Sweeny's Cake

It had been a week since Chris had stepped onto the yellow footprints at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego, California. No longer Chris Sweeny; he was Recruit Sweeny. His head buzzed clean of hair. The grey sweatshirt he wore stenciled with platoon number 1023 and two red stripes; one above the number and one below. The red stripes indicated that he was a diet private, a recruit on a restrictive eating plan until fit. One day at chow, he was reminded of his diet by his DI.

“You’ve got to be out of your freagin mind, recruit!” DI Hernandez beamed at Chris, the brim of his Smokey planted into the Recruits forehead.

Hernandez grabbed the slice of cake off the recruit’s tray and squished it between his fingers. The cake oozed through his tight grip as he discarded it onto the floor. The DI’s neck pulsed, veins bulged just under the skin, and his eyes swelled in their sockets. He held the hand that demised the piece of cake back up, palm facing Chris. It was covered in icing and breading, which he wiped forcibly off onto Chris’s shoulder.

“You are a disgusting fat body recruit, and you are going to wear that cake on your shoulder the rest of the day. And I better not see you trying to stick your slimy tongue over there trying to get a taste, or I’ll yank your balls off and choke you with them. Now get out of my sight! Move! Move! Move!”

Chris scuttled off with his remaining food; some salad with no dressing, a scoop of cottage cheese, some mixed veggies, and a single roll. He happily scarfed the meager portions down his gullet before another DI came stomping through from the other end of the chow hall.

“Platoon Ten Twenty Three! You got 5,4,2… You’re done! You’re done! Swallow it!”

Everyone shoved one last handful of whatever they could down their throat and stood up to file out tray in hand. As Chris passed by the DI heading toward the tray dump station, he opened his mouth wide as he passed in front of the DI, showing he had no food left in his mouth.

“You got your cake still on Recruit Sweeny! Maybe I’ll start calling you Sweetie! Sweet cake, Sweetie! Do you like that!”

“Sir, Yes Sir!”

“That’s good cause you just bought the platoon a trip to the pit, Sweetie!”

“Sir, Yes Sir!”

Off to the pit and get thrashed. No big deal, they always ended up at the pit after chow, but it gave the men someone to focus their anger on for screwing up. The pit is an area of sandy ground big enough to fit a platoon of men into. It was where DIs took their recruits to thrash them around doing push-ups, sit-ups, bends and thrusts, and all sorts of strange maneuvers.

A few days later, Chris received a letter from home. His mother encouraged him to push on. Chris had sent a letter home written in a tone of despair about boot camp. He had passed that point now, and the gloominess had been replaced by grit determination.

One thing that bothered him in the letter was the mention of his mother’s German Chocolate cake. She wrote that once he got home, she would have one ready for him. That cake was his favorite. Now being stuck in a diet that sadists feed their victims while chained in their basement, the thought of that cake drove him crazy.

Afterward, Chris couldn’t shake the thought of that cake. He started pretending that his cottage cheese was a piece of mom’s cake. Chris noticed that on certain days chocolate cake was served at dinner, except to diet recruits. And this one freak in the platoon got double rations of it. Chris hated him. The DI’s loved him.

They would make him sit down in front of all the diet recruits with his double rations and gorge, even with double pieces of chocolate cake. Chris would glance and cringe until some DI caught him looking.

“I bet you would like some of recruit Dumpster’s chow, wouldn’t you, Sweetie!” they started calling him Dumpster because there seemed to be no end to what the guy could eat. The funny thing was Dumpster admitted that he hated how much he had to eat.

“It makes me fucking sick, Sweetie. I envy seeing you with just your tray of salad,” Dumpster had admitted to Chris one evening.

One day, Chris had to go fill in as gear guard for another platoon. A mix-up happened with platoons switching schedules. The other platoon’s DI came by and sent Chris to dinner since he had been left behind. Off he went, unescorted to the mess hall.

Chris couldn’t believe his luck. It was a chocolate cake day. He went through the chow line, getting his usual salad and cottage cheese, and then at the end, he could see the large tray of chocolate cake. His mouth watered, and his eyes opened wide. Inside his head, he could hear his discipline tell him don’t do it.

He quickly glanced around, no DI insight that he knew or any recruit from his platoon. He stopped in front of the cake, and the kid behind the serving line looked at him for a moment, nearly causing Chris to lose his nerve. Just as he was about to move, the server slid a piece of cake onto his tray. Chris couldn’t believe his eyes as the glistening black icing sat on his tray. He made a quick hand gesture covering the cake with a large piece of lettuce while picking up the tray. Chris felt like he was committing a crime.

He made it to an empty table as a platoon in the chow hall was being barked out of there by their DIs. Chris was alone except for the mess recruits who started breaking down the chow line. He uncovered the piece of cake and picked it up as if he were holding a large ruby from some royal treasure.

