My Geronimo Pie

I have loved people who cook all my life. For this very reason, my own culinary skills have sorely lacked. The one exception to my general fondness was our Army cooks. Some could cook quite well. However, they seemed to relish the idea of busting privates (E1, E2,E3) in kitchen duties. We scrubbed the gigantic pots, washed hundreds of dirty dishes, and mopped the greasy floors. Seemed like I was always awakened before dawn to hear the good news, “Thompson, you got kitchen duty!”

One spring evening, as darkness firmly settled in, I entered the barracks nearest the kitchen door. I saw a pair of white pants springing up the stairwell. The night baker was making his way toward his quarters. General intelligence told me of the card games going on amongst the cooks. I saw him, but he paid no mind to me. By now, the whole kitchen/dining area had grown quite familiar.

Veering my head into the kitchen, I said, “Hey, is any body here?” The  silence drew me in. It was there, in the middle of the kitchen, that I spied an interesting bin hastily left by the night baker. Now firmly committed, I gingerly approached the bin to find a stack of freshly baked apple pies.

I felt the warm pie pan, reflecting for a millisecond of the consequences. It was then that the pan fell into my hands…I rushed out the door and headed swiftly to the third floor. Just my luck, about half a dozen guys were hanging at the bunks. Worse, everyone had the munchies. The general consensus was that I needed to share it. A pie does not look that great going seven ways, especially a stolen pie to boot!

In desperation, I said I knew where there’s a whole lot more pie, one for each of us. Offering to lead them to the bounty, we retraced my steps. Each man grabbed a pie. I brazenly looked in the frozen locker and spied the vanilla ice cream. Shouting hoarsely, “Hey guys, pie ala mode.” They all scooped up some for the road.  I picked up another pie, just in case that pie on my own bunk didn’t make it.

As our recon team ascended the third floor wing, we met more of our hungry bears. I was relieved when one of our recon team members offered to take this bunch down. The rest of us settled in to eat our fill. Within ten minutes tops, there was not a pie nor ice cream left in the battalion. The 2/501st Parachute Infantry was plumb out of desert!

We questioned the wisdom of returning the pie plates to the kitchen. After all, if we were caught, this entire wing would be naked of any signs of military rank. Somebody opened a window to say, “Let’s fling the damn plates. Maybe they’re airborne!” Dang, I thought…Geronimo pie! It was quite a sight to see those tin plates fly; it was also dangerous to show our faces long at the window. Lights out was unusually quick that night.

Formation was routine the next morning. By then, I knew that I had escaped the consequences of our night mission. We filed quickly into the chow line. The night baker was slinging the morning hash; he should normally be sleeping off his night shift. Making a bit of small talk, I said, “I heard something happened here last night.” He said, “If I ever catch who did it, I am going to bust his ass!” Moving ever so quickly round the corner, I couldn’t hold back the smirk.

It was then that I got to thinking…somebody always wants to kick my ass. Well, I had made my mark in this new outfit. Every now and then, somebody would ask me if the pies were ready. However, I am not sure if the cooks are still playing cards. I can tell you, that Geronimo pie was sure good!