Here is the second entry(you’re allowed two refills on this contest–click “contests” right for details) by William Elder.  It’s not that he didn’t get it right the first time, it’s just that apparently the caffeine still has him wired.

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Crock of Coffee

Mess Sergeant Crock got an F for his culinary efforts from A Company. Word of his savory collations went before him, and trailed after, not unlike leaking gas. And like leaking gas, Sergeant Crock, a big man who followed around a big, white, t-shirted belly, always seemed ready to explode. Plenty of heat was directed his way too, not only from his popping grills, but also from across the steam tables in the form of long and loud comments on his offerings, especially his coffee. Yet no explosion came.  Sergeant Crock managed to deflect the chorus of complaints with a constant scowl and bluster, and totally, to him, humorless rejoinders that left his detractors speechless.

Serving up some thick, gravy-like liquid with indistinguishable lumps one day, he was assailed by a line of outraged soldiers, faces contorted, with a now-familiar demand: “Hey, Crock! What is this shit, anyway?” Sergeant Crock looked over the offending troopers, his face darkening into frown. Fists and feeding spoon on hips, he explained. “Look, I spend all day back here cooking this shit! I don’t have time to sit around and name it!”

Yet it was his coffee that was truly legendary. It was said to etch stainless steel. Steam rising from it reportedly permanently fogged eye-glasses. The flavor couldn’t be described. Some maintained after a half cup their tongues never tasted sweet and sour again, only bitter, and that only after sanding. Sergeant Crock knew he had a problem and was forever experimenting, reformulating, adding in things to try and stem the flow of derision over his coffee. This notwithstanding, the tide of abuse flowed on. Sergeant Crock withdrew into stoicism, if he had only known it. One particularly damp chilly day, one particularly damp chilly soldier drew a cup of Crock’s coffee from the big 500-cup brewer, took a sip, and promptly spat it back into his cup. “Hey, Crock, what is this shit, anyway?” Crock looked up from a pile of gleaming chicken parts. “What does it taste like?” The guy shot back, “It tastes kinda like tea.” Crock went back to torturing chickens that could no longer resist. “Well, that’s the coffee. The tea tastes like dishwater.”

copyright William Elder