Good God, our company was rife with post-chow marching gas. The worst offenders were, of course, the squad leaders, so absolutely no one was safe. Well, except the guide, but she was one of the last ones through the hatch when we got back to Nimitz, where invariably several people crop-dusted the ladderwell back up to our deck. So yeah, no one was safe from the peanut-butter-induced menace.That's right. Those little rat bastards. People barely took the plastic cover off before fisting their faces with them. And I, measuring in at a bold 5'6", got to march behind everybody on the way back from each peanut butter eating competition.