THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, July 26, 1995 TAG: 9507260381
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Guy Friddell
LENGTH: Medium: 68 lines
The Great Grits Gridlock of World War II began when a wag at Central Supply Depot, filling our outfit's order, threw into the truck, unsought, a 100-pound sack of grits.
``Grits don't keep,'' the joker said. ``Cook 'em all quick.''
Our cooks, never having seen a grit, believed him. The outfit of 380 was mainly Pennsylvanians who never heard of, much less tasted, grits. They had no idea grits proliferated at a truly reckless rate.
None of the 15 Southerners were around to warn the cooks of grits' amazing multiplicity before they set about, as Sergeant Bull Maypop marveled later, ``to cook a munt's supply of grits for one meal.''
They began boiling grits before daybreak. When Maypop arrived on his dawn patrol, all was in flux.
As grits overflowed vats, cooks and KPs filled pots and pans, trying to stem the rising tide, sliding on spilled grits, hurling more into the air, children frolicking on a snowy ski slope amid a blizzard.
``Yers let the grits get out of hand,'' Maypop advised.
He sent for Bugle Boy Boyd.
``Blow `Charge' to wake the men,'' Maypop told him, since it was too early for Reveille.
Bugle Boy said he wasn't sure he could blow Charge. He'd never tried it. ``Then blow whatever comes to mind,'' Maypop said.
Taps' long, cool fingers touched our tents. Men fell out to find whether Bugle Boy or a mad cosmos had decreed Taps at daybreak.
And found Maypop full blown.
``THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!'' Maypop trumpeted. ``RUN TO THE MESS HALL!''
And as they ran, he bellowed, ``GET READY TO EAT!''
The mess hall evoked the fairy tale in which nobody could think of the word to stop a magic pot of porridge that overflowed into the streets. Villagers had to flee and then eat their way back in.
When white mounds were heaped on their mess kits, Pennsylvanians, aghast, cried: ``What's this?''
Southerners, overjoyed, shouted, ``Grits!'' and gravitated together to taste of home. Maypop roamed, exhorting, ``Eat yers grits!''
``THEY GOT NO TASTE!'' shouted one man.
``THEN WHY ARE YERS COMPLAINING?'' bawled Maypop. ``EAT! EAT FOR YERS LIVES!''
Men stared glumly at grits.
``All I ask is yers eat one bowl of grits for yers beloved Maypop,'' Maypop said, ``or he will put yers on KP to clean up what yers don't eat. Yers must eat your way out.''
``Are YOU going to eat any of this stuff, Sarge?'' one cried.
``Has yers ever known yers sergeant to ask yers to do something he wouldn't do?'' retorted Maypop, seizing a bowl. He took a bite, his face went blank; but he ate it all.
Maypop beamed at the 15 Southerners going back for fourths.
``Yers are brave men,'' he said. ``It's a wonder yers lost the war.''
Cajoled by Maypop, the men finished. He told the cooks: ``Yers made 15 men deliriously happy and 365 miserable; however, the 15 were so happy that yers may have balanced it out. But yers must never ever again underestimate grits.''
To the joker at the Central Supply Depot, he wrote: ``The men ate every grit. Send more.''
But first Maypop made sure none were left, anywhere. by CNB