A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon. – Napoleon
One of my kin is buried in Strawberry Plains, Tennessee. A Reese from Alabama…Confederate infantryman with bare feet and a smooth bore musket no doubt…killed by Union forces from Ohio attempting to cut east Tennessee off. Pretty sure my kin understood none of the strategic necessity for this battle…probably just marched along and endured because that is what soldiers do. That Reese had probably never been outside of Alabama until war came. Answering the trumpet’s summon.
My family is a violent clan…on both sides. Welsh, English, and Scots-Irish blood means that I’m partial to whiskey and marching tunes. Scraps of ribbons and whiskey-fueled stories told around a campfire is enough to recruit the male members of my clan for a fight.
“Being in the military means you’ve got a lifetime of good stories…” my dad would say…and then launch into some comical story that I never knew was real, bullshit, or a combination of both. I assume the latter…because all my Army stories are a healthy mix of both.
As I get older…the stories become lost in the fog of memory. Sometimes I catch myself telling a story and wonder…is this story mine or my dad’s? Doesn’t matter…I became a decent raconteur while growing up listening to my dad…I’m not ashamed to say our two lives and our time in military service have melded in my mind…you’ll laugh like everyone else when you hear the funny bullshit stories…are you not entertained?!
The price my family paid for these stories was blood and sanity. My dad had screaming nightmares about Vietnam…I remember listening to my mom trying to calm my sleep screaming dad…she would loud whisper “Tommy you’re not in Vietnam…Tommy you’re not in Vietnam.” Being married to war-broken men is not easy.
I have other family members who found solace in alcohol…shit-faced drunk means the sharp jagged edges of memories are dulled enough to only slightly cut your soul…and…sleep without screaming. The VA and doctors prefer to dope you to the point that you’re going through your life like you’re swimming in Jell-O. Pills are better than whiskey is their belief.
The men of my extended clan found two ways to cope with their military service. One was to isolate themselves from others and dive head first into whiskey and the other way was to hide the dark smudges on their souls with funny bullshit stories. One Reese returned from WWII and became a recluse who lived off the land in rural Alabama…my dad, as a boy, would spend time with this man…the rest of the family had given up on him…hunting and fishing. My dad said he’d never seen anyone who was a better shot…according to my dad…this Reese could pop a squirrel at a hundred yards off a tree branch with a .22 rifle…my dad said that this Reese could walk silently through the woods as he hunted. This Reese was also a raging alcoholic that would scream and slur around the campfire. This Reese had fought at the Battle of the Bulge. Bullshit or not…my dad made his point.
I had older cousin, dead now, my mother’s age…who was captured by the Chinese in the Korean War. Spent a year as a POW. Once again there was a raging alcoholic who lived off family charity…but treated like a leper. My mom, the wife of a veteran, was always the one to check in on him when our family would return to Alabama…my mom was caring and patient with this man. Again, the women of my clan have had to learn how to nurse war-broken men.
My mom’s dad, a WWI veteran, died when I was little. I know nothing more than the stories I was told. I have his diary that he kept during this part of his life…and alcohol is the the most entertaining part of his diary: “Got a 24-pass, drank a lot of wine. Woke up with a big headache.” Legit-as-fuck. Once on a 48-hour R&R trip to Budapest, Hungary (was there after 6 months of peacekeeping duty in the Balkans)…I spent 47 hours drunk and came home with a tattoo. Instead of a tattoo, my grandfather came home blind in one eye due to a German mustard gas attack.
I am lucky…my military service provided more good stories than anything close to nightmares…more peacetime service than anything else…sometimes I am angry though…like I said…we are violent clan. Fortunately…I’m a funny drunk…more sweet than angry…but I have thrown a punch or two…as an adult…because there is a short fuse that gets easily lit in me. I have been known to sob over war orphans and 3-legged dogs.*
Memorial and Veterans Day are two holidays that others earned (and still earn) for you. I hate flag waving…hate yellow ribbons…hate chickenhawks…and I hate that the men of my family are easily recruited for marching tunes and scraps of colorful ribbon…but damn…we have some great bullshit stories that will make you laugh.
Happy Veterans Day…be sure to attend some store sale or some shit.
*There are millions of landmines in the Balkans…dogs can’t read “Caution: Mines!” in any language.
sublimemonkey 