USNAviator
06-15-10, 09:26 PM
Marines
Found this while doing some research: it's 1944
The Top and the CO
First Sergeant Deangelo stuck his head into the open flap of my tent. Wiping a bead of sweat off my forehead, I paused from my letter. "Evenin', sir," Top said ,"To The Shores of Tripoli is showin' tonight at the theater. I'm goin' to watch it. Why don't you come along and take a break from them letters? It'll be good for you, sir."
Scratching my chin, I shook my head. "Thanks Top, but I want to get a few more of these written tonight before taps."
"Sir, why don't you let me write some for ya'?
"Thanks Top, but it's something I've got to do. I appreciate the offer though."
"Permission to enter, sir?"
"You know you don't need to ask me to come in, Top. You've been in the Corps a lot longer than me."
"I know, sir," he said, "but it's an old habit and they die hard." Top wore a sheepish look as he ducked to come into my pyramidal tent.
I motioned to my cot and told the Top to have a seat. Reaching down into the lower drawer of my field desk, I pulled out my bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. I'd been nursing that bottle for a long time and there were only a few nips left. Unscrewing the cap, I handed the bottle to Top. He reached over and took it in his big hand.
Nodding to me, First Sergeant Deangelo tipped the bottle of golden whiskey in salute. Quietly—almost too low to hear—he whispered, "To absent comrades." He took a sip of Johnnie Walker and swished it around in his mouth to savor it. Then, he passed the bottle my way.
I repeated the salute to our comrades—my Marines—who were no longer with us. Thirty-nine of my men were dead, killed on my watch. Every leader knew he would lose Marines in combat and we weren't supposed to dwell on it. But every one of them still hurt, especially in the quiet hours just before dawn when sleep wouldn't come.
Staring at the last of my whiskey for a couple of seconds, I lifted the bottle to my lips and drained it dry. There hadn't been much left anyway and now it was gone. I sighed and set the empty bottle on the deck. It was time to get back to my letter to Mrs. Haltunnen. The First Sergeant got the message and stood to leave.
"Top, you have a good time at the flick," I said.
"Hell, sir," he replied almost angrily, "I ain't goin' to see that dumbass movie. It's so damned stupid, I'll just get ****ed off."
I smiled. "Yeah, I saw it at Quantico in '42 and it was a hoot then. Just like real life. What are you gonna do tonight, Top?"
First Sergeant Deangelo glanced out of the open tent flap with a conspiratorial air. He leaned close to me and said quietly, "Sergeant Major Deakins is crackin' open his newest batch of jungle juice tonight, sir. I may head over to his tent and help make sure he don't go crazy when he samples it."
I shook my head and laughed out loud. "You be careful, Top. That stuff he makes is murder. I don't need a blind first sergeant."
As he headed out into the company street, Deangelo looked back at me. "Aye aye, sir. I'll see ya' in the mornin', skipper." I watched his broad silhouette as he disappeared into the still, humid night. Then I picked up my pencil and put it to paper.
Found this while doing some research: it's 1944
The Top and the CO
First Sergeant Deangelo stuck his head into the open flap of my tent. Wiping a bead of sweat off my forehead, I paused from my letter. "Evenin', sir," Top said ,"To The Shores of Tripoli is showin' tonight at the theater. I'm goin' to watch it. Why don't you come along and take a break from them letters? It'll be good for you, sir."
Scratching my chin, I shook my head. "Thanks Top, but I want to get a few more of these written tonight before taps."
"Sir, why don't you let me write some for ya'?
"Thanks Top, but it's something I've got to do. I appreciate the offer though."
"Permission to enter, sir?"
"You know you don't need to ask me to come in, Top. You've been in the Corps a lot longer than me."
"I know, sir," he said, "but it's an old habit and they die hard." Top wore a sheepish look as he ducked to come into my pyramidal tent.
I motioned to my cot and told the Top to have a seat. Reaching down into the lower drawer of my field desk, I pulled out my bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. I'd been nursing that bottle for a long time and there were only a few nips left. Unscrewing the cap, I handed the bottle to Top. He reached over and took it in his big hand.
Nodding to me, First Sergeant Deangelo tipped the bottle of golden whiskey in salute. Quietly—almost too low to hear—he whispered, "To absent comrades." He took a sip of Johnnie Walker and swished it around in his mouth to savor it. Then, he passed the bottle my way.
I repeated the salute to our comrades—my Marines—who were no longer with us. Thirty-nine of my men were dead, killed on my watch. Every leader knew he would lose Marines in combat and we weren't supposed to dwell on it. But every one of them still hurt, especially in the quiet hours just before dawn when sleep wouldn't come.
Staring at the last of my whiskey for a couple of seconds, I lifted the bottle to my lips and drained it dry. There hadn't been much left anyway and now it was gone. I sighed and set the empty bottle on the deck. It was time to get back to my letter to Mrs. Haltunnen. The First Sergeant got the message and stood to leave.
"Top, you have a good time at the flick," I said.
"Hell, sir," he replied almost angrily, "I ain't goin' to see that dumbass movie. It's so damned stupid, I'll just get ****ed off."
I smiled. "Yeah, I saw it at Quantico in '42 and it was a hoot then. Just like real life. What are you gonna do tonight, Top?"
First Sergeant Deangelo glanced out of the open tent flap with a conspiratorial air. He leaned close to me and said quietly, "Sergeant Major Deakins is crackin' open his newest batch of jungle juice tonight, sir. I may head over to his tent and help make sure he don't go crazy when he samples it."
I shook my head and laughed out loud. "You be careful, Top. That stuff he makes is murder. I don't need a blind first sergeant."
As he headed out into the company street, Deangelo looked back at me. "Aye aye, sir. I'll see ya' in the mornin', skipper." I watched his broad silhouette as he disappeared into the still, humid night. Then I picked up my pencil and put it to paper.