A Regular Man Is A Happy Man

Braxton was from NYC. The Bronx, he said. No reason to doubt it. He had that accent that I’d heard before. He was prematurely bald - head as smooth as a cue ball.

He wore a luxuriant mustache to compensate. Luxuriant by Marine Corp standards, anyway. Thick and black, with the ends curving down just a little past the corners of his mouth.

Our Plt Sgt would tell him to trim it every now and then, but I don’t know now if he ever did. Staff didn’t really care anyway.

Brax was a crapper. The man seemed to do it on a schedule. Very regular - an indicator of robust health. Rarely a day went by without him seated contentedly on one of the row of open toilets in the head at least once. There were few secrets in a squad bay, and personal privacy was nonexistent.

That extended to the field.

On a short training exercise of maybe three or four days, a lot of guys wouldn’t take a dump in all that time. C-rats peanut butter, cheese, and crackers aided in constipation.

And it was not unwelcome. Nobody really liked taking a dump in the field. No showers, so no way to wash unless you did it the old-time way with a helmet full of water and a washcloth. Which most preferred not to. And an unwashed, itchy behind was a nuisance.

There was a reason some of the toilets (shitters) in the head would get clogged up each time upon our return to barracks. Backed-up cargo needing to be unloaded.

But not Braxton. He had nature’s call had a private agreement.

“OP, you got any toilet paper?”

“Yeah.”

“Lend me some?”

“You mean give you some? I wouldn’t want it back.”

“Don’t be a wiseass. You know what I mean.”

“You didn’t bring any of your own?”

“I used it all.”

“What’ll you give me for some?”

“Damn it, just help me out! I really gotta go, man!”

So I tossed him a roll I dug out of my pack. Those tiny folded packets of tiny little thin squares we were given were next to worthless, and most of us just carried our own.

“Thanks, man!”, and he scurried off into the bushes.

We should’ve called him Crappy Pappy. He was a couple, three years older than the younger guys in the platoon.

We were on patrol another time. Our assigned sector had us roughly following the course of the river. It was a hot day, and humid. We were sweaty, bored, and tired.

That dark, cool water had never looked more inviting. So, at our request, Staff let us strip down and take advantage of it for a while.

Its welcome coolness felt as good as it had looked. We all waded out about chest and neck deep, defending in individual height and inclination. And in an extended loose group, just enjoyed the welcome relief in that cool, slow-moving water.

Presently, from Ski: “Is that a stick?” Curious, I waded a little closer. Watched it gently bump his chest once, twice, as he frowned down at it.

It didn’t look quite like a stick to me. Too straight and uniform, about nine inches long. From its uniform color, and fairly impressive thickness, more like an oversized cigar.

As Ski was just starting to reach for it, I realized.

“Don’t touch it! It’s a turd.”

All eyes naturally went to Braxton. And he confirmed our suspicion with a happy smile, and: “I doodied.”

“Oh, shit!” from Ski. “It touched me! It touched me!” And there came a sudden flurry of guys trying to get away from its immediate vicinity as it bobbed there in all fecal innocence.

“Braxton, you nasty bitch!” from Staff. “Give somebody a little warning next time!”

That about summed it up.

“Aft tube loaded and ready! Fire one!”