We all stood at parade-rest beside our TA-50 laden bunks waiting for the arrival of the BDE CDR, COL Pride. It was the Army of the middle eighties and we were in recovery from a long exercise, in excess of forty-five days. We were ramping up for a NTC rotation. The BDE commander always liked to pick a company at random and do a walk-through inspection of the lower enlisted with their TA-50 laid out on the bunks. Colonel Pride, and yes that was his name, was a good commander, known for his fairness, attention to detail, and odd sense of humor.
“Soldier, what is this,” squinting at an open soap dish during a walk through?
“My soap dish, Sir.”
“Why is your soap dirty? I mean, soap is supposed to get you clean. Yet, your soap is dirty. I can see the gray sludge all over it. How can you get yourself clean with dirty soap,” holding up a grimy bar of Irish Spring?
“I don’t know, Sir. I, I, I, guess I’m just a dirty kind of guy.” Meanwhile the CSM and 1SG busily annotated name and rank for the next extra duty detail. But that was not all. One of COL Pride’s pet peeves was water in your canteen when not in the field. He hated the thought of water-induced mildew on plastic canteens. We had to follow a little ritual during these inspections. While you stood at attention next to your bunk, he’d pick up your canteen and give it a vigorous shake. If he heard water rattle inside, you had to lean forward while he poured it out on your head. While many might see this as demeaning, it was part and parcel of life in the Army of the ‘80’s and no one really complained. After all, to avoid the issue, you stood your canteen up on its nozzle over a paper-towel for a couple of hours, problem solved. So there we were, on a hot July day, waiting for COL Pride.
As he made his way through the bay, he made his usual pithy comments and checked everyone’s canteen. So far, no one had endured the humility of bending over for a few dribbles of water. Then he came to SPC Franklin’s bunk. Eric and I were battle-buddies, crewing on the same CEV, and good friends. Eventually, I would serve as Eric’s best man. But that was a couple of years away. After exchanging a couple of innocuous remarks about the generally good state of Eric’s TA-50, COL Pride reached for the obligatory canteen. He picked up and shook it. A soft gurgle resonated in the stuffy open bay. This was going to be good. Not only had Eric failed to dry out his canteen, he hadn’t even emptied it!
Without complaint, Eric bent forward. But I noticed a particularly anguished look on his face. I wondered why? He was going to get soaked, but other than a bit of humiliation and perhaps a day or two on detail, nothing would happen. But Eric looked like he was facing a firing squad. COL Pride shook the canteen once more, relishing the moment.
He undid the cap and upended it over Eric’s head and I immediately knew why Eric looked so distraught. He’d made red MRE Kool-Aid in his canteen and forgotten it. In the summer heat of Fort Hood the high sugar Kool-Aid had molded and fermented. The sickly sweet odor filled the bay as the clumpy clotted mess ran down over his head and shoulders dripping onto what had been a pristinely waxed floor. The bay filled with muffled laughter and shouts of, “At Ease!” It was then that Eric wished he’d drank the Kool-Aid.
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