dismay. “No,” he said, in a slow wondering voice. “No, it’s hard to believe—Gunner Jeeter, Stud Jeeter he was called—dead! I can hardly believe it! Fellow with a sort of sad hound dog’s face, melancholy eyes?”
“The same,” I replied. “Yes.”
He shook his head gently and reflectively. “So the Gunner’s gone to his reward,” he said, and his lips were touched with a wry, mischievous smile. “I only hope there are a lot of hot broads in heaven. The Gunner was one of the greatest swordsmen ever to hit the Corps.”
“I’ve heard of the Gunner, haven’t I, Paul?” said one of the other officers. “Wasn’t he a Medal of Honor winner in the First World War?”
“No,” Paul said. “That decoration he got in Nicaragua during the 1920s, fighting the Communist rebels. Although you are right, he had been with the Fifth Marines at Château-Thierry. Stud Jeeter dead and gone, why it’s like the passing of an era!” He sighed and ran his hand through his sandy, close-cropped hair. And an odd expression—remote, searching, reminiscent—came to his eyes, a look that I found unsettlingly brimful of emotion; it was not quite, but manifestly close to, real sorrow, and I discerned a mistiness that for an instant seemed to presage tears. But then he laughed hesitantly and said, “God, he was one of the most colorful characters the Corps has ever seen. Boozer, brawler, whoremonger—and brave as Achilles. Had downed his share of piss and punk, too, but one of the best men with a heavy-machine-gun unit the Corps ever produced. God, I didn’t know he had died!” Again the tone was of real chagrin. “I wish I’d known! I’ll have to go to the funeral.”
“I believe the funeral was yesterday,” I put in, “down in South Carolina.”
“Did you know the Gunner, Paul?” one of the officers inquired. The captain and the major, though older than myself by a few years, were considerably younger than Paul, and when they asked these questions about the Gunner, all eager and attentive, I was reminded of something almost tribal—of junior Apache or Sioux braves in the presence of a wiser, more seasoned chieftain, seeking a word of a fabled place and time, of heroes who fought before the reservations existed, when the buffalo thronged the plains and drums beat along the warpath. The Old Corps.
“He was truly one of the Old Breed,” Paul mused. “They don’t make them like that anymore. Hell, yes, I knew him, I knew the Gunner well. My first year of sea duty as a lieutenant,on the Maryland , he was a sergeant in the marine detachment. That was in ’32 or ’33, and he taught me everything about sea duty I ever knew. Then later on, when I was in Shanghai before the war, the Gunner was there—a warrant officer by then—and again he taught me as much about infantry tactics as I ever learned at Quantico. He was too old to get in the fighting in the last war, and not in very good health, either. The liquor eventually got at him. I think he finally developed a diabetes that put him out of commission. He never would see a doctor, even in Shanghai when he was having terrible trouble with his liver. So I don’t wonder that just now he wouldn’t go to the hospital, even when he was coughing his guts up. Son of a bitch! What a sorry , pathetic way for the old fellow to go out! I’m sad that I didn’t know he was up here, that I somehow couldn’t have paid a last goodbye.”
Appropriately, as Paul spoke (indeed, with an appropriateness that could only be called banal), the sound of a bugle fell on the late-afternoon air and I glanced outside the club where a flag was being lowered while the bugler blew “Retreat,” and a scattering of marines had paused at momentary attention, their figures casting lean, gangly shadows in the slant of sunset. And for a long instant I was seized—as I always have been when I hear those piercing trumpet notes—with a sense of loss and sadness, a vision of tropic seas
“The same,” I replied. “Yes.”
He shook his head gently and reflectively. “So the Gunner’s gone to his reward,” he said, and his lips were touched with a wry, mischievous smile. “I only hope there are a lot of hot broads in heaven. The Gunner was one of the greatest swordsmen ever to hit the Corps.”
“I’ve heard of the Gunner, haven’t I, Paul?” said one of the other officers. “Wasn’t he a Medal of Honor winner in the First World War?”
“No,” Paul said. “That decoration he got in Nicaragua during the 1920s, fighting the Communist rebels. Although you are right, he had been with the Fifth Marines at Château-Thierry. Stud Jeeter dead and gone, why it’s like the passing of an era!” He sighed and ran his hand through his sandy, close-cropped hair. And an odd expression—remote, searching, reminiscent—came to his eyes, a look that I found unsettlingly brimful of emotion; it was not quite, but manifestly close to, real sorrow, and I discerned a mistiness that for an instant seemed to presage tears. But then he laughed hesitantly and said, “God, he was one of the most colorful characters the Corps has ever seen. Boozer, brawler, whoremonger—and brave as Achilles. Had downed his share of piss and punk, too, but one of the best men with a heavy-machine-gun unit the Corps ever produced. God, I didn’t know he had died!” Again the tone was of real chagrin. “I wish I’d known! I’ll have to go to the funeral.”
“I believe the funeral was yesterday,” I put in, “down in South Carolina.”
“Did you know the Gunner, Paul?” one of the officers inquired. The captain and the major, though older than myself by a few years, were considerably younger than Paul, and when they asked these questions about the Gunner, all eager and attentive, I was reminded of something almost tribal—of junior Apache or Sioux braves in the presence of a wiser, more seasoned chieftain, seeking a word of a fabled place and time, of heroes who fought before the reservations existed, when the buffalo thronged the plains and drums beat along the warpath. The Old Corps.
“He was truly one of the Old Breed,” Paul mused. “They don’t make them like that anymore. Hell, yes, I knew him, I knew the Gunner well. My first year of sea duty as a lieutenant,on the Maryland , he was a sergeant in the marine detachment. That was in ’32 or ’33, and he taught me everything about sea duty I ever knew. Then later on, when I was in Shanghai before the war, the Gunner was there—a warrant officer by then—and again he taught me as much about infantry tactics as I ever learned at Quantico. He was too old to get in the fighting in the last war, and not in very good health, either. The liquor eventually got at him. I think he finally developed a diabetes that put him out of commission. He never would see a doctor, even in Shanghai when he was having terrible trouble with his liver. So I don’t wonder that just now he wouldn’t go to the hospital, even when he was coughing his guts up. Son of a bitch! What a sorry , pathetic way for the old fellow to go out! I’m sad that I didn’t know he was up here, that I somehow couldn’t have paid a last goodbye.”
Appropriately, as Paul spoke (indeed, with an appropriateness that could only be called banal), the sound of a bugle fell on the late-afternoon air and I glanced outside the club where a flag was being lowered while the bugler blew “Retreat,” and a scattering of marines had paused at momentary attention, their figures casting lean, gangly shadows in the slant of sunset. And for a long instant I was seized—as I always have been when I hear those piercing trumpet notes—with a sense of loss and sadness, a vision of tropic seas
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