THE TIME is 1400. The date is Sunday, 11 August 1968. The ship is submerged and quiet. An air of tense stillness lies throughout the ship in anticipation of the inevitable clash which will soon be coming. This is the day. The weeks of preparation and training will soon tell the story. The hours of training and practice. Practice until your arms are tired from lifting and your jaws are sore from the constant motion. You await with a slight flutter pulsating through your heart for you know that in just two short hours everything will be laid on the line, or in this case, the table.

In the Sonar Room, one of the most feared contenders talks excitedly, vividly describing his plan of attack. He is bedecked in white cape with red beret. He is the Inhaler!

In the Torpedo Room a small, frail human tapeworm slowly uncoils himself from a skid bunk and his eyes dart nervously from place to place, refusing to allow the panic contained inside to escape. The Rabbit!

In the Wardroom, looking into the mirror, wondering, thinking, hoping, praying, is one of the real dark horses. But still, stranger things have happened. The Baby smiles a low wicked smile. What trick of fate will decide the outcome?

In some mysterious cauda, known only to a few select personal friends, much activity is taking place. The manager, the assistant manager, the assistant-assistant manager, the trainer, the advisor, the public relations man and countless other officials are at work. In a corner, completely unnoticed sits the cause for all this flurry – Fatboy!

In the Stern Room, in a peaceful quiet bunk, lies Bubbleass, telling himself over and over again in his mind, “I won’t puke! I won’t puke! I will win! I will win!” He alone knows that the world is not all roses and Mon-o-chevits.

In the fifteen man stateroom, being examined by the Corpsman there is a dreaded contender who carrying a knowing smile, knowing that he will not be alone in his battle, for he alone has countless friends riding with him into the battle. SEVEN LEGS!

In the Scullery, hardly noticed, but impossible not to see, slopping about in the deep sink is a trim but competent possibility. In his head races visions of the soon coming battle and the climax for he loves climaxes. Downit!

In the six man stateroom, sipping of a few zees, like the truly unconcerned contender. His campaign has been one uncomplicated spontaneity. A hunk of hastily scribbled masking tape here, a handshake there, but no fear. Never show fear. Dumpster!

In the Crew’s Mess, munching on a sandwich, hunger pains slowly nipping away within his mammoth gut, joking with the boys, looking ahead to the upcoming card games. Confidence personified. The Belly!

Running, racing, training, preparation, thoughts of victory. Thoughts of three days on the beach at Waikiki, thoughts of happiness. But still, there are a lot of awfully good men, and age. Could age be a factor, we wonder? Grubby!

Someplace in the Engine Room, among the hot pipes, the valve wheels and the roaring machinery, nestled greedily against a warm vibrating body of some metal machine. Tummy feeling all warm inside. No fear. Can do! No reason to worry. Klumsy!

By the attack center, a small dark figure huddles silently in the corner, his mind a total blank. Inside his stomach, a miracle is happening. An unexplainable miracle that no scientists could ever comprehend. The miracle: churning, crushing, squeezing, ever devouring, massive glands are in the perpetual process of converting mass to pure energy. The Hog!

In the Crew’s Mess, preparations are being made. Gobs and gobs and more sticky gobs of dark sweet chocolate pudding simmers slowly in a large pot while the fiend Phillippy watches the master pie maker Ruckabee work. In still another pot a massive of whipping, churning white sticky meringue.

