Gimpy_Fac
02-19-2014, 07:30 AM
Deal on, deal on, my merry men all,
Deal on your cakes and your wine;
For whatever is dealt at his funeral today
Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine.
(Edgeworth, 1810)
In a dark mood we had headed over to the Club early in the afternoon, it was always quiet about that time of the day with few drinkers at the bar or tables. We had just finished our weekly compulsory physical fitness, part of our acclimatization schedule, during which we had lost one of our guys. He had fallen over a log and broke his neck, and thus became our first, but not our last, fatal casualty.
We had been out on the last part of the schedule which was the fitness run. Running at speed through semi-jungle down a track following another crew who were doing the same thing as we, when running around a blind bend in the track there was, plum in the centre of it, a medium to large sized log. It was just laying there peacefully across the track, as if some logger or other had just plain forgot to take it with him. Our pace setter, and the first two guys following him, successfully navigated the obstacle by jumping over it, but the third guy in line tripped, fell, and broke his neck, simple as that. As one of the guys put it "No pain - All gain". He was right of course; being shot or blown into bits by exploding ordnance would in all probability have been worse, and mightily more painful!
So this Club visit was to be his wake, his soldier’s farewell, and paid for by him. We had raided his pants pockets and footlocker for his dollars, an agreement we had with each other if one of us, or more, were either killed or seriously wounded. The thinking at the time being in that best your buddies got it, and gave you a great send-off, rather than some medico, or local helper, out with intent to do robbery on the fallen.
On hearing of our friends unlucky demise Tante Bee set the first round up for free, as she walked past one of the customers slapped her hard on the a*s. Quick as a flash, she turned and punched him on the jaw, and then ran off giggling like a young girl chasing butterflies in a flower meadow. I must say that I and the rest of the crew were mightily impressed with the socked guy’s ability to absorb such a crashing blow, for he did not spill one drop of his drink, even though he spun on the bar stool like a kids top!
A guy from another Task Force walked in and shouted over "What a bar full of sad faced f*cking heroes! How about a wet-one to salute a fallen brother?" with that he joined us; he had heard the news on the Radio Net chatter as our Task Force were operating out of his sector. Then some more guys arrived from the same Task Force as the first guy. Before we knew what was happening the place was packed to bursting point with people. And our dead friend’s dollars and MPC, military payment currency, had vanished into Bee’s cash box faster than summer rain falling on hot roof shingles.
The wake was now going full swing with Bee singing joyfully as the cash just kept on rolling in. Being French, she obviously had a great liking for old French songs and sang them with a Parisian accent. She had a phenomenal singing voice which was easily heard above the din of the Club. Regardless of how noisy it became you could not miss out on Tante Bee when she was banging away with her gums. In the past, someone had compared her tone to that of a fairground busker, shouting through a megaphone. That was an accurate description for sure. We all believed that if it came to a noise producing contest between our boats motors going at full throttle, with mufflers removed, and Bee, she would win hands down. All the Clubs regulars regarded her as another Édith Piaf, but even louder. Although turning a little “Matronly” with the passage of time she must have been a beauty in her younger years, but absolutely in every way a singer. However, even in later life, just like Piaf, she carried her age with grace and surprisingly well.
The minder ejected a couple of guys out of the rear door as they had been making rude comments about Bee’s choice of song. However, they just ran around the building to the front entrance and walked in again. The minder did not notice as he was after another guy who had aimed lewd gestures and suggestions at the barmaids. Otherwise, things were incredibly orderly, for once. When eventually caught, the chased guy made the barmaids and Bee laugh when he protested at being roughly manhandled, and about to be thrown out, by claiming, "The Medical Office has checked me over. He diagnosed that I have battle fatigue and should be excused when I do naughty things". It was an outrageous claim for he was an FNG, f*king new guy, and hadn’t even fired one round in anger since his arrival in Nam, four days before! He promised to keep his pants firmly harnessed up, and in such a condition as not to give further offence. After that he was allowed to stay.
As the afternoon wielded its way into night the place was rocking, more people had turned up, thus spilling the party out into the open. The local cops and the Shore Patrol suddenly appeared on the pretence of maintaining peace and harmony amongst the revelers but were in fact supping beer just as fast as a full bottle could replace one which was empty.
A baby grand in the back of a Rio truck, along with a few other instruments, was banging out dance music in competition to the bars resident piano player. The baby grand badly needed tuning but no one seemed to care. As soon as one tune ended, the little band went straight into another number. Even the spooky grey guy had turned up and was dancing with Bee in a close sensual embrace; he looked over at me and gave me a knowing smile, which looked more like a deaths head grimace actually. At least this time he was dressed up in black, which made a change, he now looked more like the grim reaper out on the prowl rather than his messenger.
