We’d go on long marches with only ten-minute breaks. Five-, ten-, and occasionally sometimes even long exhausting twenty-mile hikes. That was tough. Then there’d be the infiltration course. It was like graduation, where they tested your skills and used live ammunition while you kept your head down and crawled on your elbows and your knees. That was scary.
The good part was that I was trained as a radio operator. That was going to be my job when I went overseas with a field artillery unit. I was so happy to be picked for a job that was not right next to the cannons, because they made a loud bang. However, for the first two weeks we had to be given some basic instructions on how to be part of a field artillery cannon crew. So for two weeks I was going to have to endure the incredibly loud explosions that the 105-and 155-millimeter Howitzers made. But I was lucky: One of the noncoms (non-commissioned officers) teaching us how to load, elevate, and fire the cannons gave me a great piece of advice.
He said, “Listen, buddy, the earplugs they give you really don’t work. What ya gotta do is break a cigarette in half, roll the ends tight, and shove them in your ears. That’s your best protection from the sound.”
And he was right! I got through those two weeks without breaking an eardrum.
* * *
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Funny little anecdote: When I was getting my insurance physical for my first film, The Producers, the nurse who was looking into my ears said, “Mr. Brooks, I’ve seen a lot of inner ears in my life, but I’ve never seen any so yellow! Did you have jaundice or some disease or anything when you were a kid?”
I said, “No, no. That yellow is not a disease. It’s called Camels. When I was in basic training in the Army, I shoved Camel cigarettes in my ears to shut out the noise, and believe it or not, they really worked!”
I was discharged in 1946 and this was in 1966. Twenty years later my ears were still bright yellow from the Camels. Well, I guess that’s a small price to pay for not losing my hearing.
* * *
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The regular Army was an education. A really rough education. I’d never gone to the toilet before with sixteen other guys sitting next to me. I would go crazy waiting for the latrine to be free of people so I could rush in, do my stuff, and rush out. It took a lot of getting used to.
And then there was chow time. Breakfast in the mess hall was an experience. First of all, you got on line. Everything in the Army is first you get on line. I looked over at the breakfast setup. There were huge grills on top of which was a sight I’ve never seen before in my life—it was amazing and a little scary. On top of one of the huge grills there were about a hundred eggs all cooking sunny-side up. You said give me two, three, four, whatever. You had to be careful about how much you took, because of the huge sign above the cooking area that read TAKE ALL YOU WANT, BUT EAT ALL YOU TAKE. So I never took more than two eggs, because I might want something else like oatmeal, cornflakes, or bacon. Not that anybody really watched how much you took and how much you left.
Sitting with twelve other guys having breakfast was another new experience. Everything was “Pass the butter! Pass the milk! Pass the sugar! Pass the jam!” There was a strict code. When somebody said, “Pass the jam,” you weren’t allowed to stop the jam and put any on your own plate. That was called shortcutting and was not allowed. You had to pass the jam to the person who said, “Pass the jam” even though the jam looked good and you wanted to take a little on the way, you didn’t. It was forbidden. The mess hall was good-natured but incredibly noisy and busy. It took some getting used to.
One morning at breakfast as I went through the chow line they put something strange on my plate. I brought it back to my table and said to one of the GIs, “What is this?”
He said, “It’s called shit on a shingle!”
“Shit on a shingle?” I said.
“Yeah, but actually it’s chipped beef and cream gravy on toast.”
I watched the other guys at my table, they were eating it and they didn’t seem upset. So I tried it. It was weird; I couldn’t make sense out of the taste. But I was eighteen and always crazy hungry. So I ate it. It wasn’t good; it wasn’t bad. It was food and it was filling. Later on, I kind of got used to it and came to like it. It was just good old Army chow. But I’ll never forget the first time I stared down at the confused mess on my plate and heard the expression “shit on a shingle.”
When we were on bivouac (a temporary campsite away from the barracks), we were on the chow line with our mess kits. Mess kits were two small oval aluminum trays with indentations for food and an aluminum knife, fork, and spoon attached. You waited on line with your mess kit and they’d throw some beef stew in one of the indentations. Then came the mashed potatoes, and even though there were other indentations for the mashed potatoes they always threw it right on top of the stew. Then—you won’t believe this—for dessert there were usually sliced peaches. Which of course, you expected they would put into in one of the remaining empty places in the mess kit. But what did they do? You’ve got it! They hurled it right on top of your mashed potatoes and your beef stew. They simply didn’t care. And we were starving so we gobbled it down.
(And for some reason, to this day I’m vaguely nostalgic for some sliced peaches on top of my beef bourguignon.)
After chow you waited on line once again to clean your mess kit. First you swirled them around in a garbage can bubbling with hot soapy water. Then you moved them to the next garbage can of rinse water, still filled with the remnants of soap. And then the last garbage can with clear hot water. That did the job. It never occurred to me to ask my sergeants and officers: Why do we have to do all this stuff? Isn’t there a better way? Couldn’t we have a little more time for reading a book we liked, or maybe taking a nap once in a while? And then I realized: That’s why the Army likes eighteen-year-olds. No questions asked. You do what you’re told. Maybe that’s why I never thought seriously about reenlisting.