There are smiling faces, waiting, patiently waiting. Posters are everywhere. “The King of the Dumpster – Dumpster Dimock – will win, if everyone else drops out.” “The King Sleeps Here” “Back Baby – Pride of the Dirty Dozen” “If the Judges are Smart and the Judges are Wise – They’ll know it’s Fat Boy and Chocolate Pies” “Chew it, Gobble it, Bite and Lick – Eat if Fast But Don’t Get Sick” “Brown and White, Black & White, Brown and Black Too – Fat Boy Eats Pie like a GDU” “Inhibit the Inhaler” “I can only regret that I have but one pie to eat for my country” “Roll out the Pie Crust, Pour in the Filling – Here comes Fat Boy, Ready and Willing” “Mom! Chocolate Pie! The Girl Next Door! Go Fat Boy” “Support the Poverty Program! Help feed those hungry little mouths. Be Big Hearted Vote for the KENNEDY’s” “KENNEDY WILL WIN OR ELSE!” “Beware the Rabbit – Eating’s His Habbit!” “THE RABBIT knows no obstacles” “Rabbit can eat gobs of chocolate pie-they’re his bag!” “Beware Hungry Rabbit – No Loitering or Bunking Within 50 Yards.” “The Inhaler Can Suck Crew’s Mess!” “ Rig Crew’s Mess for the Inhaler!” “Fatboys: Breakfast of Inhalers” “Crib the Baby” “You pie eating creeps-you think you’re so keen Hold onto your O’rings when the Inhaler makes the scene.” “Don’t throw away that old pie when you’re through: The Inhaler will eat them, too. In fact, he may even eat you.” “Fatboy-we sure wish you luck-but to beat the Inhaler-you gotta suck suck suck.” “Did you ever see a chocolate pie fog? Well don’t just stand behind the Hog!” “ Hog Hassel says Grunt! Oink! And BURP!” “ Don’t wrestle with Hassel – Everybody’s Hog!” “You’ve never seen a snorkler until you’ve seen the Hog”. The odds are posted and the champs have all boasted. Adrenal glands are pumping away. Hot sticky bodies are pressed tightly together ….the four judges are seated….they have made up the Eatoff Lists….The list is handed to the Ringmaster.

TIME 1630     Date – Sunday, 11 August 1968 - The Eatoffs

The Ringmaster looks at the slip of paper the judges have handed him … A slow evil sadistic smile plays across his lips…He makes his announcement “Ladies and Gentl..” Boos from the crowd…”Alright, gentlemen….The first contest will be between those two feared contenders…that well known master of the knife and fork and terror from the Auxiliary Division: Seven Legs Kennedy.” Cheers and applause. “ . . . vs. the little runt from the Admin Department: The Hog!” More cheers and many looks of consternation. What dirty trick is this? Surely anyone can see that the little man doesn’t have a chance. Seven Legs outnumbers him a thousand to one, at least, and the poor little Hog stands a strapping 62”. Sympathy from the crowd – not on your life – they came to see a massacre.

In comes the pie. Lovely, splendid, beautiful lofty piles of meringue rising to a mountainous peak some 6 to 8 inches and on top sits a bright red maraschino, pitless, we hope …

The contestants are seated, opposite each other, and their hands are lashed behind their backs. Seven Legs looks calm, cool and confident while the little Hog sits quietly, perhaps saying a prayer. The starter gives the ready signal. Throats are dry and quiet suspense builds up to a nerve wrecking crescendo. All eyes are on the two big mountains of white.

“GO!”    The eatoffs are underway. . . .

Seven Legs dives headfirst onto the top of his red maraschino, devouring a cupful of meringue and bouncing solidly off the bottom of his pie. He eats like a starving hobo, devouring huge mouthfuls of chocolate and white meringue. He glances calmly over the top of his pie, a look of pity towards the Hog. But wait! What is that blur? That fantastic spinning, chomping, jumping, grunting, thing of motion? Could it be? Yes, it is. It’s the Hog. The roar of the crowd is comparable to standing underneath a jet exhaust while it warms up for takeoff. All eyes are filled with water. Time is relative now. . . . .

Seven Legs raises his head up to stare in disbelief at the unbelievable Hog who is racing back and forth across the top of his tray, his mouth open like an all-devouring pit, scooping up the remnants of his pie. Kennedy, with sudden panic, dives back into his pile but it is too late. At 4 minutes and ten seconds it is all over. Hog Hassell utilizing the famous typewriter method of chocolate pie eating has emerged victorious, against the overwhelming odds.

