Bear Cave, in Coeur D’Alene, Idaho, bills itself as a “man store,” selling great items for men who don’t consider masculinity to be toxic. I bought a few civilian-issue field rations there: chili-mac, penne with vegetable sausage crumbles, and cheese tortellini. I thought about the strange culture surrounding military field rations, beginning with the name: MRE, “Meal, Ready to Eat,” instead of the more sensible “Ready to Eat Meal.”
MREs are food science miracles. The meat tastes like meat, and the pasta is palatable, served hot from a swell, water-activated heater pouch. MREs can ride in a Humvee through the hot desert for months and still be fine. It’s the military’s interaction with MREs that’s a bit weird.
It begins when soldiers are ordered to draw MREs from the box before training or missions. Beef stew? Bean burrito? Ham slice? Jambalaya? So many choices! Except not really. Some secret military by-law requires the first sergeant to shout at soldiers, “Just take one! Don’t look! Grab and go!” If a private passes over tuna in favor of spaghetti? Push-ups! Why? I guess, if a soldier is allowed his choice, the terrorists win.
When the soldiers finally reach meal time, a big ritual begins. The outer MRE bags are cut open, allowing soldiers to compare their various knives and multitools. A vigorous food trading session begins. “Mixed fruit for my M&Ms? Go f*** yourself!”
The plastic flameless heater pouch has printed instructions. First, add water to a certain line. “DO NOT OVERFILL.” (I confess I have overfilled and somehow survived.) An illustration directs the trooper to put the food pouch in the heater pouch and lean the assembly against a “rock or something.” Perhaps early MREs confused soldiers.
MRE: Lean the heater against something.
Joe: Like what?
MRE: Doesn’t matter. Anything.
Joe: But … like … would a rock work?
MRE: Yes! Absolutely a rock.
At this point, some private will say, “Ya’ll ever hear of ranger pudding?” Instant coffee, sugar, creamer, and water stirred in the cocoa pouch. Every soldier’s heard of this stupid thing, but at least one idiot private will talk about this at every MRE meal as though he was the first to discover it.
In 2005, near the end of my yearlong Afghanistan deployment, I wanted only the poundcake from one MRE among dozens in the box. Inspiration struck. I’d open all the MREs and sort like components into respective bags. Then, a soldier on guard duty could enjoy any combination of MRE components he wanted. The ultimate in MRE food choice! There were a thousand MREs scattered floor to ceiling in a nearby shipping container. We had plenty.
But 20 years of peacetime service had thoroughly conditioned 1st Sgt. Hardin. His voice thundered from that guard tower the next day: “Which sorry motherf***er just signed his own death warrant by rat-f***ing all these MREs!?”
Nobody knew I was the one who had opened every MRE in the case. I could have remained silent. But my enlistment was involuntarily extended, and I was tired of Army life. What could they do to me? Besides, Hardin was a petty tyrant who enjoyed messing with soldiers for no reason, and throughout our entire deployment, he never went on a mission outside the wire. I no longer feared the man, and I couldn’t let the overly cautious fellow punish someone else for my actions.
When I explained what I had done and why I had done it, Hardin nearly exploded. Making a deliberate choice of MRE was bad enough, but opening them all? It did not compute. I stood at parade rest and repeated, “Yes, first sergeant,” until his rant was exhausted. I was beyond caring what guys like him thought.
Soon, I’ll take my MREs on a hike with my wife and daughter, marching with memories old and new. I’ll allow them their favorites, and I will never declare, “Just take one!”
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Trent Reedy, author of several books, including Enduring Freedom, served as a combat engineer in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
*Some names and call signs in this story may have been changed due to operational security or privacy concerns.
