The sergeants stepped forward and shouted in unison, “Right face! Forward march.”
By the time Sergeant Nelson started us marching, I could see a red dawn brightening the eastern sky. He led us down a few blocks and then turned the group right at a large athletic field. As we marched along, the only sound was that of our shoe leather beating against the blacktop, and the occasional cadence count from Sergeant Nelson.
“Hup, two, three, four…hup, two, three four.”
The first floor group with Sergeant Brice, from last night, followed us. Then, suddenly, the still air was cut by the loud sounds of multiple bugles blaring out their morning song. It was 6:00 AM, and air rang with the sounds of Reveille.
A few moments later, we reached a large, single-story building. Stopping the group, the Sergeant had us turn towards the building, “This is the Mess Hall for Dog Company. You will be taking all of your meals here. You will march single file into the hall and there will be no talking. Once inside, you will take a tray and go down the chow line. You will take and eat what’s given to you. When you are finished with your meal, you will take your empty tray, I repeat your empty tray, to the KP area for cleaning, and any paper trash will be stowed into the appropriate trash cans. You will not take any food with you. You will eat all the food on your tray. Marines do not waste food. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir!” was our loud reply.
“After your meal, you will form your ranks on me here again. You will not wander off or go to the head or talk to anyone. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Fall out in rows,” barked Sergeant Nelson.
Standing on the stairs, waiting to enter the hall, I felt the first rays of the morning sunlight brush my face. Turning, I could see the bright red ball just rising over some buildings in the distance.
A new day…a new adventure, I thought.
Inside the door on the right was a stainless-steel table stacked with steel trays. Next to them were piles of utensils, napkins and plastic glasses. Next to the table was a long row of stainless-steel serving tables with steam rolling off the covered food. On the other side of the room were rows and rows of bench-type tables, enough to feed hundreds of men, but not half the size of the chow hall we had used the night before. At the far end were large open bays and trash cans. The room was clean and humid but smelled stale from the lack of fresh air.
We were the first group in the hall, and I was about the twentieth person in line. Grabbing my tray and utensils, I followed along the column. Behind the serving tables were two men, dressed in white cooks’ clothing. The first cook was having fun by shouting out, “Well, lookie here! We have new Rainbows. They’re not even Mop Heads yet. Come on, boys. I made you the ‘house specialty’ for breakfast, SOS. You’ll just love it! Take all you want, but eat all you take.”
Approaching him, I held out my tray. On it he placed a piece of toast in the large compartment, then poured some kind of white gravy over it. The gooey mixture looked and smelled awful. The next cook slopped a large spoonful of peaches into one of the two smaller compartments. At the end of the line were cartons of milk and large pots of coffee. Taking two cartons of milk, I moved to an empty table, a few yards away. Moments later, Kurt from Ketchikan sat down across from me. At first, I didn’t even look up. I was more interested in the white slosh on my tray. Taking my fork, I scraped the gray off the toast and cut into it. The soggy toast tasted like grease and moldy milk. It was awful!
From across the table, Kurt whispered, “Do you know what SOS stands for?”
His whisper caught me off-guard. Slowly looking up I shook my head no.
