As all vets know, your diet in basic training is very controlled, with little or no sweets allowed.
One day my number was drawn for K.P. (Kitchen Patrol), which everyone dreaded. Not only was it tiring and dirty work, but you still had to make up for the training that you missed that day. I accepted my fate…
Everything was going smooth, and the Mess Sergeant was in a great mood that day. He told us he was hosting a big party at his home and we absolutely had to leave the Mess Hall by 5:30, come Hell or high water. As soon as the last dining unit left, we all double timed the clean-up, scrubbing, sweeping, mopping, etc. to meet his deadline.
Around 5:15 one of the civilian cooks came back into the building to tell the Sergeant her car wouldn’t start. You could see the horror in his eyes, thinking about what this meant to him personally. He couldn’t just take off and leave her stranded. He asked if any of us on duty knew anything about cars. I certainly wasn’t going to admit I was a Certified Master Mechanic, but I sheepishly raised my hand as a token offer. The thought ran through my head, what could I possibly do without any diagnostic equipment or tools???
The cook took me to her car, an older full size Ford, and I popped the hood to take a look. She turned the key and nothing happened. I took a visual survey of the starting system and quickly identified the starter relay (a black plastic/metal box) was literally cracked in half. I had never seen that happen before, nor any time after that day. I grabbed some oven mitts to safely hold the relay together while she cranked the engine and it started right away! I explained to her that that part needed to be replaced, and not to stop the car until she got home or to a garage that could replace that part. She told me her husband also had a car and that he could repair it, thanking me profusely. She offered me money but I declined.
The Mess Sergeant witnessed this and was ecstatic because we were still on schedule. He told me to take as many Hostess products as I could carry, but qualified it with a statement that I was “on my own” if I got caught with this “contraband” in the barracks. ie., he would leave me hanging out to dry…
I quickly filled every pocket in my BDU, (Battle Dress Uniform), with Hostess fruit pies, King Dons, Twinkies, etc. I was fully packed! The moment I got to my room in the barracks, I “opened shop” and sold everything I had for a couple bucks a piece. It was one of my many entrepreneurial ventures during basic training that allowed me to send my paychecks directly home to my (perplexed) parents to deposit into my bank account.
I later told them how I lived off the cash I made from my fellow soldiers.
They beamed with pride.
