The bugler presses his lips to the cold mouthpiece, like a timid kiss upon a reticent lover. He exhales breath through the brass, whispering transgressive words outside the authorized yelps of 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir'. The horn is warm enough to hold a pitch. He would certainly need an audience, so he bugles the Assembly Call.
Surkley relinquishes his 118th pull-up, which would have been new personal record had he kept records. Biggins lowers his aim and sets the safety, stunting artillery training that would have saved his platoon in April. Williams trails off mid-punchline; Mosly and Burton devour no more mashed potatoes and chortle at no more lewd jokes. They all stopped: Gutierrez, Hamplin, "Ratboy", Codwell, Lyons, a hundred more privates with names he knew, a thousand more privates with names he didn't. The officers arrive in response to an order they did not issue.
They congregate in the field, leaving barracks vacant like beetle shells. Charmed by the bugler's call, they salute at attention. They stand, some holding chicken wings, some bearded with shaving cream, some wearing only towels, some bearing rifles, some bearing poems to Kentuckian lovers, some bearing misanthropy, some bearing the flamboyance of a soldier playing soldier.
Things are silent and still while the bugler draws his bugle. Nothing in his repertoire would suffice, not Mess Call, not Taps, not Reveille, not To The Color. None of these captured how he felt. He raised the bugle and blew. The song went on and on. All the soldiers danced.
No comments:
Post a Comment