The little BT’s I own to date will turn two in
August—that’s 14 in human years. I’ve
been around enough teenage boys to know that 14 is not old enough to understand
the benefits of lounging around without any electronic entertainment devices;
and if the dogs could simulate chasing cats, rodents, lizards and even each
other on a Gameboy or a Play Station then the couch would hold a great deal of
appeal to them. For now, however, walks
are the thing.
Getting up at 8 am to take them on a morning
constitutional is bad enough for an old woman whose bones aren’t made for
walking, but without my knowledge, Beanie and Buster held a family meeting and
decided that one stroll a day just wasn’t cutting it. So yesterday, they ignored all my attempts of
entertaining them from the comfort of the couch as I stared mindlessly at the
t.v. They couldn’t have cared less for
the bones I offered. They stared at the
outside as if four feet of snow and a below-zero temperature greeted them. And all throw toys had become completely blasé! I wish you could have seen their little
round, doggy faces as I tossed one toy after another—they sat there watching
me, expecting me to get up and fetch them for their entertainment. I even laughed as I actually did get up a
couple of times and threw the toys, trying to use all my manipulative skills to
get them tired out so I could do nothing.
Finally, they communicated, doggy-telepathically,
what they wanted—take us for a walk and make sure it’s in the cemetery!
I decided we were doing to walk
through the veteran section of the garden--those who were
members of our country’s armed forces.
Most had seen service during World War II and Vietnam, but
on this evening’s stroll I came across one man who had been a Marine, or should
I say “devil-dog,” during World War I—born in 1887! Then I met two men I’m going to
call Gordy and T (not their real names of course).
Both had been Marines, Gordy a lance corporal and T
a sergeant (I learned as a kid whose father had been a navy man, that you don’t
salute sergeants because they work for a living—lol!). The first died in 2010, the second in
2011. I blanched at their ages, 20 and
23. It is not natural for people to die
so young unless you are Marines. Still,
the shock of the dates made my heart shrink and my eyes moistened.
Naturally, I assumed these fine young devil-dogs,
leathernecks and sh-- eaters had given their last full measure of devotion in the
terror of mortar and rifle rounds, while the enemy died wishing they never had
come to see an American Marine, and of course, they would never see one again.
Growing up with a World War II veteran and listening to the edited war-stories he selectively told, I learned two very important things about men who put on uniforms for a living. First, men in Marine and Navy blues are the best looking men God ever created, and second, when they do die in battle, they sure as shootin’ take as many of the enemy with them into that long good night as they can.
After returning home, I fired up the Internet determined
to learn how Gordy and T died, where, when, and how many of the f-in' enemy
accompanied them to that undiscovered country from which no man returns. I searched for hours, quickly finding their
local obituaries but unable to find their honorable names on any casualty list
from Afghanistan or Iraq. The longer I
came up empty handed, the more frustrated I became, because the truth behind
their deaths began to nag at me like the dogs do when they want to go outside
when I don’t want to do it.
It was close to eleven at night when the detective
instincts (also inherited from my dad—he was a detective for NIS—which is now
called NCIS—yes, like the t.v. show) sent me back to the places which had some Intel
about their deaths—the obits. I was even
more careful about reading them this time.
With each perusal, the nagging truth converted into a prolonged trumpet sound
of “Taps.”
These two, wonderful, intelligent, devoted, handsome
young Marines had not died in combat—had not seen the enemy or had taken their
toll which is the goal of all Marine Recon platoon members and every Navy
S.E.A.L. who ever survived BUD’s. No,
they obviously died in ordinary, stupid, usually avoidable (because the guy
driving the other vehicle can’t keep his freakin’ attention on the road!) traffic
accidents.
Before turning off my laptop, I pulled up T’s
picture. He had a clean-shaven lean,
authoritarian expression every Marine sergeant is trained to wear at times like
that (the formal picture taking time), his blue dress-A uniform immaculate, his
barracks cover so white it cast a gleam in the camera lens. I bet his black dress shoes were so shiny he
could have shaved using one as a mirror.
In my mind’s eye, I saw him driving down a Costa
Mesa street, heading home from a late-night college class, heading home to a
wife who hadn’t seen him all day—most likely in several days because he was
busy bettering himself and his career. I
could see him tired but attentive as the drunk-driver turned onto the street T
was driving down, in the opposite direction.
I could hear the cuss phrases all of which begin
with the letter F Marines use at times when they know death is coming at them
and they can’t do anything to avoid it.
I know he didn’t scream in terror as the drunk swerved into his
lane. I know he gripped the steering
wheel tighter, told God to take care of his family and loved-ones he was
responsible for, not even blinking when the whirling sodden inebriated vehicle
slammed into his.
Being a Mormon and believing what I do about the
afterlife is a comfort when thinking about such moments. This is not the end, and when this life
finishes, there is always someone on the other side of the veil to greet the
new recruit in order to explain the situation and indicate where the light and
tunnel are located. I like to think a
man such as my dad, who passed away in 1986, greeted T with a firm handshake
and a smile. T might have recognized him
as an officer (dad had been a lieutenant commander) and even given his guide a
crisp Marine salute as he listened to every detailed order then following each direction. Yes, I like to think something like that
happened even as the drunk staggered out of his crumpled, smoking car not
caring to even give the lifeless body in the second totaled vehicle a glance as
by-standers call 911, while distant wailing sirens sped to the scene.
I didn’t want to think the drunk most-likely got off
with a few months in jail, his license revoked, and lived to drink again while
such a great man like T would never get home from school.
I turned off the computer, mentally thanking T for
getting up, putting on his fatigues, lacing up his boots, deploying where and
when they ordered him to and do the job they paid him very little to do every
day of his short Marine career. T might
have died in a needless traffic accident, but his life wasn’t tragic—it was
heroic in its normalcy; heroic for doing a job that could have ended in death;
heroic because I could never have done his job—not even if I was sane—not
even if they paid me a million dollars to do it.
I fell asleep thanking Gordy and T, thanking them
for their lives, their honor, their heroic examples as excellent devil-dogs
they were. Ooyah!
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My Dad, Rufus W. Boldman on Deployment in 1974 Puerto Rico--a real cushy deploy, uh.
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