The Parade

by Martin Lindauer

Shmuel crowed with obvious pride. "Our boy is the first in the family to graduate from college--and the first to be an officer of the United States Army of America."

"And a Jewish officer, too," Ruchel beamed.

"Our boy is a real American," Shmuel said with matching fervor.

A son with a Lieutenant’s commission in the Army of their adopted country was well worth the five-hour bus trip from Brooklyn to Fort Evans, Massachusetts. Ruchel and Shmuel, impressed by the official invitations to attend officer’s boot camp graduation, stamped with the engraved seals of the United States Army and the Department of Defense, sent off their acceptance letter the day the announcement was received.

"Let's not call and tell him we're coming," Ruchel proposed with a sly smile. "We don't want to make him nervous and maybe not march so good."

"Be sure to make extra sandwiches for Moisha," Shmuel unnecessarily advised his wife on the morning of their departure. "He's not such a big shot officer that he can't enjoy chopped liver."

Few parents were attending the ceremony, though. Some lived too far away or were on vacation that hot and muggy August. Others had attended their sons’ college graduation two months earlier and were reluctant to sit through another gauntlet of boring speeches. None of the parents, furthermore, wanted to be reminded of their children’s possible assignment to Vietnam.

The major in charge of the graduating parade, mindful of the sorry impression a handful of visiting parents would make in a separate section of the reviewing stand, sprinkled them among the military brass and other dignitaries. Surrounded by high ranking Corps and Division commanders and their staffs, along with delegates from Washington and the Pentagon, together with civilian representatives from the Department of Defense, the Mayors of two nearby cities, state officials, high level bureaucrats, and other honored guests, the two nearly invisible in the sea of bemedaled uniforms, she with a new hat whose ring of plastic daisies matched the large floral pattern of her dress, he in the blue serge suit worn to the synagogue for Saturday services, sat Ruchel and Shmuel.

They glowed from the special attention showered upon them by solicitous officers, whose possible role in sending their first-born off to war was conveniently overlooked. Shmuel felt a surge of patriotism, the first since becoming an American citizen 22 years earlier. He turned to Ruchel and rasped in a voice choked with emotion, "God bless America." Her eyes moist, Ruchel replied with equal intensity, "Thank God we're citizens of such a wonderful country." She paused to adjust a bra strap. "I hope the boy marches straight and not bent over like when he reads a book."

"Uhmain," Shmuel replied prayerfully.

Holding back tears, Ruchel impulsively grabbed her husband’s arm. "I got goose-bumps just thinking of our boy as a soldier."

"Not just a soldier," Shmuel reminded her, "but an officer."

Carried away by her sentiments, Ruchel impulsively tapped the silver eagle on the shoulder of the officer in front of her. "Hello General. My son is marching today. He's a good boy. Please make sure he doesn't get sent too far away from home."

"I'll take special note of your request, ma’am," the startled Colonel mumbled.

Shmuel leaned closer to the officer. "Every young man should go into the Army," he advised. "Makes a boy into a mensch."

The Colonel nodded uncertainly and smiled blankly.

Several nearby officers overheard Shmuel's thick Brooklyn accent with its sing-song East European cadence. "The guy might be from the UN," a Captain from the midwest whispered.

"Nah, must be a trade union official from New York city," a Major speculated after noting Shmuel’s work thickened and callused hands.

"Maybe a big Democratic Party donor," the Captain conjectured, revising his earlier guess.

A private off to the side, one of the chauffeurs for the brass, snorted. "Those officers don't know shit from shinola. The folks are city dudes seeing their kid off before he heads overseas."

Further speculation ended as the band began a bouncy Sousa march. A booming bass drum thundered a beat that minimized any missteps by the marching troops.

Nearly three thousand enlisted men, their basic training completed, were parading before the Commander in Chief, Eighth Army, a four-star general, accompanied by the one-star General in charge of the training base. Almost 100 newly minted Second Lieutenants from Officer Candidate School and about twenty-five recent R.O.T.C. graduates from several colleges fronted the massed troops. Heading one of ther training companies was Morrie, the son of Ruchel and Shmuel.

...

"The parade will be good for the men," First-Sergeant Fratti said to Morrie as they rode in the cab of the 3/4-ton truck to the parade grounds. Fratti, a veteran career sergeant, had been assigned to assist the neophyte officers lead the inexperienced recruits. "The troops need to be reminded that they're part of this man's Army," the sergeant huffed before reviewing Morrie's duties. "You'll be standin’ in front of the company. Corporal Manzoni--the EM driving one of the two-tons behind us--will be next to ya holding the guidon."

Morrie looked blankly at the sergeant. Fratti rolled his eyes. "‘EM’ is ‘Enlisted Man,’ Lieutenant. A guidon, sir, is a small triangular flag with the training company’s number on it."

"Yeah, sure, uh, I know all that," Morrie stuttered.

