|
Trying to remember so far back is an iffy proposition. To the best of my recollection it was 1977: that was the year I was attacked and almost eaten by a giant pig.
I was eighteen years old at the time and just out of Navy boot camp. I was attending Defense Information School, Ft. Benjamin Harrison, Indianapolis, Indiana. That was the fancy title…in the vernacular we will refer to it as navy journalism school. It is a joint services school and all the boys and girls were there: navy, marines, army, air force and yes even the lowly coast guard. Some were there to attend the editor’s course. Those people were for the most part older and more responsible. On the other hand the rest of us were just out of high school and away from home for the first time in our lives. As you can imagine much drinking and hooliganism were involved.
On this particular day I was invited to go for a country drive with some fellow service people. We squeezed into a primer gray Datsun and took off at a high rate of speed headed for the back roads and the farms that lay around the outskirts of the Fort.
I know it’s not politically correct but I’ll be honest with you. We were all drinking. We had picked up a case of tall boys and were proceeding to take the edge off the day. The car skipped like a stone over the dirt road, making it difficult for us to drink our beers without some spillage. Leaving a cloud of loose dirt and gravel in our wake we were on the hunt for adventure in the heartland. We were all city kids. None of us had ever really seen a farm. So with a fascination born of ignorance we gazed out the windows craning our necks catching glimpses of cows, barns and barbed wire fences as they whizzed by in a blur of reds, greens and golden hues.
Suddenly the brakes locked and the car slid sideways. Beer flew everywhere and I thought we were done for, but the trusty Datsun came to a stop in an upright position right in front of a large field. Our driver, the disreputable Mark “Jack” Hoff, was already out of the car and leaping over the wooden fence that ran the outer limits of the field. He was yelling something…it sounded like “hey guys look at the pig!”
We piled out of the car and with slurred words expressing confusion and exasperation we leaned on the fence and watched Mark as he turned and looked at us. He had a huge goofy smile on his face and he pointed out towards the middle of the field and in a voice that sounded childlike in it’s wonder he said, “look guys it’s a pig…lets take it back to the base and have a Bar B Q!” I can honestly say I was amazed that the normally lackluster Mark had come up with such a seemingly brilliant idea. The thought of roast pork made my mouth water. We looked at each other and trading evil and conspiratorial grins we hopped the fence and began to stalk the pig.
As we approached I began to realize that this was no small pig. This was a giant pig. If this pig had been a building it would have been designed by buckminster fuller…it was huge and domelike! And as we came closer the pig turned and for the first time looked at us. Although the pig began to growl, lower it’s head and paw the ground, and its immense proportions became clearer the closer we came, we continued forward…ever forward like moths to a flame.
Finally, we reached the center of the field. At this point I knew in my heart of hearts that we would never Bar B Q this swine. It was just way too huge…not something that you could kill with your bare hands…and we had no weapons. There we were in front of a giant pig with nothing to defend ourselves except for a couple of half-filled beer cans.
I gazed into the pig’s beady little eyes and I saw hunger, I looked into its mouth and realized for the first time in my life that pigs had teeth and I knew then and there why Dorothy had screamed when she fell into the pigsty at the beginning of the Wizard of Oz. We stood like zombies, albeit drunk zombies, waiting for the pig to make its move. At this point the pig held all the cards. I knew one of us would crack and sure enough Mark was the first. He whirled, screamed like a little girl and bolted across the field. To this day I remember the look on his face…his mouth formed into an ovoid, his brows arched like kukla…and his eyes pie shaped and panic-stricken. The rest of us scattered…running in different directions our hands up in the air all of us shouting expletives native to the various localities we were born to. I ran as fast as I could, like the company commander used to say, “all I want to see are assholes and elbows!” The pig was the size of a Volkswagen and ran like a horse. Fortunately we were just out of boot camp and in good physical condition so we were able to run the length of the field and leap the fence before the pig could catch and maul us.
The oft quoted line from Nietzsche “that which does not kill you only makes you stronger”, comes to mind. Certainly we were lucky that day. A lesser group of men would have ended that day fermenting in the belly of the leviathan. At least that’s what we told each other. And that in essence reflected the true value of this experience, for we told this tale again and again. And with each telling, the tale as well as the size of the pig grew…until it reached the legendary proportions that it enjoys today. And for the rest of our stay at Ft. Ben this story more often than not was worth a free beer and a good laugh.
The end
|
Printer-friendly format
Email this thread to a friend
Bookmark this thread
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