Seven Legs is helped away, a dazed expression on his face. The Hog stands around with a grin on his face, as if looking for something else to eat . . . .

The old trays are carried away and two new pies are brought in, looking as delicious as the first two. The Inhaler watches calmly, a slight aura of apprehension on his face. The Ringmaster announces the next two contenders. . . .

“Ladies and gentl . . . .” The crowd boos . . . “Alright, gentlemen – the next contest will be between those two feared contenders . . . First from the Wardroom, fresh from the Academy, that high-spirited, fast eating, terror known as Baby Bins . . .” Cheers from all the officers and a few whitehats . . “vs. that mountain of bubbly blubber and well known terror from the Quartermaster Gang . . . . Belly Bott!” Cheers from all of the whitehats . . . except the losers.

The ring is ready . . . people look at the Baby with sympathy, for this match is even crueler than the first. The Belly, a mammoth mountain of humanity tipping the scales between 290 to 5000 pounds vs. the Baby who couldn’t possible weight over a hundred pounds sopping wet . . . but still, stranger things have happened.

Bott stares coolly at the Lieutenant . . . a hush falls over the audience. An occasional tear slides down a cheek . . . the Ringmaster lowers his hand and they are off.

The Belly hits the plate with a massive plop, splattering meringue over near by bystanders. The Baby studies the pie speculatively, planning his pattern of attack. The Bott Belly huffs and stuffs and puffs and chomps at the mountain of pie. He seems deep in thought . . . Perhaps thinking of catsup . . . or poker . . . . or chocolate pie even. The Baby has his system figured out and he starts picking away, an officer and a gentlemen even in a savage battle like this.

Time goes on . . then on some more . . . and very much like the tortoise and the hare the Baby starts to gain on the Belly and in exactly eleven minutes and four seconds of the second pie, it is all over. The Belly reneges and the Baby is declared the winner . . . He looks as if he had just run the Indianapolis 500, without a car . . . The Inhaler looks like he paced him.

A few minutes later we are listening to the Ringmaster mast away on the next contest . . . “Ladies and G . . . .” The crowd boos . . . “Alright, gentlemen . . . the next bout will be between that well known terror from the E Division, Klumsy Kuffner . . .” Cheers from the crowd . . . “vs. that well known terror from the GDU Division, that renown Mess Cook . . . Downit Downs . . .” Cheers from the crowd . . .

The novelty is wearing off a little bit now and the audience is demanding more and better performances. The contestants are eager . . . . but in their heart they wonder . . . “GO!”

Downit Downs starts a slow steady attack, hardly stopping to chew, but making occasional grunts, perhaps to appease the audience . . . perhaps to amuse himself . . . . Klumsy Kuffner employs the first side attack of the day, sweeping the meringue completely off the top of his pie and then slopping up on the chocolate. He is like a machine, open mouth – go down on pie, close mouth – swallow pie, etc. . . . Suddenly Klumsy finds the cherry in the pie and a smile slides across his chocolated lips, as he sucks the cherry down with the ease of a vacuum cleaner. . .

Klumsy is obviously ahead on points . . . but still Downit is eating rather fast, don’t you think . . . let’s watch him a while . . . what style . . . like a professional . . . a big hunk of crust . . . a gob of chocolate . . . . a mouthful of meringue . . . . at five minutes and 42 seconds: the winner (but close) Downit Downs.

It’s been a rough battle . . . The next pies are ready. The Exec/Ringmaster announces the next bout . . “Gentlemen . . “ A sly look on his face . . “Gentlemen, the next contest will be between that Much Terrorized Eater and pride of the Torpedo Gang . . . Bubble…Ass . .” Snicker from the crowd . . “Mehochko . . .” Cheers . . . “vs. that extremely well known contender and pride of the M Division Fat Boy Stevens . . .” Cheers and cheers.