Fratti snorted. "Right, Lieutenant. Now remember this. I'll be right behind you. Manzoni, the corporal in front of the company, will pass my orders along."

"What orders, sarg?"

"Hold on, Lieutenant. I'm gettin' to it. We'll be standing at parade rest--uh, that’s relaxed in place," Fratti clarified. What the hell do they teach in R.O. T.C.? he wondered before continuing. "When the inspectin’ party comes abreast--uh, alongside," Fratti paused to make sure the shavetail understood--"Manzoni'll lower the guidon. That's when you shout 'TENHUT!' I repeat the command and the company snaps to." Fratti raised his voice. "Now listen up, sir. This is the important part. When the men come to attention is when you identify the unit."

"What exactly do I say, sarg?” Morrie asked in a testy tone. “At your service, sirs?" Although annoyed at Fratti's patronizing attitude, Morrie was unwilling to confront his mentor before facing the first critical performance of his military career.

Fratti scowled. "Be serious, Lieutenant. Two friggin' generals are coming through.” He took a deep breath to mask his impatience. “What ya gotta do is salute, give your rank and name--hold your salute, by the way--and say, 'Commanding officer, First, Second, and Third Platoons, Company A, 315th Training Battalion, 6th Training Regiment, 23rd Training Division--SIR!'"

Morrie immediately repeated the one-line identification. Stringing all those numbers together in the correct sequence would be tough. "Uh, tell me again, Sarg. Do I say the numbers of the platoons first or last?"

"Geez, Lieutenant," Fratti exclaimed. "First Platoon' is first. That ain't too hard for a college boy to remember, is it? Sir."

Morrie suppressed a sharp retort.

Fratti turned the truck slowly into the parking area adjacent to the marching field, directed there by white-helmeted and arm-waving MPs. After the vehicle rolled to a stop, a company of men leaped out of several following trucks. Fratti fussily lined up nine ranks of men into three platoons. Morrie observed how sharp the recruits looked in their pressed class-A uniforms, and suppressed an image of leading them, in camouflage fatigues, through rice patties in Vietnam. Morrie shook off the gloomy thought by reminding himself that not many 21-year olds could claim they commanded a company of 100 men.

His thoughts shifted to a more immediate problem, the introductory spiel. He reminded himself to not leave anything out and say everything in the right order. What would happen, he wondered, if I garbled the words in typical military style? The generals wouldn’t notice--but Fratti would.

The sergeant returned, swaggering, from a bank of tables at the edge of the parking lot where he had received further instructions from the sergeant-major in charge. "FALL IN!" he screamed at the lounging troops. He marched them in formation, Morrie at his side, to their designated area on the parade grounds, all the while chanting, "Ya left, ya right, your left, right, left, right. I got a girl in Kansas City and she got a mole on her left titty. Hup, two, three, four." Morrie glanced at Fratti. The Sergeant was enjoying himself. About as much as ordering me around.

Fratti halted the company on a bare patch of dirt outlined by white chalk lines. Planted in a corner was a small banner with the company’s designation. Morrie immediately grasped the boundary marker’s usefulness as a prompt for his introduction.

The parade grounds swelled with contingents of men in platoon, company, battalion, regimental, and division formations. “Who's watching the country?” Morrie quipped silently. Glimpsing some buddies from his R.O.T.C. class, he restrained himself from waving. Stay cool, he ordered himself.

It was nearly noon when dozens of sergeants across the parade grounds shouted a volley of "TENHUTs!" Flags unfurled. Thousands of recruits and dozens of new officers stiffened. Morrie's nervousness ratcheted up another notch. He forced a stony look onto his face, took a deep breath, tucked in his stomach, pulled in his chin, and rigidly held himself erect. A millimeter of space opened up between his heavily starched blouse and sweaty chest. He ignored the urge to scratch.

A dusty haze, stirred up by thousands of feet shuffling on the hard-packed dirt of the parade field, drifted in the air and diffused the sunlight. The guidon held by Manzoni hung limply, its folds hiding the unit’s numbers, obscuring a memory aid Morrie was counting on. He swore under his breadth and swiveled his eyes towards the identification marker on the ground. Shit! It had fallen over. Another piece of vital information lost. Morrie's anxiety jumped several notches.

Music from the band at the reviewing stand wafted over the legions of troops, a signal that the formal proceedings were about to begin. The martial chords lifted Morrie’s spirits and he felt a surge of personal responsibility for the freedom of America and the safety of the world. But the spirit of '76 dissipated quickly, replaced by a compulsion to recite his unit’s introduction. Some protector of the country I’d be, he chided himself, if I can’t identify who I am.

