Target Centermass

The Gun Line‘s Sergeant B is an old Marine, specifically a 41-year-old Marine who is now resurrecting his military career in the Washington State National Guard.

The physical is done (I passed), the paperwork for a few waivers has been submitted, and I shoud be vaulted into the saddle within the next two week… Done deal…

I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and determined that this is the best course of action I can take for all concerned… I’ve got 13 years worth of USMC Infantry experience under my belt, which means that I’m over halfway to racking up the time needed to qualify for a retirement pension from the government (the Guard, however, works on a point system, with means that I might be able to rack up points faster, or it might take a little longer, not sure)…

But that’s not what it’s about, is it?

Not for me, anyway. This is something I should have done five years ago… I’m just a little late gettting to the starting line. There were other things that demanded my time and effort… But now, I can’t think of anything more important than to throw my hat into the ring, and get back in the fight – a fight that didn’t really exist until AFTER I got out of the Corps.

Yep… It’s the right thing to do…

Why, then, in the middle of the night, do I stare at the ceiling, my mind full of questions?

The good sarge has obviously done a great deal of meditating on this monumental decision and is kind enough to share his contemplations with us. I must say that I’ve often wrestled with several of these same thoughts also, so Sergeant B’s post hits particularly close to home for me. [Hat tip to Argghhh!!!]

From Sgt. Hook, here’s a touching piece called “At the Canteen.” I don’t really know what to excerpt from it so I’ll just give you the beginning and let Hook take it from there.

Still dressed in his dusty desert combat uniform, the old soldier bellied up to the bar, resting his elbows on the well worn mahogany wood where countless other soldiers have quelched a thirst.

“What’ll it be sarn’t major?” the uniformed corporal asked with a distinct Scottish accent while wiping down the space in front of his newest customer, recognizing his rank, a star flanked by a wreath, sitting between three chevrons pointing to the heavens and three rockers adjoining from the bottom.

Command Sergeant Major Jesse T. Martin Jr. hadn’t had a cold beer, or a warm one for that matter, in roughly 14 months and said as much.

Corporal Jack Rodgers of her majesty’s famed 1st Battalion, The Black Watch, Royal Highland Regiment, draped the white terrycloth towel over his left shoulder with a snap and asked, “I’ve pils or ale on draught?” looking directly into the old warrior’s tired grey-blue eyes.

“Make it a pilsner please corporal, thank you,” Martin replied.

“Pils it is then,” replied Rodgers as he turned to fill the order.

Jesse Martin hardly noticed the tall, frosted glass of golden beer set in front of him, drifting off as he listened to the juke box blaring the Mamas and the Papas melodically singing, Dedicated to the One I Love.

While I’m far away from you, my baby,
I know it’s hard for you, my baby,
Because it’s hard for me, my baby,
And the darkest hour is just before dawn—

Go read it all.

By the way, my post title is taken from “Fiddler’s Green,” an old poem embraced by American cavalrymen and carried on today by some tankers and scouts. I highly suspect Hook drew at least some degree of inpiration for his story from it.