undignified transfers

Yesterday as I watched Trump lumber through the reception of four more KIA’s in his newest catastrophe, I was reminded of two events I was involved in during my stint in the U.S. Marines. In 1967 I was stationed in Marietta GA and was assigned to a funeral detail. I was part of a 21-gun salute at the burial of a Marine killed in Vietnam.

The interment was in nearby Atlanta, on a dreary February day. Our detail got to the cemetery well before the cortege and set up past the crest of a hill overlooking it. We could see the procession, about 50 people, arrive and gather around the gravesite. No one seemed to notice us. There were seven of us who would fire three shots each. When we fired the first round, the mourners seemed to jump a foot in the air. Of the 21 rounds, only about half of them went off. None of mine did, but enough went off each time to make the point.

In 1969, just before I was released from active duty in Albany GA, I caught another detail. This time I was a pallbearer. It was a nice sunny day, much too warm to be wearing dress blues, but tradition dictates. At the gravesite, after placing the coffin on the lowering rack, we folded the flag on it and handed it to the head of the detail, who was to present it to the widow.

Problem was, he dropped it into the grave. He quickly retrieved it and we quickly refolded it. None of us laughed about it until we were well on our way back to our base.