Army Food (aka Chow)

All of my closest friends and family know that my greatest joy in life is good food. Nothing gives me more pleasure than nutritious and delicious cuisine, of almost any variety. It is the source of a number of running jokes within my family. And so many thought it strange that I would elect to serve in the military, were the standard of food is mediocre at best. At least that is the reputation. 

In truth it was an after thought in my decision making process, because my sense of obligation to serve my country during war is great, not to mention my desire for adventure and action. I was, however, a little anxious to see just how bad Army food really was in the 21st century. I figured it must have come a long way since the rations of warm, mashed corn and brandy of Custer's day. Still the Army's word for food, chow, didn't leave me feeling all that optimistic as I prepared to fly down to Ft. Jackson to start my basic training.

Chow. It is the word one might use for dog food. It sounds like a miscellaneous amalgamation of disposable animal parts, mixed into a gelatinous stew. I tried not to think too hard about my previous Cafeteria food experiences as I sat listening to the Allman Brothers "Jessica" on my flight from Virginia to South Carolina. Cafeteria food and I had never, ever gotten along and I wondered if I would end up eating very much at all. At least, I thought to myself, I would finally lose those ten pounds I had been wanting to lose since the summer of 2007.

I arrived in Columbia, South Carolina around eight o'clock in the evening, but it was ten o'clock before we were driving onto base. I'd eaten dinner already, which the Drill Sergeants knew, so I, along with some fifty other civilians on my bus, began in-processing. We were given a number and assigned to temporary platoon, given a chance to throw away any illegal items we may have had on us (knives, drugs, etc.) Then we were led over to a dilapidated barracks and where we were hastily issued linen and then led through bays where pathetic looking recruits laid on their beds trying to sleep as SSG M. directed us in this and that direction, all with the lights on. It looked like some circle of hell I'd fallen into. It wasn't until 12:30 that I finally got into bed.

We were woken up in what seemed like seconds later. It was four in the morning and we needed to go to the D-FAC to eat chow. Oh no, I thought, here it is the moment I have been dreading. We lined up in front of a drab concrete building in the cold and dark and watched as other recruits at different stages of the in-process filed this way and that in formations. They all looked down troden and depressed. It must be the lack of good food, I thought to myself as my stomach grumbled, already yearning for the cuisine comforts of home. 

I shuffled into the D-FAC, which I discovered weeks later is Army talked for Dining Facility, eyes open. I was anxious not only about the food, but about everything. Half of basic, and above all else reception, is orchestrated chaos and confusion. It must be part of the prescribed psychological breakdown necessary to create new soldiers. Or maybe that is just the by product of such a large bureaucratic machine: bewilderment.

I finally got to the front of the long line where a large elderly black lady asked me briskly what I wanted. "Eggs and bacon ma'am" I said quickly looking down the line where my tray was passed to another woman serving hash browns and french toast. "Some french toast too, please ma'am". 

It didn't smell half bad at all. The eggs were from out of a carton or a bag, but that was to be expected. After spending a minute trying to find the orange juice and yogurt, I finally sat down to have my first taste of Army food–chow. I ate slowly at first, with some degree of hesitation. But quickly my stomach took over and I began to inhale my eggs and bacon and yogurt. And then I started eating the french toast. Wow! That is good, I thought to myself, as I cut myself off another piece and dipped it in syrup. I was actually enjoying chow. 

As I walked outside, back into the dark and crisp cold morning to wait outside in formation I smiled and even gave a small laugh. I liked Army food. For all its bad reputation the D-FAC was better than any Ivy league Cafeteria out there. I guess the Army had discovered somewhere along the way that good food is essential to high morale. And for a few moments out there in the cold, as I enjoyed the lingering taste of warm french toast and syrup in my mouth, I was distracted from all the rest of my confusion and worry and homesickness. At least I would not starve in basic training down in Ft. Jackson, South Carolina. I least I would not starve.