A Hymn Before Battle

11 San Diego, CA Sol III 0822 November 5th, 2001 ad

Ernie Pappas was a United States citizen born in the Territory of American Samoa. In 1961 at eighteen years of age, he enlisted in the United States Marine Corp as a private. Samoans are an odd and desired commodity in the United States military. Odd because along with generally Herculean physique they have distinctive Polynesian features that stand out among a sea of medium-sized black and white. They are desired because along with the aforementioned Herculean physiques come sharp intellects and unflappable personalities. Samoans attain rank fast and commanders with Samoan NCOs argue strenuously for their unit stabilization beyond normal periods. Their reenlistment rate is high.

In 1964, Lance Corporal Pappas married sixteen-year-old Priscilla Walls of Yemassee, South Carolina. This marriage violated several taboos in the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Walls. First, although not Negro, Lance Corporal Pappas was of “color.” In 1964 in Yemassee, South Carolina, white girls, even lower income white girls, did not marry people of color. Second, Missy Priscilla, their Baby Prissy, was underage for such things; although marriage among her peers, and her parents’ peers, had occurred as early as fifteen. Third, the young man was an enlisted marine. Although Priscilla considered this a step up in life — her peers could be most kindly referred to as “lower income rural” — her parents were of the opposite opinion. Lower income rural had been good enough for her grandfather, a share cropper, and great-grandfather, a share cropper, and it was better than a “chink jarhead.” (Mr. Walls’ knowledge of the Territory of American Samoa rivaled his knowledge of nuclear physics.)

Despite these facts, the Walls signed the obligatory papers and stood before the justice of the peace with Prissy’s sister acting as matron of honor and Lance Corporal Pappas’ gunnery sergeant as best man, because Prissy had missed two periods and appeared to be in a family way.

It was now November 5, 2001 ad and retired Master Gunnery Sergeant Earnest Pappas sipped hot, black Kona coffee in his own kitchen and appeared to contemplate his Saturday San Diego Times. Intermittently he would blow his cheeks out and puff the resultant air with a gentle motoring sound.

Mrs. Earnest Pappas was clearing the breakfast dishes and from thirty-seven years experience correctly judged his mood as black. She even knew the reasons for his mood.

The reasons were twofold. Despite the fact that he had given them three good-looking grandchildren, all college graduates, had never raised a hand to their daughter, had been faithful to her and had attained for her a standard of living the envy of her siblings, he was still intensely disliked by his in-laws. The fact was unstated but obvious that the feelings were mutual. He therefore regarded her parents’ upcoming visit both with annoyance and the resignation he applied to all situations that were unavoidable. Change the things you can, don’t worry about the things you can’t. Which brought him to the other thing he couldn’t change. Age.

For thirty years Earnest Pappas had trained for a defining moment: the defense of the United States. But the war bearing down on his country would be borne upon the backs of the young men, the hale. He was just a broken down war-horse, too old to be of any use.

His, he thought, carefully concealed dank mood was shattered by his wife handing him a mailgram. It had his name and social security number in the address window and the return address of a well-known Department of Defense bureau located in St. Louis, Missouri. With a feeling of utter disbelief, under the shuttered eyes of his wife he carefully wiped off a knife, most recently used to section a grapefruit, and applied it to the envelope. Within was a multifolded document which read:

He first checked to see that it was indeed addressed to him and referred to his social security number. Then he carefully reread it as he scratched his head with the butt of the knife, a habit which drove his wife to distraction.

He blew a small quantity of dandruff off the letter, looked up at his wife and stated the obvious: “I’m fifty-seven years old!” Then he thought, re-reading the letter, Damn, I’m still going to be here when those white trash assholes visit!