Fat Boy’s manager does a rah rah . . . “Fat Boy Stevens – he’s our boy – when he’s eating pie we jump for joy . . .” Several people jump for joy . . . except Fat Boy and the Inhaler who has now taken on a kaleidoscopic effect fluctuating from pale greens to filmy vermilions . . . WE WONDER . . .

This is a big one . . . Fatboy! A legend already . . . what a campaign . . .what an eater . . . can anyone else have a chance? Wait and see . . . on your mark . . . get set . . . go!

The Bubbleass dives in eagerly, taking to the meringue like a fish to water, snorkeling about through the foamy white, scooping up chunks of solid matter and goo. Suddenly he stops . . . He looks up . . . “This stuff tastes terrible . .” but he dives back in anyway . . We wonder what he would do if he liked it . . Meanwhile . . . the old Fat Boy has kinda gotten off to a slow and somewhat disappointing start . . . his crew looks anxiously at him, wondering when he will shift into second . . .

The Bubbleass is clearly ahead, within easy scoring distance and the F/B looks somewhat dejected . . . could it be that he overtrained? . . . Or was he just over-campaigned? . . . In any case it is almost over when suddenly . . . “BARF!” In 5 minutes and 35 grueling second the winner: Fat Boy by a barf . . . Bubbleass has made a hasty retreat, followed closely by the Inhaler . . Fat Boy looks a wee bit peaked himself . . . but still, we can’t deny the fact that he won . .

In a few minutes they come and take away the deceased er . . . miscarriage . . . and bury it at sea. On the with the game . . .

“Gentlemen and Ladies . . .” Boos from the crowd . . . “Gentlemen . . . the next contest will be between that well known Reactor Plant Mouth and Champion Grubby Gruber . . . ” Cheers and catcalls. Grubby is sporting a white full neck sport-under-shirt, with chiaroscuro shorts over bony knees . . . he features white buck shoes with dapple-white socks and unquestionably wins the best dressed contestant award . . . but enough of that – we are here to eat pie!!!

“ . . .vs. that well known contender from the E Division: Dempster Dumock . . . . er, Dimpstur Dumpster . . . er, Dumpster Dimster . . . er . . . this guys over here . . .”. Cheers and applause.

2 for the money, 4 for the show, 6 to git ready and 4 to go . . .

Grubby Grubby jumps in, starting methodically at the top of the whipped meringue, eating it bite at a time, chewing it thoroughly to eliminate any dead meringue bones. Dumpster Dimmock leaps in like a champion, using a very neat hunk and peck system. Suddenly in an inspiration Grubby shoves a heap of his pie over into Dumpster’s pan . . . Good thinking Grubby . . . No Dimmock is bouncing away splashing and tearing at his pie . . . it’s going to be close . . . . Dumpster stands his crust on the edge and plunges downward on it . . . . Grubby is turning red and both candidates come up for a breather . . . They look at each other unbelievably . . . then ease back into the pies, with less heart but still fighting . . . at eleven minutes and fifteen seconds the Dumpster is declared the winner . . .

The Inhaler is back at the edge of the crowd, looking better . . . He knows that he is next . . “Gentlemen . . . . the next two contenders are that much publicized but slightly mysterious Rabbit . . .” a few cheers from the crowd . . . but a lot of uncertainty . . . The Rabbit . . . who is faster than a GDU . . . . Jaws more powerful than a locomotive . . . Able to eat tall buildings in a single gulp . . . Look, up in the Attack Center! It’s a roadrunner! It’s an Anteater! It’s a warthog! No! It’s Rapid Rabbit! We wonder . . .

“ . . . vs. that well known contender from the Seaman Gang . . .” Protestations from the Inhaler . . . “Er, that well known contender and pride of the Sonar Gang . . . The Inhaler” cheers and laughter from the audience. The Inhaler has lost not only most of his aplomb but we fear his courage too. He has heard of the Rabbit . . . and he has seen the pies.

