house with his dad in New York. As a naive farm kid from Wisconsin might do, I said, "You live in a house? Where's all the sky-scrappers?"
"You dumb ass," Dep said. And then he continued, "We live in houses you idiot."
A year or so later, I got Dep back. We were on patrol on the border of Germany and Czechoslovakia near the Demilitarized Zone between the commies and our side in the middle of no where, and we happened on a village with three houses, a church, and two guest houses (taverns). Ol' Dep said, "Damn, who the fuck could spend a lifetime in a fucked up place like this?"
I looked at him and seized the moment and said, "Hey asshole, I grew up in a village like this. My parents still live there."
Ol' Dep relaxed his M-16 rifle and paused out of his constant hyper New York character for a moment, lit a cigarette and said, "Sorry Bob, I did not mean to offend your background." That was Dep, he could disarm you in a second.
Back at the old Nazi compound we lived in, a recurring annoyance began to sprout. Every day we would meet for our morning roll-call in the quadrangle in the middle of the creepy compound grounds, but every few weeks or so, a big shit would be waiting for us near the wall next to where our platoon assembled.
The brick and marble structure took on a haunted and bleak Nazi aura. Mist and fog often swirled through the nooks and crannies in the early morning. The place was about five or six stories high, and, the big room windows had large German-esque marble frames and ledges - perfect to hang one's ass off to launch a good...dump. In the winter you could set a couple of cases of beer out on the huge ledge and use it as a refrigerator.
I had my suspicions about who the shitter perp might be, but I could not corroborate my hunches.
For a time, Dep and I were roommates. So I saw his comings and goings all the time. He eventually made Buck Sergeant. This always surprised me because he was a notorious drunk. Along with Dep and living with him, came a crawling house plant inherited from a long discharged squad member. I saw him trash the room in a drunken stupor from time to time, but never even disrupt a leaf on that giant plant. Drunken brawls aside, Dep had an Eddy Haskell (that guy on the
Leave it to Beaver tv show who was too polite and full of shit) quality about him and he often knew just what to say to which antagonist - must have been an acquired Queens skill.
For one reason or another at certain times of the day people just said, "Fuck-it" and left their room doors open. I could tell that who ever it was who was doing the evil excrement deed, they were using different windows to facilitate their shenanigans. Conventional and prevailing wisdom by our many offended leaders, assumed the offenses were being facilitated by the perp leaning against the building down on the assembly grounds. But most the officers and non-coms who took the deviant deed personal, lived off post. I however, knew the logistics of the place. Because, no pun intended, I had to live in the old shit hole.
I lived in the belly of the beast. If indeed we were back at our home duty station (which wasn't too often), by the hour of 7:00 p.m. the Dr. Jekyll - Mr. Hyde nuance of the place kicked in. Once the leaders were gone for the evening and back in their comfy off-base housing with their wives, kids, and dogs, except for the over-night duty sergeant in the office (who usually seemed to disappear), we were on our own in the building from hell.
Finally, one night around 2:00 a.m. in the morning, I weaved out to the hallway with a beer bottle in tow to head for the bathroom. The place looked like a cross between an opium den, college dorm, half-way house, and Nazi museum without the Nazis. As I made my way to the latrine through the smoke, beer bottles, cigarette butts, trash, and loud music, I glanced through the open doorway of one of the rooms. I had to stop and back up and take another focussed look.
There on the huge ledge of the window hung Dep with no pants on and ass extended far into the quadrangle. The occupants of the room slept on their bunks in drunken and dope induced dishevelment. Dep took a second to glance up at me through the smoke and dim light and he cracked a serious smile. He grinned like a guy shutting the hood of a car after getting that ol' fuck'n engine running again and about to head on down the road to pick up his favorite chick.
I lost track of Ol' Dep after the Army. I did a Google, but to no avail. He called me a couple of times after I got back to Wisconsin in the mid 1970s. He even hunted me down at work once. I remember the waitress at the place were I used to bartend at, handing me the phone at closing time and saying, "Some guy with an East Coast accent on the phone, Bob."
"Bobby, you ol' fucker. How the fuck you do'n you fuck'n motherfucker?...Fuck'n A...you fuck."
Dep, I hope that where ever you two ended up, you and Hutch are well. We are all getting older now. I hope if you are still shitting, you are not yet shitting in nursing home diapers. Current leaders have fucked up our economy and lives so much I feel like shitting on some perceived sacrad parade grounds myself from time to time - but now at my age I would probably fall out of the window or break a hip trying to hang out it - or both.
Here's to you buddy!
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" Category does not list the jobs chronologically - I write about the experiences as they pop up in my memory and I often revisit an older job. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology.
Wisconsin Military Service Person Special Mention of the Week
(each week Cooldadiomedia mentions a Wisconsin service person killed in Iraq or Afghanistan)
Marine Lance Corporal Harry Hoyt Timberman, 20, Minong, Wisconsin, was killed during combat operations in Alluja, Anbar province, Iraq on Saturday, March 17, 2007. He was a rifleman assigned to Company G, 2nd Battalion, 7th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division, I Marine Expeditionary Force, out of Twentynine Palms, California. Minong is a tiny community of about 900 people in the northwest region of Wisconsin about 50 miles south of Duluth/Superior. The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel mentioned Timberman graduated from Washburn County Alternative High School in Shell Lake in June 2004. He joined the Marine Corps in August of 2005. His unit was deployed to Iraq in January of 2007. Timberman had moved to Minong from Colorado in 2001. He was on the school's wrestling team and volunteered with "Students Offering Support," a group that organized events and engaged younger students in activities. As a peer helper he worked to bring younger kids into school activities, and organized school events with them. Minnesota Public Radio said Timberman attended the Northwood School for a couple of years. The Northwood School has about 400 students spanning pre-kindergarten through the 12th grade. The high school uses the moniker "Evergreens," a signature image of the north woods area of Wisconsin. At the time of his death, Harry Timberman was survived by his father, also named Harry Timberman, and his mom, Cynthia Coshow; two brothers and a sister who live in Colorado; and fiancee Garla Gustafson. Lance Corporal Harry Timberman was the 71st Wisconsin military service person to be killed in Iraq since the spring of 2003.
As of this blog entry's posting date:
98,585 Iraqi civilians have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
9,771 Iraqi Security Forces have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
4,432 Americans have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1363 Americans have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
318 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
827 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
31,981 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
9,134 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
102 Wisconsin soldiers have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
24 Wisconsin soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
144 journalists (several nationalities) have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
21 journalists (various nationalities) have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
Wisconsin military service person special mention of the week, military casualty, and journalist casualty information sources: Committee to Protect Journalists; cnn.com; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel; washingtonpost.com; thehighground.org; Wisconsin Department of Veterans Affairs; iraqbodycount.org; www.defense.gov/news/casualty.pdf; and, icasualties.org.
