Can't believe I didn't catch this earlier. A long time ago in a
Cold War galaxy far away, we had a cook. Oh my, we had a cook. He was the Golden Retriever of cooks, SP5IC "Jimmy Jay." This guy must've had assets all over, at least at Battalion, but probably up at the Brigade. Whenever the klaxon went off at oh-dark-thirty, that most beloved of cooks was already there as we were headed down the stairs, out of the building on the way to fight Ivan. He'd already been up and would meet us at the bottom of the stairs and hand each:
Egg, cheese, big non-standard size sausage patty, all between 2 pieces of thick French Toast.
I often think of him and hope he got to have that sandwich shop in Tuscaloosa that he talked about.
We would have killed for that guy.