On your set . . . get marked . . . ready!

The Inhaler was ready . . . he makes a beautiful swan dive into his pie, landing nose first and ear deep in the white pool. The Rabbit eyes are big, like huge marbles and he watches the Inhaler nervously. Perhaps he is afraid the Inhaler will exhale on him. But the Inhaler is now on familiar ground and he chomps his way enthusiastically through the gooey mush, using his own invented trick of breathing through his ears. The Rabbit takes small tricky bites, living up to his namesake. He tosses a chunk of crust up into the air and catches it in his mouth . . . applause from the spectators . . . The Inhaler’s huge mouth works like a steam shovel, ripping huge gaps in the pie. He pauses a moment to rest, letting the pie digest. He burps, then he jumps back in, leaving teeth marks in the bottom of the pan. The Rabbit has already eaten almost four ounces off the top of his pie and the Inhaler is finishing up. The Winner! (but only because rabbits are vegetarians) in 8 minutes and 33 seconds, The Inhaler!

The judges enter into a long conference of about three minutes and decide to hold an eatoff of three men at a time . . . . a slight pause while the Inhaler refreshes himself and the pies are readied.

The three eatoff contenders are ready on the firing line for the first heat. They are: Hog Hassell, Baby Bina and Downit Downs.

All eyes are upon them as they sit looking at their pies. Downit looks at his pie as if it were a bowl of maggots. Baby Bina looks at his pie as if it weren’t there. Hog Hassell looks at his pie with a twinkle in his eyes, licking his lips. We wonder . . .

They’re off . . . wait a minute! What the hell? He’s off. The other two are trying but somehow it looks like they are in slow motion. The Hog is a blur of action as the spoon defies the speed of light . . . he swings it like a madman . . . this is more unbelievable than anything Alfred Hitchcock ever dreamed of. We focus our eyeballs but it’s too late. In one minute and forty seconds, The Hog wins the first heat.

A few minutes later, we still aren’t over the shock when they bring out the pies for the next heat, consisting of Fat Boy Steavens, Dumpster Dimmock, and Inhaler Long. Their hearts aren’t in it.

Hit it! They jump in, enthusiastic as heck. The Inhaler handles the big spoon like he was born with it in his hand. Fat Boy sort of sips at his pie, the strain obviously taking its toll on him. Dumpster Dimock makes a brave effort but folds early leaving the Inhaler and Fat Boy to battle it out. When the fog has cleared away it is the Inhaler who has now turned six sheets of green, the winner. . .

While they are mixing up the last two pies, the audience awaits anxiously, wondering who will emerge the victor. Will it be the Inhaler . . . if he lasts that long? Will the incredible mouth of Hog Hassell see him through? While we sit and wait, and the Inhaler explains how he hates meringue, the Hog goes into the galley to fix himself a small wedge. He comes out into the area chomping away at it . . . . just to keep him going between pies. The Inhaler don’t look so pretty good at all . . .

THIS IS IT! THIS IS WHAT WE HAVE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR . . . . The next few minutes will tell who is the straight gut . . . who has the garbage disposal crown . . . who is the champion . . . we think we already know . . .

The “Go” is given but it is all over before it even starts. The photographers have adjusted their cameras to the fastest possible shutter speed, so as not to blur the photographs. The Hog is absolutely incredible . . . he is a walking pit. He is the jolly green giant and the jolly green tapeworm all in once . . . he is the champ . . .

It’s all over . . . in the incredible time of 35 seconds, the undisputed winner and champion chocolate pie eater of the SARGO and perhaps the whole world:    HOG HASSELL!!!

Who is this strange little eater? Who is this quiet little giant among men? Where did he learn to eat like that? How is it all possible? This reported talked with the winner shortly after the contest. The results of that interview follow . . .