Chapter 8

Comfort is where you make it, and no one knows better how to make something from nothing that your average Cavalry Scout in the field. From the few accessories found in the MRE bag, with the addition of a few carefully collected items, your average scout can produce a decent edible meal cooked over a heat tab or a Sterno can. But there are those who can shame a Master Chef at field cooking, the Creature was one of those.

Hairy, obscene, profane, and evil tempered, he was the Master at creating comfort in the field over all the other members of our platoon. He was the grouchiest bastard you never wanted to meet, but by God could he serve up the goods.

He was credited with several platoon recipes that stand the test of time to this day, Ham all Rotten, Delighted Virgin Dessert, Four Fingers of Death, the list goes on. These were all the creations of the Creature, and horrible as they sounded, they were damn fine eating after a week in the field. My favorite was the Delighted Virgin, dehydrated strawberries, creamer packet and sugar mixed with water. You can imagine the appearance, thus the name.

The Creature was also a world class scrounge, he could procure things seemingly out of thin air, beer, liquor, sausages, if it was within a half mile, it was his. Try though I might, I could never match his abilities. During one field problem, he managed to come up with enough steaks to feed the entire platoon. He charged us all a pack of smokes each, but at the time it was cheap at twice the price.

Another time, he came up with pizza in the middle of Hohenfels Training area, an place so remote and desolate that daylight had to be pumped in. How?, who knows, but it was greatly appreciated, even at a cost of five Marlboro's a slice.

He was the assigned gunner on one of the platoon's ITV vehicles, a modified M113 personnel beater with a missile launcher on it. This for him was both a blessing and a curse, because the missile launcher turrent took up the majority of the room inside the vehicle. But, and more important to the Creature, the gunner stayed inside and out of the elements the majority of the time.

In this tightly packed space, the Creature would make a nest, burrowing into his wool blanket and sleeping bag, with nothing exposed but his hands and face, here he would spend hours dozing, farting, and grumbling about the harshness of the field. Getting him out was a task of great proportion, accomplished with much yelling and cursing and swinging of arms. However, once outside the nest, he would set out to create something new to comfort and console himself, if you happened to be near, perhaps you as well.

Of all the sergeants in the platoon, he was perhaps the most liked and most despised. The lower enlisted amongst us loved him because he had never made the transition from peon to the ruling class and thus identified with us more so than the other sergeants. And for this same reason, the sergeants hated him, not that he cared either way. Don't get me wrong, he could be hell on wheels with us private soldiers, but for the most part, he was one of the guys.

In garrison he managed to maintain a semi professional appearance, boots shined for the most part, uniform passable, hair and shave at the bottom end of the acceptable scale, but outside the gate? Different story all together. Here would the Creature emerge from the mild mannered form of Sgt. Vidal, a grubby, wrinkled, unshaven, unshorn monstrosity who spoke in monosyllables and grunts. Thus the name Creature.

During field problems, we would invariably be tasked with providing road guides, a lonely task involving standing at an intersection for hours upon hours directing military traffic and freezing your balls off. You would be dropped at an intersection in the early hours of the morning, with your rucksack, rifle, flashlight and a combat ration or two and terse orders to "make sure them friggin trucks go that way" and "don't let me find you drinking or fuckin off!"

This said you would find yourself abandoned for a minimum of twelve hours, and more often than not, all night as well. Thus you had to make sure you were equipped for the long haul, or spend a long day and night listening to your stomach growl.

This was the Creature's moment of glory.

The very first time the Creature was assigned as NCOIC, non commissioned officer in charge. He gathered his charges up and herded us off to one side for a briefing, a briefing that has likely never been equaled since. The usual threats and bullshit were dispensed with in a matter of seconds, and the Creature got to the meat of the subject.

"Listen Fuckers, this mission sucks the Big Green Weenie, but we gotta do it, so, here's the plan."

"Empty yer rucks into a duffle bag, and steal every damn chemlight you can get yer hands on."

"Grab as many MREs as you can, even the ones that ain't got all the stuff in em, much as you can carry."

"Rawley!"

"Yes Sarge"

"Go to my track and grab that ammo can of M16 Blanks, and hurry up ya DragAss."

Rawley scampered off to get the can.

"Alright listen up dickheads, take all the magazines you got and load them with blanks, put more in ya pockets."

We stared at him like he'd gone crazy, blanks, what the hell for? Firing the damn things meant more time spent polishing a weapon later.

"Don't look at me like that shitbirds, do it! Little German kids'll trade you their mama for a chance to shoot a full clip, just make sure you keep a lanyard on the damn thing. Anybody loses a '16 will have their ass in a sling like you won't believe."