No one at the time knew who the bandsmen were, or where they had come from. But as it turned out, they had driven over from another Riverine base after someone from the police station called asking for a piano. So they hauled theirs out, loaded it into a Rio and headed over. Unlike what would probably happen in modern times, there was absolutely no fighting, arguing or any falling over piss-headed obnoxious drunks regurgitating their evening meal in public. Everyone was just having a fabulous time saying goodbye to our buddy, even though the majority had never heard of him before walking into the place.
What had started as a planned few drinks of farewell had miraculously evolved into a near carnival .Finally, like in all good things in life it came to and end. The next morning’s dawn saw a Medico Slick arrive to take our friend on the long journey home; a medico jeep took him in a zipper-bag and with due respect placed him in the Slick. Under a grey sky and the pre-rain of a looming tropical storm, we watched until the copter was just a speck to the eye and wondered who would possibly be next, and then headed over to the boat yard in pondering silence to paint over our boat’s latest battle scars, for one death can never stop a war. Long before the close of day our boat would be off the slip blocks and launched into the side canal ready for our next trip out into the unknown.
Come the late afternoon, with the Zippo moored to the yard pier all ready to go, it was over to the bar for beer and sandwiches. Bee was not out of bed when we walked in but her minder was aroun. He went behind the bar and retrieved an envelope she had left for us; in it were our buddy’s dollars, MPC, and quite a few extra to boot. In fact the extra was all of the bars takings from the “Wake”.
The hard heart of the businesswoman actually contained a soft centre. We forwarded the bar takings along with his personal gear to his pop, the preacher, including a framed photograph. It was of Tante Bee flanked on either side by us, all formed up on our Zippos weather deck. Centre stage, and looking magnificent in a plain black conservative dress was Bee, and we, flanking her left and right, were looking very dapper in freshly issued fatigues which we had borrowed for the occasion, instead of our normal shorts and sandals, or greasy motor oil stained coveralls. The lone wolf looked at me with sad eyes and said "F*ck it Sarge! That is one F*ucked up way to board a Freedom Bird back to the World. Yep, the lord moved in a mysterious way. This time! “
On an ordinary spring morning in Pennsylvania USA, an ordinary Marine, who had been extraordinarily killed by a log in Vietnam, was laid to rest by ordinary people in an ordinary cemetery.
Deal on your cakes and your wine;
For whatever is dealt at his funeral today
Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine.
(Edgeworth, 1810)
In a dark mood we had headed over to the Club early in the afternoon, it was always quiet about that time of the day with few drinkers at the bar or tables. We had just finished our weekly compulsory physical fitness, part of our acclimatization schedule, during which we had lost one of our guys. He had fallen over a log and broke his neck, and thus became our first, but not our last, fatal casualty.
We had been out on the last part of the schedule which was the fitness run. Running at speed through semi-jungle down a track following another crew who were doing the same thing as we, when running around a blind bend in the track there was, plum in the centre of it, a medium to large sized log. It was just laying there peacefully across the track, as if some logger or other had just plain forgot to take it with him. Our pace setter, and the first two guys following him, successfully navigated the obstacle by jumping over it, but the third guy in line tripped, fell, and broke his neck, simple as that. As one of the guys put it "No pain - All gain". He was right of course; being shot or blown into bits by exploding ordnance would in all probability have been worse, and mightily more painful!
So this Club visit was to be his wake, his soldier’s farewell, and paid for by him. We had raided his pants pockets and footlocker for his dollars, an agreement we had with each other if one of us, or more, were either killed or seriously wounded. The thinking at the time being in that best your buddies got it, and gave you a great send-off, rather than some medico, or local helper, out with intent to do robbery on the fallen.
On hearing of our friends unlucky demise Tante Bee set the first round up for free, as she walked past one of the customers slapped her hard on the a*s. Quick as a flash, she turned and punched him on the jaw, and then ran off giggling like a young girl chasing butterflies in a flower meadow. I must say that I and the rest of the crew were mightily impressed with the socked guy’s ability to absorb such a crashing blow, for he did not spill one drop of his drink, even though he spun on the bar stool like a kids top!
A guy from another Task Force walked in and shouted over "What a bar full of sad faced f*cking heroes! How about a wet-one to salute a fallen brother?" with that he joined us; he had heard the news on the Radio Net chatter as our Task Force were operating out of his sector. Then some more guys arrived from the same Task Force as the first guy. Before we knew what was happening the place was packed to bursting point with people. And our dead friend’s dollars and MPC, military payment currency, had vanished into Bee’s cash box faster than summer rain falling on hot roof shingles.
