Rifle Qual is now in the books. We have three major events left till we get the hell off this God forsaken piece of hell. Next up for the recruits of Platoon 2070 is Team Week. There are six platoons in Golf Company divided into two series: lead and follow. 2070 is third deck follow series. We were the last platoon to form and quite frankly we are the WORST platoon in the company. I could speculate that this is because 2070 has more retarded, juvenile, alpha male wannabe, shitbirds than has ever been assembled but I think that would be an insult to the aforementioned groups. Truthfully my platoon just doesn't click. There is no unity. There is no buy in. There is no trust. Now this scares the piss out of me because I just found out that I have been named the Chow Hall Scribe for the week. That means that I am basically in charge of this rag tag bunch when we report to Mess Duty. We have Mess Duty from Sunday to Saturday. That means we get up at 0230 report to the chow hall and serve three meals to all the Platoons that are at the rifle range. It also means that we have to prepare like 500 bag lunches daily. To add to this indignity we also have to wear white trousers, a white shirt and a white paper hat, or basically ice cream suits. Half the platoon failed to qualify at the range so we are supremely shorthanded. The Marines who work in the chow hall are either psychotic or completely laid back. (I will discover later on that these guys are all considered pieces of shit) Each is responsible for a section of the chow hall. There are two mess chiefs, one black and one white, both are Lance Corporals. These are the two guys that I have to deal with the most. They boss me around and then I have to turn around and boss all the other guys around. When we got back to the barracks at the end of the first day I passed out while the DI was still chewing us out. I woke up still in the POA. I couldn't believe it. I slept for six hours without moving an inch. This would happen again the next night.
There were advantages to working in the chow hall: 1) The DIs weren't with us, 2) It was air conditioned, 3) We had extra time to eat and could eat what we wanted, and 4) There was actually a little down time. Now of course for every benefit there were drawbacks: 1) Our DIs weren't around but others were, 2) The mess guys could be total dicks, and 3) the days were super long. At the end of the second day I slipped in a puddle of water and I thought I pulled my hamstring, and to say it hurt really doesn't do it justice. So now I have to deal with the pure hostility of the Messmen, the stress of the long hours and now my leg is killing me. Over the first two days of team week we had gotten things down to a system. On the third day the Platoon Guide came back from Graduation Rehearsal and decided he wanted everything changed. When I explained to him that things were working he went like a little bitch to the Lance Corporal in charge. I got ordered to report. When I got there, the Guide was standing there smiling while the Lance Corporal started reaming me out. I was so pissed but I didn't say anything. This was the first time in my life that I was so angry and felt like I couldn't do anything. I didn't blink. My eyes welled up with tears. At this point the Lance Corporal told the Guide to beat it. He tells me to relax and says "Don't worry about it. This happens all the time. We all reach a breaking point and you just reached yours. You weren't wrong by the way, that little asshole was." After that he would bust my chops with a smile asking if I had found my woobie?
Ah well, things got a little easier except that my leg was killing me. It was so bad I couldn't bend it anymore. That night when we got back to the barracks, I noticed that I couldn't even see my knee anymore, it just blended into my thigh and calf. I was petrified. If something was wrong (which it obviously was!!) I might need to go to the hospital and potentially get bounced back in training. OH HELL NO!!! I wasn't going to tell the DI. Over my dead body was I getting bounced in training!!! Graduation is three weeks away!!! My squad leader saw my leg and told the Heavy. He came down and said, "So what's wrong with your leg? You got a little booboo?" The condescending prick!!! When he looked at it, his jaw hit the floor and he ordered me to go to medical. Well it turns out I didn't have a pulled hamstring. I had an infection called cellulitis. I had a fever of 103.5 and my left calf was a full two inches bigger than my right one. The doctor accused me of trying to hide a serious problem, and finally accepted that I didn't realize how sick I was because of the long hours and stress. I got put on bed rest for 48 hours and given 500 mg Motrin. Apparently Motrin is the cure all in the Marine Corps.
