The First Time I Saw Paris by Norman Spivock

Two days later, I saw some guys carrying crates of oranges into their tent. "Sure," someone said. "A shipment of oranges came in. They're there for anyone who wants them." It was not unusual to see a soldier with a crate of oranges under his bed. I didn't bother, figuring others in my tent would have more oranges than they knew what to do with and would give me some. I was right; my strategy kept oranges from going to waste, and let others around camp get in on the bonanza. Somehow we got a few cans of canned bacon into our tent. One soldier got the cans open, probably with a knife. Another cooked the bacon in his mess kit over the potbellied stove, then poured the grease back into the can from which the bacon had come. I was fascinated to see that every can became completely full of the bacon grease.

In the States, the problem was to avoid KP duty. It was the opposite at Camp Lucky Strike. When it came my turn, several noncommissioned officers offered me fifteen dollars if I would allow them to take my place on KP. This was not unusual. They were hungry and wanted a feast after doling out food at the chow line. As did most of the other privates who were paid only twenty-one dollars a month, I declined the money and preferred the work with its gastronomic benefits.

I'll never forget Beauregard, a young, backwoods Southerner. We stood alongside each other dishing out the food, constantly comparing the length of the line of guys waiting to be served and the amount of food still in the pots, as we were determined not to run out of food, leaving enough for us to justify turning down the fifteen dollars. When the line of soldiers finally ended, Beauregard, the others on KP, and I were free to eat like gluttons. We stuffed down every morsel we could, but there was still more to eat. Then Beauregard started jumping and landing as hard as he could on his feet. He said it was to pack down the food in his stomach so he could eat more. Two other KP guys and I followed suit, and we became four jumping jacks, laughing while cramming our guts as full as we could.

The camp was still under construction. A hundred feet past the perimeter of all the tents, guys were digging many holes about four feet wide, ten feet long, and ten feet deep. These, we were told, were the latrines. The snow had melted and the ground became muddy-slippery mud. To use the latrine, one had to stand at its edge. It soon got to where there were three inches of urine at the bottom. Sure enough, good old Beauregard slipped and fell in. There was no way for him to climb out. Fortunately, it was not a midnight "nature call," and he was soon rescued. The holes were soon covered with wooden seats, not just to avoid a repetition of Beauregard's adventure.

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