I had been an ambulance driver in Company A, 9th Medical Battalion, Ft. Lewis Washington, for about a year. It was the evening formation, when the entire company stood between the white clapboard barracks to be accounted for, and hear the latest orders. The first sergeant’s face was as stiff as his starched uniform. “Alfa Company has been tapped for the burial detail this month. Ambulance platoon will be prepared to be the honor guard in two weeks. Sergeant Pippin will be in charge.” As I stood in formation with my platoon, my twenty year-old brain kicked into gear, imagining another duty designed expressly to mess up my important life plans. After all, it was an article of faith among the army enlisted men that one should try to get out of all assignments by any means possible. I was trapped.
Over the next two weeks, we drew our weapons, beat up M16 rifles, and began practicing the odd drills required for a military funeral. Sergeant Dickinson was in charge of the firing detail, of which I was a member. I learned about carrying my rifle at “drill arms,” which meant holding it by the barrel while it hung down by my side. I learned the commands the sergeant would give while directing the squad. He once advised me to raise my rifle higher, since I was not shooting the audience. The M16 rifle operates on gas pressure, which causes one oddity of army life; the ubiquitous blank adapter, a bright orange attachment that plugs the muzzle of the rifle so that the blank cartridges build up enough pressure to cycle the action. With the blank adapter on, the firing commands were limited to “Aim, fire!” Somehow, it did not seem right that at this somber moment, the firing detail would be displaying an attachment that made their weapons look like toys. One of the ambulance drivers suggested, “Sergeant Dickinson, why don’t we get rid of the blank adapters, and you can just give the order ‘ready, aim, fire.’ That way we can work the charging handle, for the next round.” The sergeant agreed, and that is how we trained the rest of the week.
We finally got the order that a funeral would be held on Saturday. Ambulance platoon groaned in unison at the injustice. Someone asked who the person was that had died; one of the older veteran soldiers replied sarcastically, “Just some lifer,” referring to a person who had spent a career in the army.
On the appointed day and time, a bus came to pick up ambulance platoon for the funeral. The firing squad was dressed in ceremonial garb that included pistol belts with nothing on them, and soft hats. By the time we arrived at the cemetery, the family was seated, and the casket was just being put in place.
The various members of the honor detail took their assigned places, while the family watched from their seats. In the middle of them an older woman, obviously the wife, was surrounded by her adult children, and other relatives. They were grieving, and wept openly. I was impressed by the solemnity of the moment, and began to realize that in the best way we could, we were helping the family through this time of loss.
The sergeant barked a command that brought us from parade rest to attention. The bugler played Taps, and we raised our rifles to fire three volleys, just as we had rehearsed. While the flag over the casket was being folded, Sergeant Dickinson picked up all the shell casings, and quickly polished them to be given to the family. The chaplain presented the flag to the widow, and then the funeral was over.
We marched back to the bus at drill arms, and then dispersed in little clusters while waiting for the driver to get ready. On the ride home to Ft. Lewis, ambulance platoon was quiet in recognition of the solemnity of the event. Finally, someone spoke up,” I guess we did pretty good, didn’t we?” "Yes," I answered, completely serious. "We did pretty good."
Wayne
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Originally Posted by UKShootist