Not about to waste this opportunity, Chris began stuffing the cake into his mouth. Just then, he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. Another recruit from his platoon made his way through the mess hall heading toward the exit, and he passed just by Chris’s table. Chris looked up at the recruit while chocolate cake smeared his mouth, a portion of it still in his hand. The recruit looked at him as he passed by, and Chris could tell that the kid recognized him.

For the next couple of days, Chris was terrified. Every time a DI would come at him, he was sure it would be about the cake theft, but it never was. Then the day came again that there would be chocolate cake for dinner chow. Drill Instructor Stephens strutted back and forth before the platoon outside the mess hall.

“Tonight recruits is chocolate cake night at the chow hall. Now we all love chocolate cake, don’t we?”

The platoon, in unison, “Sir, yes Sir!” Chris felt his stomach turn into knots.

“Well then, I want each of you to get a slice of that chocolate cake as you go through—even the fat bodies. Once you sit down, you will take that slice of chocolate cake and place it into your starboard cargo pocket with your filthy right dickskinner. Except for Recruit Sweetie, I will personally get Sweetie’s cake for him. Is that understood!”

“Sir, yes Sir!” the platoon began filing into the chow hall and did as they were instructed. After chow, the recruits reformed into platoon formation just outside of the mess hall.

“Does everyone have their piece of cake?” the DI asked in a low tone.

“Sir, yes, Sir!”

“Recruit, Sweetie, you did not get a piece of cake, did you?”

“Sir, no Sir!”

“Good, I have yours right here.” DI Stephens took his left arm from behind his back, extending it out in front of the platoon. In the center of his hand was one piece of chocolate cake. The DI then right faced the platoon and took them off at double time toward the farthest sandpit. Two DIs were already stationed there with a table and chair. DI Stephen’s formed the platoon into the center of the pit.

“Recruit, Sweetie! Front and Center!”

Chris marched forward two steps, then marched to the DI and stood at attention directly in front of him.

“Recruit Sweetie, I want you to have a seat at the table,” the DI asked in a very polite tone. Chris followed orders and sat at the table. DI Stephens handed the cake to DI Hernandez, who placed the cake down in front of Chris and then produced a fork and napkin, laying them beside the cake nice and neatly.

“Recruit Sweetie is a diet recruit, is that correct, Platoon 1023?” DI Stephen’s barked at the platoon.

“Sir, yes, Sir!”

“Well, Recruit Sweetie took it upon his self to have cake two nights ago, thinking no one would know. So, we are going to celebrate with Recruit Sweetie this evening! Fill your right cargo pockets full of sand. Move!”

The recruits began filling their right cargo pockets, which contained their cake, full of sand. The other DIs ran around them screaming.

“Faster! Faster! Your right cargo pocket numbnuts! What are you? A fucking communist!” Soon everyone’s cargo pockets were spilling over with sand.

“You’re done! You’re done! Stop moving! Position of attention!” the DIs screamed. DI Stephens continued in solo.

“Now, reach down into that cargo pocket and produce a piece of cake,” Stephens said in a gentle tone.

The recruits began digging into their pockets and pulling out a clump of what was once cake, now just a mutilated glob of sand and icing. One guy must have had his fall out of his cargo pocket while on the run over, and he produced nothing but clumping sand with icing remnants.

“Where’s your cake shithead?” DI Jameson was on him in an instant.

“Sir, this recruit doesn’t know, Sir!”

“Doesn’t know! Doesn’t know! You better shit me some cake, asshole!” Jameson jerked him out of formation and began thrashing him on his own off to the side. The whole spectacle would be hilarious from an outsider looking in. Still, for those immersed in the show, it was horrifying.

DI Stephens continued, “Now recruits, I want you to watch recruit Sweetie enjoy his nice piece of cake as you eat on yours. EAT!” he yelled, eat out loud enough to make nerves jump on end. They all began chewing on the gritty, sweet mess as Sweetie started gulping down his cake as quickly as possible.

“No! No! No! Sweetie. Eat that cake like a proper dessert with your fork. We want you to enjoy it’” DI Stephens jibbed him as if talking to a pal.

Chris began to eat it as if he were eating dessert after dinner back home. He knew if he didn’t, the DI’s would make it worse for everyone. Chris learned a lesson, and all the guys hated him for a couple of weeks until another recruit did something stupid. Then it was their turn to be in the limelight. Sweeny remained Sweetie all the way through graduation. The name became a nom de guerre for him.

After graduation, Chris returned home now a United States Marine. The first surprise party thrown for him by his family felt great. Everyone sat at the dining table listening to Chris’s stories about boot camp when his mom came marching in from the kitchen holding a large tray. Upon this tray was a large homemade German Chocolate cake, just as she had promised. Chris couldn’t help but feel sick.