It was a lazy Memorial Day. I was watching the movie 'Wake Island' for the fourth time since the previous evening, somehow expecting that the ultimate outcome of that battle would change for the better. But, unfortunately, the movie was made in 1942, before God invented interactive TV. Dave Hardy called and awakened me from my holiday torpor and shamed me into heading to Brooklyn for the Hash. Hardy, that great old son of the American Revolution, asserted that it was my patriotic duty to run on Memorial Day. I assumed that he simply decided that beer-drinking has some military significance, but I didn't think it was in my interest to argue the point. Just before he rang off, I could have sworn he was humming "America the Beautiful," or was it "God Save the Queen"? So I yawned and packed my stuff, concluding that the movie would pretty much end as it had two hours earlier and that William Bendix would be reincarnated as Babe Ruth on the American Movie Channel in a year or two.
Laird, Dave, and I sortieed from the subway at Grand Army Plaza, reformed our little battalion, marched single file to the start, saluted the Hare, dropped our duffels, and double-timed down the road. The trail wasted no time reaching the Park, the only clear marks I saw until I exited at the Third Street gate at almost 1700 hours. I immediately lost track of Dave, Laird, and even Pierre who arrived like a cipher in the night only to vanish just as quickly.
Although I originally blamed Jerry for my utter confusion, I grudgingly came to admire his brilliantly devious and shrewd battle plan. To celebrate the day, Jerry obviously wanted us to experience first-hand the confusion and uncertainty of battle, cut off from the high command and supply lines, separated from the main platoon, wandering lost through foreign terrain behind enemy lines. The scarcity of the flour, no doubt, was intended to symbolize the extreme shortages of provisions and munitions our fathers and forefathers were forced to endure and overcome to earn their hard-fought victories.
Moreover, to assure that the details of our escape route through dangerous territory did not fall into enemy hands, Jerry cleverly disguised his marks so that they could not be seen by the naked eye, but rather only through the use of sophisticated photometric goggles. Instead of placing marks on tree trunks where they could be discerned by enemy forces, Jerry threw the flour into the grass where no one could find it. Although that was not terribly helpful in keeping us on course, it did prevent the forces of doom from discovering our whereabouts and launching a surprise attack.
After braving machine gun nests, minefields, barbed wire, scud missiles, and most terrible of all, flaming barbecue grills and little yapping dogs, we reached a small clearing where the KP crew had set out a battlefield mess of sea breezes and screwdrivers. But war is hell, so by the time I arrived at this peaceful oasis, the well had almost run dry, depleted by those who had come before me and had tried to blot the horrors of battle from their minds and souls with drink.
So I shouldered my musket, asked directions to the nearest bivouac, and emerged from the protected cover of the forest to face the last leg down Third Street alone and perilously exposed to enemy fire. I darted between cars and trees, cavalierly ignored the "Do Not Walk" signs, and kept close watch at the windows of the surrounding homes for snipers. After a few moments, I began to notice American flags hung from the rafters and eaves and realized that this sector must already have been liberated by our forces and that I was in safe hands once again. I retrieved the chocolate bars and nylons from my pack in case I ran into any starving children or bare-legged women freed from tyranny who wanted to offer their thanks and appreciation by throwing themselves at my feet. Happily, as I rounded the corner at Fifth Avenue, I caught sight of Laird and Dave for the first time since our mission began. For hours, I had feared they had been captured, wounded, tortured and broken to divulge secret information, or worse. I wept with joy.
The On-In was a British venue, mostly full of Americans, much like England during the Second World War. A brewery of good beers, including Ruddles County from Rutland and Magic Hat from Vermont helped even the shell-shocked among us forget the tribulations we had faced that day. We gathered around the tinny old piano with our pints in hand and as Dave hammered out those great wartime tunes, including "Roll Out the Barrel," "The White Cliffs of Dover," and "Lily Marlene," we sang with carefree abandon (yeah, right). We were giddy with relief and blatantly ignored the hares' initial entreaties to assemble for our down-down ritual. But when the food arrived, we snapped to attention, completed our duties apace, and hunkered down to the first meal other than C-rations we had eaten in hours. Strange fare for Memorial Day--lo mein, ribs, and another dish or two from the nearby Chinese emporium. I could only assume that feast was dedicated to the imperial forces of Chiang Kai Shek or James Doolittle's Flying Tigers from Chungking.
With the specter of war receding into the mists of distant memory, we retired to The Gate's outdoor USO, toasted to the good old days, and bragged about our brave deeds in the line of duty. Jerry was overcome with nostalgia and left abruptly before anyone could see the faraway look in his eyes as he remembered those who had served under his command. But in his haste, Jerry hooked the leg of a wobbly cocktail table and spilled the drinks of a young officer and WAC. Peter and Crofty reconnoitered the situation immediately and brought two fresh pints to the table before any feathers could be ruffled. Then we all raised our glasses to the day and each other, thankful for our good fortune and remaining Hash Cash, before returning to our barracks for well-deserved slumber. Gee, I wish I was back in the Army.
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