Hygiene in the Barracks
Indian town Gap, PA October 1951
In sixteen weeks of basic training an attempt was made to mold young men from farms, urban areas, slums, rural communities, and wealthy suburbs into a group of killers.
The Blue Mountain terrain of Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania was similar to the hills and valleys of Korea. It was a perfect setting for basic training. Anyone who has gone through it will admit that infantry basic training is a combination of torture, harassment, and lots of laughs. I found the experience heavily weighted on torture and harassment. The laughs kept me going.
The cadre at Indiantown Gap consisted of Korean War veterans. Using their sadistic personas they achieved their goals of torment and oppression. But, using their stupidity, we were able to cull many scraps of humor.
One day, after our skin was macerated by the sharp stones of the PRI circle (Preliminary Rifle Instruction) , we were marched to view an instructional film.
Still uncoordinated, our platoon, with feet aching from their stiff new boots, stumbled toward the instructional shed.
“If you guys don’t get it together and march in a military manner, I’ll drop a hand grenade in your ass pocket,” shouted Corporal Edwards.
His warning fell on deaf ears. Tender toes were stepped on, bruised ankles were kicked, yet we chuckled and swore as the platoon lumbered toward the shed. We missed the classic on venereal disease; however, awaiting us was a movie on personal hygiene. It met all the criteria for an Oscar winner in the Short Film category.
We were introduced to soap, the need for it, and how to use it. We were expected to shower at least once a day. Many of the men didn’t have a shower at home. Many who did have a shower at home didn’t shower.
The narrator said that soap could be used on wounds when there was no medication. We were told to use plenty of soap when cleansing a wound. It would prevent infection. Thus, with the simple vocabulary list used for training manuals and films, everyone was introduced to, and educated in the use of soap.
Finally, when the film ended and the lights went on. From a seat in the rear, rose a colonel. With pursed lips and a martial air, he declared,
“All right men. You saw the film. You paid attention. Let’s see what you have learned. To the barracks for showers!”
We took off for the barracks. There were six showers for about forty men. Men who had never passed the threshold of a shower were rubbing shoulders and buttocks with the usual patrons. There was no way I was going to be a player in this insanity. I sat on a bowl watching a shower room that could accommodate six crammed with more than ten men. It reminded me of the ship’s cabin scene in the Marx Brothers film, A Night at the Opera.
As Williams, a draftee from South Carolina, squeezed out of the shower room, I sarcastically asked him if it was crowded in there.
“Crowded? Crowded? By God, it was so crowded, I washed out six assholes before I got to mine!”
How can anyone top the pithy humor of a Southerner?
If the beds were removed, the inside of our barracks appeared to be wooden-planked floors, uninsulated walls, and a bathroom with six sinks and six showers in the shower room. The beds and lockers were an upgrade to a sleep-away camp for underprivileged children.
Our platoon sergeant had a room of his own. There were no toilet stalls in the bathroom. A GI had a choice of five black-lidded toilet bowls facing the sinks. Sometimes, depending what was served for dinner, a trio or quartet would be performing on the lids for an audience of hand washers or shavers.
It was Friday afternoon. Sergeant Bayliss cleared his throat,
“No one goes home tomorrow unless I see these World War II barracks look like they’ve just been built!”
The Friday night ritual, “The Barracks Party” began . We started the celebration by organizing ourselves into groups, each with a specific detail. Everything within reach was dusted. Soap scum was removed from the walls and floors of the showers. Soaked in brown GI soap, the splintery wooden floors were scoured smooth by a brown-bristled GI brush. The sinks were spotless, its faucets appeared as if they were just removed from their shipping carton.
For dessert, each man polished his boots to a sparkling shine. Early the following morning, we tightened our bedsheets and blankets until they squeaked. The sinks and showers sparkled, their faucets were polished, and the floors were mopped. Soon this party will end, and after Segt. Bayliss gives his approval, we’ll get our weekend pass.
We dove into our three-inch mattresses as if they were the top-of-the-line Simmons Beautyrest. We awoke to a brisk October morning.
After a choice of S.O.S. (Shit On a Shingle), ground beef floating in a white, fatty clot, or a salty slice of ham garnished by a a syrupy pineapple ring. We returned to the barracks for inspection. We were going home for a real breakfast!
Upon returning to our barracks, Sergeant Bayliss had us line up alongside of our cots. He strode by checking the tightened blankets, the cleanliness of the floor, the shine and alignment of our boots alongside our beds, and the dust on top of and under the shelves. There were no foot lockers. Our belongings were squeezed into our duffel bags.
Sergeant Bayliss appeared to be satisfied with the appearance and cleanliness of the barracks. His last check was the bathroom and showers. A shriek from his whistle told me we might be spending the weekend at Indiantown Gap.
“Danm it to Hell, everyone to the bathroom! Double time!” he shouted.
Forty men crowded into the bathroom waiting for Bayliss’s critique. He pointed to the ceiling.
“No matter what difficulty he had on the bowl by God,” said Bayliss, “I want to see the athlete who could shit and, at the same time, leave his footprint on the ceiling. If he can’t repeat that right now, no one gets a pass.”
Heads turned, but nobody responded. Our weekend was spent on toilet drill. On the command of a whistle, the men on the lower floor ran into the bathroom, raised the toilet seats, and then returned to attention alongside their beds. When the next whistle blew, the men on the upper floor ran down the steps to the bathroom, lowered the toilet seats, and returned to attention alongside their beds. After many repetitions of this madness, the footprint was erased. Subsequently, I learned that the footprint was the creation of a lower-floor resident who had stuck a broom handle into his muddy boot and then pressed the boot onto the ceiling.
The movie on personal hygiene had no effect on the GIs who had previously boycotted the showers. Their bodies formed an inseparable bond with their long-johns, which soon became their second skin. If their underwear hadn’t decomposed, they were molted as summer approached.
My shower at home let out a bare mist. The one redeeming factor about our barracks showers was their bite. As winter approached Indiantown Gap, the faucets in the shower were rarely turned. Maybe the company needed a review of the film on the use of soap?
For the complete army memoir read, Cold Ground’s Been My Bed: A Korean War Memoir by Daniel Wolfe danielwolfebooks@aol.com