He repeated Fratti's instructions under his breath. “When the generals and their party reach the company, Manzoni lowers the guidon and I bring the men to attention. No. Manzoni lowers the flag after Fratti repeats my command. Hmm. Does Manzoni lower the flag before I say ‘tenhut?’” Morrie’s breath quickened. He blew air through puckered lips and recited the names of the original 13 states in an attempt to calm himself. Ah, the reviewing party won’t notice what I leave out, especially if they’re in a hurry to get into the shade of the reviewing stand.

From the corner of one eye Morrie saw the company on his left bracing. The reviewing party, chests bedecked with rows of colorful ribbons, shoulders overlaid with loops of braid, and sleeves adorned with patches of arcane significance, was approaching. The generals were easily spotted by the swirls of gold braid larding the visors of their caps, their eyes ominously hidden behind dark and oversized sunglasses.

Manzoni rattled the guidon to shake its folds loose in preparation for dipping the banner. "Don’t lower it too much, Corporal,” Morrie hissed over his shoulder. “We don’t want the Generals’ eyes poked out." He squinted at the limp guidon. Where the hell are the numbers? A new worry. Should I add “Please" after I say “TENHUT!”?

The generals were coming closer to Morrie. He took a deep breadth and squeaked, "ATTENTION EVERYBODY!" A squadron of planes streaked overhead and masked the rest of his introduction.

The generals, their aides, and the rest of the retinue were moving fast, eager to reach the Kool-Aid awaiting them at the reviewing stand. Trails of dust puffed up behind their polished boots. The officers gave Morrie’s unit a perfunctory glance.

Perhaps it was the stress of the moment, the excitement of the occasion, the stinging heat, or the feelings of patriotism that explains what happened next. Maybe Morrie acted as he did to ensure that the Generals had heard his introduction over the “woosh” of the skimming jets. Or perhaps it was his upbringing as a son of immigrants, taught to respect authority figures, especially when wearing uniforms. Whatever the reason, Morrie added a footnote to the standard operating procedure for identifying units on parade.

He stepped forward into the path of the generals and their party, interrupting their swift pace. Small clouds of dirt swirled out from under the officers’ skidding feet as they braked to avoid bumping into one another. In keeping with normal civilian rules of etiquette, Morrie put out his hand to the four-star general heading the cluster of confused officers. Automatically, the general shook it. Morrie's mouth, acting independently of his mind, spoke in a conversational tone. "Good afternoon, sir. I'm the Lieutenant heading up the three platoons of Company A, which are, as you no doubt well know, sir, under the 315th Training Battalion, the 6th Training Regiment, and the 23rd Division, to be exact. Hope you had a good look at the troops, sir. Great bunch of men." The general, frozen in place, his mouth agape, gave Morrie a disbelieving look that managed to penetrate the opaque lenses over his eyes. "Hope you had a nice trip here, sir," Morrie babbled. "Give my regards to the wife." Morrie turned to the other officers and shook each hand.

Of the thousands of men in the parade, Morrie had taken a personal moment to greet the military establishment.

Morrie mechanically marched backwards, in the opposite direction of the reviewing party, saluting repeatedly, a grimace fixed on his reddened face. “What the hell’s wrong with me?” he snarled through pressed lips, the shock of what he had done stabbing through his numbed mind. His guts roiled, heart raced, and pulse thudded to the beat of the band’s drum. He passed Manzoni and skipped forward a few steps to place himself ahead of the corporal. He felt Fratti’s eyes boring into his back.

The four-star general turned to an aide as they raced to the next unit. "Who the hell was that?"

"Must be R.O.T.C., sir," the aide muttered.

“Get his name,” the General growled.

The troops on Morrie’s left wheeled towards the reviewing stand and he followed woodenly, not caring if Manzoni, Fratti, and the rest of his company trailed him or not. He wished he could march faster than the beat of the bass drum allowed, finish early, get back to the parking lot, leap into his truck, hunker down in the cab, and give the driver his first military order: “Get our asses out of here!”

Morrie tramped past the reviewing stand. He held his salute longer than prescribed, his palm curved more than mandated, to hide his face from the seated generals and the reviewing party. But Morrie’s parents immediately recognized their son behind the concealing hand. "That's my boy," Shmuel shouted, pounding the shoulder of the colonel in the row ahead of him, breaking off the officer’s salute.

Ruchel leaped up, shrieked, and pointed to Morrie. The heads of every officer and guest in the reviewing stand turned automatically in the direction of her outstretched arm. Morrie's salute wavered at the unexpected sound of a familiar voice. “Moishe!”

The general’s aide, recalling the Commanding Officer’s instructions, promptly wrote down Morrie’s Yiddish name.

MARTIN LINDAUER has written short fiction, essays, and memoirs for The Jewish Magazine, Poetica, Oracle, Ha!, Slab, and others. He is a retired professor of psychology who has published widely on psychology and the arts, including The Psychological Study of Literature (1975, Nelson-Hall) and Aging, Creativity, and Art (2003, Springer). He is currently completing a scholarly monograph on the psychological relevance of literary content.