Fact or Fiction #1 - Mr. Diggs

While sleeping soundly in my bunk, I was awakened by a frantic voice. “Sergeant, Sergeant – wake up, we have a problem” Christ sakes, what now? There are many realities of military-life that are not shown in those ‘cleverly’ created television commercials. One such reality is that, unlike your standard 40-hour a week job, the military is your life… 24/7, and most of what you deal with – is mundane. You can be called upon anytime, day or night, weekends, while on leave (vacation) or while fast asleep (as was this occurrence). In this particular case, the voice was of one Private Diggs… a very rattled Private Diggs.

“Sergeant, Sergeant?”

Now it’s been my experience that hysterical people tend to be irrational. Irrational people, tend to get hysterical. At the moment, Private Diggs was my case in point. Speaking in a calming voice often does wonders to relieve the hysteria. “Yes Mr. Diggs?” (I also found that referring to people under my command as “Mister” instead of by rank – in some cases, helps to relax them). “For what do I owe the pleasure of your company at…” while looking at my watch I’m forced to close one eye to focus, “3:45 in the morning?”

Diggs bellows out, “Sergeant, you need to come with me right away.” Now this presented me with a dilemma for a few reasons. One reason, our situation over the past few months has caused several of my men to become slightly agitated (it was hot, humid, we were away from home and vastly under supplied) and let’s not forget – it was the middle of the freaking night.

“What seems to be the problem?” I asked, needing more substantial motivation for leaving my bunk.

“It’s Cookie, he’s dead.”

Now “Cookie”, (actually Private First-Class Joshua Cook) was in fact - the cook. He provided the daily helpings of mess hall slop, broiled hockey pucks and assorted wobbling desserts. I never knew much details of his life, except what was common knowledge. He was born in Tennessee and was a boxer before he joined up, no wife or children and now, apparently was dead.

I would have been more concerned, except we had a “scare” just a few weeks earlier. During one of the infrequent barrack inspections (technically the paperwork showed routine inspections – but as I said, it was hot and humid, and we really didn’t care), we noticed a foul smelling odor seeping through the floor boards underneath the barracks. There was a sickly sweet smell encased in a stench of decay – telltale signs of something dead, something big and dead. The barracks had no outside access to the crawl space beneath it. The only way anything could get under the barracks was either through tunneling (a large dead gopher seemed unlikely, if for no other reason - due to where we were geographically) or it was placed there from inside the barracks through the hatch access in the floor. My money was on the latter. At last head count, everyone was accounted for – so if somebody did hide a body, it wasn’t one of mine. Fortunately it turned out to be a mixture of rotting fruit and baker’s yeast. Some idiot thought he could do a little chemistry and ferment the swill into something drinkable (drinkable by their standards may not be the same as yours – or it might, I don’t know you that well). But this incident was fresh in my mind this morning.

“What makes you think he’s dead?” I inquired, as there are many levels of “dead” for those unfamiliar with the condition. I carried high hopes that he was passed out or unconscious. As “dead drunk” was a far more common occurrence, especially for those that had access to the camp supplies.

“Well”, Diggs replied with a smile on his face as he shakes his head, “He’s lying on the floor of the chow hall with an ice pick stuck in him… and he ain't screaming.”

Well shit… let me get my boots.