The Happy Hour Latrine

The fighting in Sicily being over, my company was bivouacked in a pleasant area. Our 1st platoon had a fine location, with small trees and shrubbery ending at a drop of three or four feet. A railroad track below appeared to be unused, as no traffic had been observed on it. The distant view was picturesque with rolling hills in the distance.

Being free of combat for a while, and having easy access to the plentiful local vino probably explains our subsequent euphoric behavior.

Growing tired of straddle trenches for sanitary purposes, we resolved to build a sit-down toilet. Having noticed lumber stored in the open several miles from us, we mounted a midnight requisition which afforded us an abundant supply. A barter deal with local residents got us nails, hardware and lime.

Having decided to have an eight-holer, we had our sicilians dig a six foot deep trench of the proper dimensions. Fortified by the local wine and the curiosity of the citizens, we worked with a will. Yankee ingenuity with Southern Comfort in mind soon finished our project.

The seats and backrests were comfort itself. We installed a metal-lined trough for liquid waste, caulking the cracks with G.I. soap, and installed a canvas top tilted upward from the rear to protect us from the fierce Sicilian sun, but not obstructing our inspiring view.

No structure ever gave its builders more pride, elation and comfort than our splendid creation. We sipped our vino in salute and drew lots to select the eight lucky men who would dedicate our fine latrine in the appropriate and time-honored way. After building tables and benches in their pleasant gathering area, we decided to build a one-holer for our company officers.

On a day when the officers were at a meeting, a hole was quickly dug and the one-holer installed. We erected a top and sides of canvas. A sign inside was becomingly modest: "For our officers. May they eliminate in privacy and sit in comfort. Dedicated by 1st Platoon." One of our men who was noted for his taste in literature donated a few of his comic books.

At about this time we were assigned a platoon leader who was about 5'5" tall, wore glasses, and appeared totally bewildered. Lt. Butts knew nothing about soldering, was diffident, and cared nothing about rank.

We showed Lt. Butts our marvelous latrine, and perhaps inspired by our local beverage appointed him "Honorary Latrine Orderly." This honor, we explained, also gave him the privileges of an enlisted man in using our latrine.

Soon the disdainful way other officers treated him aroused our ire. Quickly he became everyone’s kid brother. We became very protective of him, and his monthly liquor ration.

A few days after our latrine was inaugurated we received a surprise. As usual the latrine was in full use. We heard an ear-splitting whistle shriek and a chuff-chuff chuffing--sure signs that a train was nearing.

A slow-moving locomotive came into view, stopping a little way past us. Directly in front and at eye-level with us were its loaded coaches. The Sicilian passengers, both men and women, recovered first. Soon they were laughing and calling to us from the open windows.

Though we were seated at a disadvantage, we quickly responded with gusto, shouting back, waving and blowing kisses. The damage to the tracks had been repaired, and three trains a day approached us and stopped for some unknown reason.

We were sure that the heavy rail traffic was to enable the citizenry to admire our great latrine, though there was less enthusiasm displayed by the passengers when the latrine was not in use. That puzzled us, for more of our magnificent edifice could be seen at those rare times. We soon decided that the railroad was running sight-seeing specials to admire our pride and joy.

Another new lieutenant joined our company at this time, Lt. Bagby Gassman. Referred to in private as Lt. Gas Bag, his cognomen proved eerily prophetic. Rank, indeed, has its privileges, but he carried it too far. Daily he used our latrine uninvited, and seemed annoyed when we had to seat ourselves. He would sit and read, or write a letter or two, surrounded by his personal miasma. Clearly something had to be done. Finally a plan was agreed upon, and when Lt. Gassman next enthroned himself the plan was put into effect.

The plan was simplicity itself. At irregular but frequent intervals the entire platoon would pass him, man by man, each soldier in turn calling out, "Good morning, Lieutenant," and tendering a snappy salute, which Lt. Gassman was obliged to return. Upon his return to our latrine later in the day, he was treated to the same routine. Suffice it to say that, from that day on, the officers’ latrine had a regular new patron.

Our days passed peacefully, as did the trains, their passengers paying awed homage to our imposing 8-holer. We graciously returned their greetings, and became quite adept at waving while employing issue. This impressive display of manual dexterity never failed to evoke loud cries of admiration.

Inspired perhaps by some especially fine Madeira fortified by Lt. Butts’ whiskey ration, we wrote a respectful letter to "Better Homes and Gardens." In a spirit of generosity we gave them permission to publish an article featuring our great "convenience" and use the enclosed photos, some of which showed the latrine in use.

As we received no eager response from them, we could only conclude that our letter was lost in the wartime mail.

Rumors abound in wartime, especially if overheard in latrines. As our latrine had no equal, the best and most reliable rumors originated there. Creative minds, fueled by liquid inspiration turned out really great ones. The gem, however, of them all was our last one. It started simply enough, as all great events seem to do. We launched a rumor that was bound to propagate further rumors feeding from our original creation. Comfortably seated and spiritiously stimulated, we concocted and polished our jewel.

The first day we circulated the first of our two-part rumor: Hollywood was going to make a movie of the Sicilian Invasion and Campaign on location. Two days later we floated the second part: soldiers in Sicily would be movie extras, and paid union scale.

The returns came in daily from "reliable sources." Errol Flynn would play General Patton, and Gary Cooper would play General, Montgomery. Next we heard the rumor that Guy Kibbee was to play Churchill.

Another rumor had it that the British wanted Laurence Olivier to play Montgomery. American women, rumor had it, were demanding that Clark Gable be cast as General Eisenhower.

Next we heard that General Patton insisted on playing himself, so that he could beat Montgomery to Messina again. The rumor that amused us most was that Reichherr Josef Goebbels, the German propaganda minister would sue in World Court if the German soldiers were not portrayed sympathetically as being brutalized by the Americans and betrayed by the Italians.

We had created a classic, a self-perpetuating rumor. Some G.I.’s were even wearing sunglasses, as was Lt. Gassman.

It was now at the pinnacle of rumor-mongering that we received sad news. La dolce vita was over. The platoon was to move, leaving our beloved latrine, the architectural masterpiece the train passengers so admired.

We would miss those fascinated gazes and greetings as we waved back, expressing our appreciation of their good taste. Moving meant saying farewell to the Happy Hour, the friend who had given us comfort, release and relief.

So it was a soldierly farewell we gave this true friend, with reverent hand salutes and dampened eyes. Lt. Gassman, remembering past comforts, also bid his adieu, some say with a tear coursing down his manly cheek.

Though the years have passed I’m sure that my buddies, as I fondly, remember the Happy Hour, the creme de latrine.

Edwin F. Forrest A Rifleman Remembers     ©1997 and 1998