Veteran's Day

 

 

 

 

It was November of my Senior Year in High School. The band director, my favorite teacher in the school, tagged me and another drummer at the end of Concert Band. We had been heading out, but he managed to corral us for a moment. 

We had no idea that, in a few months, the room we were standing in would be abandoned because a portion of the rear of the building - the building which had two upper floors that had been closed off due to the deterioration of the building that had been built in 1891, if I recall correctly. But it was there, the risers around us taking the upper level in the rear of the room about three feet above the lower area where we entered and the band director's podium stood next to the piano.  

He had been asked by someone - he was vague as to whom - if he could find a couple of drummers to participate in a Veteran's Day observance out at the Veteran's Home. Well, we knew where it was - it had been the destination of every Memorial Day parade we'd participated in over the last fouro years. Or four for me, three for him. 

We looked at each other. He was by far the best drummer in the band. I was able to walk and chew gum at the same time, and kept a steady beat. I had worked up from the "second bass drum" position to triples - the three drums tuned to different tones, that provided some interest in our cadences, the drum bits that we'd play in between songs on the streets. We had four we relied on. Rather inspirationally named One, Bells, Jive, and Blood. Blood was part of a set of three, called Blood, Sweat, and Tears. We had dropped the last two, the bell cadence relied on having enough bell players to be heard at a distance.

We had the old-fashioned upright bells, often referred to as "Glockenschpiel" - about two octaves of tones, played with a hard ball-headed mallet that had a disturbing tendency to shatter when you least expected it - or it sure did during Concert Band practice or when we practiced our Percussion Ensemble numbers. And did out on the streets, too. But for some reason we relied on two different bell "tunes" on the streets. The first was a melody rather commonly known as "oh come little children" - which is usually a Christmas tune. The other was, I suspect, far more our favorite, a tune known to much of the world as "Scotland The Brave." 

None of those were options. With only two of us, we needed one snare, one bass. I'd upgraded after my first year to the Big Bass Drum, a drum that was 30 inches across. The small bass was ten inches smaller, sounded pretty much like a five gallon pail. The big drum was large enough to let you feel the thump in your chest when it was hit properly.

So we were going to keep it simple. We knew that. Practice? Nah. I'd keep a steady beat, he'd riff along. Didn't have to match with anyone else.  We didn't say much other than "sure, no problem." "We'll just wing it" he said. Then the band director dropped the bad news. "Full Marching Uniform." Well, it was early November. Heavy black wool pants, black wool suit coats topped with an embroidered overlay with a high collar which would give you a pretty terrible sunburn if you didn't prepare - and the top of the bass drum was polished aluminum right under my chin - the first summer playing the bass drum i learned that weird tan lines were a cost of doing the job. The snare drummers got weird bruises on their left legs, just above their knees, from the drum brace. 

Both of us would wear the usual harness. The snare strap went up, over one shoulder, down around behind their backs, and connected to the other loop right at their waist. The bass harness was more of a figure 8 across my back. Much narrower than the snare straps, the one-inch straps went over the suit coat, under the overlay, you only had the two snap hooks that connected to the two loops at the top of the drum. Wearing it, you naturally leaned backward, to counter the forty-plus pounds hanging off your chest, and you couldn't see your feet. Not that you were supposed to look at them.  

The whole outfit was on top of our black dress shoes, topped by white "spats" - a sort of white collar that went over the top of your shoe and was held down with an elastic strap under your shoe - always a headache to clean when you had to march through the horse droppings we had to get through. But up on top we had tall black-fur covered "Shako" hats - think Buckingham Palace changing of the guard hats. Yeah, nice and cool in 90-degree summer heat, which was when most of our parades occurred.

 But then the weather turned. It had been tolerable, almost acceptable, but became cooler and wetter. Not snow-cool, but cool enough. The day arrived, and I remembered to bring my uniform, in the proper suit bag, to school. With the helmet. Dropped it off in the band room before my first class, but after that, headed down to the band room. Changed, then we hopped into the band director's car. An AMC Pacer with three guys, a large bass drum and snare drum, and our hats. We got to a line-up spot, about a mile out from our destination, and we got planted right behind the lead color guard. 

i had turned 18 a month before, but the men I was lining up behind were at least sixty years older than I was. There were a few younger men, World War II patches and a few mentioned Korea. The commander of the color guard, a man whom I'd seen in the newspaper because he'd been involved in getting the local American Legion posts to support a summer baseball league. He carried an unsheathed sword, and asked us how fast a tempo we intended to set. I said "I think we can probably maintain a standard march" and started tapping the tempo on the rim of the drum. 

 "Could you slow it down a little? We want to be distinguished, not rushed." I slowed slightly, and he nodded. "We can handle that." One of the flag bearers turned around. "You can, slowpoke" he said, smiling. "We're in a bit of a hurry up here, we've got both hands out in the wet. You're just carrying a sword." My Scoutmaster who helped show me how to earn my Eagle Scout award was a retired Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant. He had taught us how to properly tuck in our shirts, stand at attention, and recognize leaders. I just nodded. 

 Then the rain started to really get serious. I looked at the director. He shrugged. I had a couple of layers of wool on me. I was good. There was a whistle, a few shouted orders, then the man with the sword pointed at us. The snare drummer whacked the rims at our agreed tempo four times, quite loudly, and we kicked off. I was on beats one and three, for a while, I let him take care of most of the fun stuff. The bass drum is the solid clue a foot should be hitting the ground, so once we got the nod to move after the color guard took a few steps and I went to the four beats, alternating left and right. 

Out of the parking lot, a right turn, with only two of us, but I had to slow down because he was to my left. Then, on the left turn, I stretched my stride to get around the corner while he half-stepped. Marching band rules, when you've done it a few years, are pretty much automatic. Then we realized we'd fallen into playing parts of our cadences. So we varied things a bit. I was on beat, he was off beat. I stayed on the beat because I knew we had a pretty big crowd behind us, a lot of veterans who had marched in the service, and I figured I'd help out to keep them together.

We made the route go by pretty quickly. I was glad we never wore gloves as drummers, because the rain was really coming down. I had to shake my head, lightly, quickly, to clear the rain from the brim of the hat before it splashed onto my glasses. We made the last turn, under the trees, the rain lightened up. The crowds we saw watching were smaller than the usual parade crowds we would see, a lot of older people. Because we were at the front where the flags were, everyone we passed was still standing. 

We made it about two-thirds of the way down the road to the Veteran's home when the commander of the color guard called them to a halt. We pulled up a standard four steps behind them and did a final rolloff. And we stopped. We didn't move, because we hadn't been dismissed. I think both of us were probably wondering what the heck we were going to do and how long we could hold out. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw someone's grandmother - in a military uniform - come up to us. 

She thanked us. Said she really appreciated the time we had taken out of our school day to come and help them march. I had no brain left. I was soaked pretty much to the skin, my uniform weighed at least thirty pounds more than it had when I put it on, and my shoes squashed when I stepped. I could feel the water in them. But my mouth some how did the right thing. "Thank you for your service," I said. "This weather isn't much compared to what you folks had to endure..." She patted my arm and said "Bless you. Tell your Dad I said Hi." Then she walked away. 

I never got her name, didn't recognize her, and Dad knew so many people that he had no idea who it was. But every Veteran's Day I remember that day, and remind myself yeah, it might have been a miserable afternoon for me, but I didn't walk into a recruiting station and take an oath like they did. I have tried to live my life to respect their sacrifice.   And I know I can't thank them enough.