(Title Edited)

I met a Few Good Men.

I spent New Years eve alone, mostly by choice. When you get older you tend to look back more often. Sometimes it's better then looking forward, other times it's for a good reason.

Last Watch
©2009

I sit quietly looking at the photo album in my mind, there are no silver sulfate coated pieces of paper to help me remember them. The new year is a few seconds old, this has become a solemn ritual.

Eight shot glasses are lined up on the table. A half-pint of Black Jack in front of them. The seal snaps as I break it with a thumbnail. Carefully I pour each glass, precisely to the white line. My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the first one. Is it the first sign of age, or something else?

I raise that first shot, with one swift toss it goes down. Trailing heat, settling in, a pool of warmth.

For Gary, our ‘one-zero’ the team leader who led us in far more than military tactics and strategy. Over six foot six inches tall, a ‘skin’, as we called ourselves then. ‘Native American’ might be politically correct in this brief moment of history. But among us, we had our own way. His purity of spirit, clearness of vision and immense heart inspired us to be far more than we dreamed of. He wasn’t simply an honorable man, he was honor personified, it was ingrained in his being, part of him as breathing is to the rest of us. His traditional ways often overrode what western culture dictated. In his widow and children I’ve seen him, his spirit and soul is continued to the future, boding well for the rest of us. For through men like him our species will grow and thrive.

I flip the glass over and place it on the table.

The second is cool to the touch. I hold it up to the light. Seeing the world through an amber lens. It follows the first.

For Wolfe, the ‘one-two’ second in command, AKA ‘Slick’, another of the traditional people. Just as a well cut gem, you could never see all his facets. But the cut and polish he possessed made him shine brilliantly when one shared time with him. Another rare honorable man, his wisdom and innate ability to find a way to lead you to the correct solution to problems you could not deal with on your own. Through him I found much of myself that was hidden. His selfless dedication to the betterment of all people stands as a monument to him that no carved marble slab could ever equal.

The shot glass is placed upside down, next to the first.

The third is taken up with three fingers. I fiddle with it, looking at it, but not seeing it.

Instead I see Chris, the ‘one-three’. An oddity, a stranger in an even stranger land. Quiet to the point of invisibility, soft spoken, so gentle, so kind. And a warrior of distinction who feared nothing but dishonor and cowardice. He wore the Eagle, Globe and Anchor proudly, doing credit to that revered emblem with bloodily earned, deeply proud history. Another man who’s love of our miserable species went far above and beyond the call. Later in life he gave all he had built, gained and accumulated attempting to improve the human condition. In many ways he succeeded, but at enormous cost.

For him, I set the glass down with careful gentleness.

The forth is warmer, like the memories of the man it brings to mind.

Louie, ‘one-four’, AKA Boomer, of the booming laugh and sparkling eye. Who could find the best in any situation, humor in the darkest hours, tiny kindness in the horror of war, see some good in anyone he met. His love of life was infectious, brightening the space around him. His heart was pure, his soul clean. I am proud to have spent time with him. He gave so much for a country that thought little of him, treated him poorly and constantly pushed him down. His crime, the unforgivable thing that made him less than a man to many that call themselves ‘citizen’ of America?
He was black.

The glass slams down, loud in the silent room.

The fifth is for Oscar, ‘one-five’, a puzzle, riddle, curiosity. The elder, the ‘old man’ Grampa. He could have pulled his twenty and gone home. But he chose to stay, never saying why. Once, in the quiet of the night, he told me that he had seen what evil could do to innocence if left unchecked. He never mentioned it again, but in his eyes you could see the steely determination that he would do what had to be done. His experience and wisdom did well to keep the rest of us steadfast, and alive.

Another glass, upside down on the table.

The sixth is taken slowly, gently, for Bryan ‘one-six’. Everything I learned about him was from the others. He was the first man I really watched die, not the last by any means. But he was one of ‘us’, one of our ‘own’. He could make a guitar weep, his voice, rich and full. His love for his family an example that any would do far worse than follow. I feel, somehow, that I missed something by not knowing him fully.

The glass joins the others, bottoms up.

The seventh I hold for a long time, remembering Neil who took Bryan’s place, then was my replacement as ‘one-one’. AKA El Tigre, the "Cougar'. Another quiet man, deep, with many eddies and stray currents underneath where only those who really knew him were aware of his complexity. His life touched many others. In his quiet way he gave from his heart to many who will never know his name, or that he even existed. Which was his choice.

Seven up-ended sentinels now stand in a precise single file rank.

I had to prove myself to these few good men. Not as a soldier, but as a man worth knowing, who earned their respect, who would stand with them when it counted. Who could be trusted on their six. I an honored to have earned that from them. It is one of the very few things I did in that brief time that I am rightfully proud of.

The last glass is for all of us. I slam it back and hold the empty glass for a long time. It is upright when I set it down in front of the others. There’s one left to keep the memories alive. Myself.

I stand a lonely watch at my post. If most looked through the tents pitched behind me they’d find them empty. Only the few who spent time in the belly of the beast would see what’s there, and understand.

The tents are not deserted, but are filled with laughter and sorrow, joy and sadness, pain and comfort. I stand last watch over what each of these men left to me, our mutual story. Of who they were, what they did. Of war, of silent travel in jungle, desert and forest, of what Mankind can do to itself when evil fills a soul. Of ‘dancing with the devil’ in places and times that never saw the front page, or earned deeply engraved names on marble or granite.

The memories are mine to watch over, to share with the few who would understand them.

To give to some who take lessons and wisdom from what we were and did together.

So, I stand my watch with vigilance, dedication and duty. It is a lonely, often cold post, but it is mine to stand alone. There is no relief for me, but I gladly hold my place. I’m proud to keep the last watch.

For, in that secret place in my soul, I am a much better man for having known them. The scales must be balanced, debts repaid.

I stand up, holding on to the back of the chair for a second to find my balance. A little out of practice, there was a time eight shots wouldn’t have much effect. But the years have gone by, and I retired from the Professional Drinking Society quite a while back. Carefully I pour the leftover Jack into the drain and wash the glasses. A quick polish with the towel and they go back into their case for next New Year’s eve.

If I’m around.