I used to drink a lot. Sometimes I would drink until I puked. Sometimes I drank so much that I would wake up sometime, somewhere, with no memory of how I got there or what had happened the night before. I wasn't alone in this. In my platoon at Bad Kissingen, almost everyone in the platoon drank to excess and lots of them were like me, puking, lost, underaged, irresponsible drunks. The sergeants I worked for were responsible, functioning, mature drunks who got a kick out of the antics of the novices under their supervision. The most important item my platoon sergeant packed for a field exercise was his stash of Paul Jones. Usually a bottle per each 48 hours in the field. Bump that to a bottle and a half in winter. There was always a bottle or two in his desk at the fuel dump and I know that he kept more hidden around the barracks and in his car. This is not a brag. This is a story that I wrote years ago as part of a novel that I have not yet finished. But I let the boys read my stories and they would critique them and offer advice. For some reason, this story was very popular with them and since HBW has asked that I reprint some of those old tales, here goes:
He awoke slowly. The beat of English rock music twanging and thumping into his head. His HEAD! His head had developed new dimensions during the night. It had to be at least twice its normal size and easily four times its normal weight. He started to sit up but became aware that his tie was twisted up somewhere under his arm and every move he made tugged at his neck and caused his newly acquired monster-sized head to wobble dangerously on his constricted neck. He lay back gently in an effort to relieve the pressure on his neck. The roof of his mouth was dry and rough, his tongue felt swollen and didn't respond in any way that was familiar. "Could this be someone else?" he thought. Nothing felt like it should. His tie was still choking him, hopelessly twisted up in his half-undone shirt. In the middle of a renewed struggle to free himself from the strangle hold, a rumbling surge splashed up his throat into the back of his mouth and nose. Before he could react, a second surge gushed up and broke free, splashing hotly over his chest and stomach. He felt a tightness under his chin and another spasm grabbed him and he spewed out over his bunk and onto the floor.
Jackson was the first to react the the vomiting fit. He started yelling obscenities in an uninterupted stream while he jumped up, tore the boy's blankets out of their hospital corners and wrapped the whole set of bedding around the boy. By this time, Tatum was up and helping out. They dragged the boy and his bedding down the hall into the shower room. They threw the whole vile bundle under the shower and turned it on full blast. Tatum waited long enough to make sure the boy wasn't going to drown, then turned the hot water off, leaving the full force of the icy cold water beating on the the boy and his bedding. Even the frigid blast of water couldn't make the boy move at more than a slow crawl. He made it to the edge of the stall and collapsed into a sodden, shivering wad. Shortly after he had woken up he felt like he would die, now he was afraid that he wouldn't.
Jackson was still fuming and swearing, finishing up with the mopping when the boy stepped into the room. He was soaked, frozen, and the shower had not done a complete job of washing away the mess. He reeked, and he had dragged his bedding back down the hall leaving a trail of water and vomit like a snail. Jackson made a remark about the life expectency of a 17 year old private that was stupid enough to drag that stinking mess back into the room. Tatum and Larson led the boy back to the shower room and supervised his undressing and showering. Tatum kicked the blankets around in the water until they were reasonably rinsed. Larson went after a towel. Tatum separated the sheets from the blankets and hung them all over shower heads to dry out. The boy looked up at what had been done. He still felt like slow death. He looked at Tatum standing there in his shorts and t-shirt, trying to rinse off his shower shoes...he glanced up and their eyes met.
"Thanks, Tatum" he said.