The wake was now going full swing with Bee singing joyfully as the cash just kept on rolling in. Being French, she obviously had a great liking for old French songs and sang them with a Parisian accent. She had a phenomenal singing voice which was easily heard above the din of the Club. Regardless of how noisy it became you could not miss out on Tante Bee when she was banging away with her gums. In the past, someone had compared her tone to that of a fairground busker, shouting through a megaphone. That was an accurate description for sure. We all believed that if it came to a noise producing contest between our boats motors going at full throttle, with mufflers removed, and Bee, she would win hands down. All the Clubs regulars regarded her as another Édith Piaf, but even louder. Although turning a little “Matronly” with the passage of time she must have been a beauty in her younger years, but absolutely in every way a singer. However, even in later life, just like Piaf, she carried her age with grace and surprisingly well.
The minder ejected a couple of guys out of the rear door as they had been making rude comments about Bee’s choice of song. However, they just ran around the building to the front entrance and walked in again. The minder did not notice as he was after another guy who had aimed lewd gestures and suggestions at the barmaids. Otherwise, things were incredibly orderly, for once. When eventually caught, the chased guy made the barmaids and Bee laugh when he protested at being roughly manhandled, and about to be thrown out, by claiming, "The Medical Office has checked me over. He diagnosed that I have battle fatigue and should be excused when I do naughty things". It was an outrageous claim for he was an FNG, f*king new guy, and hadn’t even fired one round in anger since his arrival in Nam, four days before! He promised to keep his pants firmly harnessed up, and in such a condition as not to give further offence. After that he was allowed to stay.
As the afternoon wielded its way into night the place was rocking, more people had turned up, thus spilling the party out into the open. The local cops and the Shore Patrol suddenly appeared on the pretence of maintaining peace and harmony amongst the revelers but were in fact supping beer just as fast as a full bottle could replace one which was empty.
A baby grand in the back of a Rio truck, along with a few other instruments, was banging out dance music in competition to the bars resident piano player. The baby grand badly needed tuning but no one seemed to care. As soon as one tune ended, the little band went straight into another number. Even the spooky grey guy had turned up and was dancing with Bee in a close sensual embrace; he looked over at me and gave me a knowing smile, which looked more like a deaths head grimace actually. At least this time he was dressed up in black, which made a change, he now looked more like the grim reaper out on the prowl rather than his messenger.
No one at the time knew who the bandsmen were, or where they had come from. But as it turned out, they had driven over from another Riverine base after someone from the police station called asking for a piano. So they hauled theirs out, loaded it into a Rio and headed over. Unlike what would probably happen in modern times, there was absolutely no fighting, arguing or any falling over piss-headed obnoxious drunks regurgitating their evening meal in public. Everyone was just having a fabulous time saying goodbye to our buddy, even though the majority had never heard of him before walking into the place.
What had started as a planned few drinks of farewell had miraculously evolved into a near carnival .Finally, like in all good things in life it came to and end. The next morning’s dawn saw a Medico Slick arrive to take our friend on the long journey home; a medico jeep took him in a zipper-bag and with due respect placed him in the Slick. Under a grey sky and the pre-rain of a looming tropical storm, we watched until the copter was just a speck to the eye and wondered who would possibly be next, and then headed over to the boat yard in pondering silence to paint over our boat’s latest battle scars, for one death can never stop a war. Long before the close of day our boat would be off the slip blocks and launched into the side canal ready for our next trip out into the unknown.
Come the late afternoon, with the Zippo moored to the yard pier all ready to go, it was over to the bar for beer and sandwiches. Bee was not out of bed when we walked in but her minder was aroun. He went behind the bar and retrieved an envelope she had left for us; in it were our buddy’s dollars, MPC, and quite a few extra to boot. In fact the extra was all of the bars takings from the “Wake”.
The hard heart of the businesswoman actually contained a soft centre. We forwarded the bar takings along with his personal gear to his pop, the preacher, including a framed photograph. It was of Tante Bee flanked on either side by us, all formed up on our Zippos weather deck. Centre stage, and looking magnificent in a plain black conservative dress was Bee, and we, flanking her left and right, were looking very dapper in freshly issued fatigues which we had borrowed for the occasion, instead of our normal shorts and sandals, or greasy motor oil stained coveralls. The lone wolf looked at me with sad eyes and said "F*ck it Sarge! That is one F*ucked up way to board a Freedom Bird back to the World. Yep, the lord moved in a mysterious way. This time! “
On an ordinary spring morning in Pennsylvania USA, an ordinary Marine, who had been extraordinarily killed by a log in Vietnam, was laid to rest by ordinary people in an ordinary cemetery.