Phil.
He was what people called a Whop. We didn't call him that to his face either. He was Italian. We
were friendly with Phat Phil for one reason alone: His Mother, a fine Italian woman herself, would send him huge boxes in the mail. They were stuffed with all kinds of delicacies---cookies, cakes, salami, pasta sauce in jars, cheeses. We thought pizza was the only food that Italians ate, but Phil's
momma introduced us to a world of good eating.
When the mailman called out Phil's name at mail call and we would see the big box from home, we would quickly gather around his bunk in anticipation of his opening the package. We were like little birds waiting to be fed. Little vultures.
Phil liked all the attention so he generously passed out samples, telling us what each thing on the menu was. Usually everything was eaten within half an hour and poor Phil had to go back to being an ordinary fat soldier until the next package came from home.
The packages gave us a great idea. My friend Blair and I wrote to our mothers, aunts, cousins and most of the girls in our senior high school class. We told them we were in the War. (Actually we enlisted three days before the Korean War was technically over.) We told them the Army was
starving us to death and begged them to send anything that wouldn't spoil en route.
My Mother came through right away (I was an only child). We were smart enough to pay the mailman to put our packages into our laundry bags which hung on the end of our bunks. We didn't want a throng of guys attacking us like we attached Phat Phil.
I can't tell you how happy we were to come in from a day of marching and see the shape of a
box in our laundry bag.
We already Had a plan in mind. We would carry the bag out as if we were going to the laundromat. But instead of going there, we both crawled under the barracks which was about
two and a half feet off the ground. We dragged our goodies behind us. When we got under the building far enough not to be seen, we sat and carefully opened the box.
My Mother wasn't Italian but she was Southern, so she knew how to put together a satisfying
CARE package for her only son. She had cans of Vienna Sausage and Potted Meat, Crackers of
various kinds, sardines, bananas and peanut butter. She sent pimento cheese sandwiches already
made and wrapped in tinfoil. They travelled surprisingly well.
Our big problem was the height of the barracks. We could take a bit of a sandwich, but our necks were bent over so much we couldn't swallow anything.
I sent Blair back into our barracks to get our two field shovels. When he came back, we dug
a hole large enough to sit in with our heads held high. We called it our "Dining Room" and dine,
we did.
Every day more packages arrived. Some were just cookies or candy. But we also started
getting canned hams. We needed to get our dining room better organized for opening and slicing
ham. I wanted to make a little table but we couldn't find any scrap wood. So we started wearing
our ponchos to keep the grease off of our clothes. One person asked what kind of laundry detergent we used because we always smelled so edible when we came in from one of our feasts.
We didn't share our food with anybody, nor our secret dining spot. If you went to Fort Jackson
today, the hole is probably still under the building with a lot of empty Vienna Sausage cans. Our
mailman started making us give him monthly payments to keep his mouth shut. We should have stuffed it with one of Phat Phil's salamis.
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