John Ringo: Gust Front

He stopped and wiped a tear away. “And I watched Pittets hang. You’d be happy to hear that. They didn’t tie it the way I asked, I wanted him to kick for a while. But he’s gone. And you know about the decorations.” He tried to think of something else to say but nothing came. “I gotta go,” he said, looking at his watch and trying not to look at the lovely face behind the tubes, as the machine sucked in and out.

“The Galactics, they’re picking up the tab now. So there’s no reason to, you know… to take you off. And they’ll be moving you to a Sub-Urb. They’ve got plenty of room and really good facilities. So they’re gonna leave you hooked up in case…”

He wished now he hadn’t finished the bottle. He could use a little taste. He took her hand one last time. “Thanks for that shot on Sixth Street.” He nodded at her, one soldier to another. “I know it saved you, too. But it still saved my ass.” He nodded again, hoping that she would do the thing with grabbing his hand, but there was no response. “Well, bye, Elgars. Take care.” Finally, he turned and left the room. Behind him it was silent except for the suck and whir of the machines.

On September 10, 1998, my father died of a stroke while watching a rerun of Seinfeld .

It was the first cool day of the fall after an awful, sticky summer of blazing heat, repeated heart attacks and kidney failures. The day had been his first good one in six months and fall was his favorite time of year, so it was doubly auspicious.

There is no such thing as “a good day to die.” But there are better and worse. Taking the alternative of D-Day or the Battle of the Bulge or the Hurtgen Forest or Iwo Jima, where so many of his fellow age-mates died, an apparently fast stroke while laughing at Jerry’s antics is fair.

I mention my father for two reasons. The first is that I keep his generation in mind while writing my books. The societal conditions that provided the soldiers for the American Army in WWII were unprecedented in history. It was a society that was as technologically adept as any in the world, but that had fallen upon hard times so that there was a great need for work. Also those hard times had hammered out some of the impurities in the metal already. What was left was pretty good iron that was turned to steel by 1944.

Which, if a similar situation were to occur today, would not be the case. Personally, I like the present day. This is, unless anyone is confused, a golden age. With all the ills of a golden age. (Read The Decameron and tell me that there is a new ill under the sun.) But, given the choice between a decadent golden age and a stoic time of privation and war… give me the golden age.

But — there is always a but, isn’t there? But, if a situation were to occur today which called for a national will to survival, it would be difficult to replicate that “Greatest Generation.” First we would have to go through the sort of pre-tempering that occurred with the Great Depression, getting out all the “lesser” impurities. Only then would we as a nation be prepared for the greater tests.

And I personally don’t think we would have the time. So, I always keep my father, and his generation, in the forefront of my mind.

The second reason that I mention my father is that he turned me on to Kipling. I spent about a day of my week’s leave after Airborne school at home (hey, there were girls and bottles out there pining for me). And just before I left, my dad handed me this really beat-up old book. He told me that his dad had given it to him before he went to England in 1944 and that it was time to pass it on. I didn’t really think anything of it at the time (girls and bottles) but later, after I settled in at my permanent party, I pulled it out and gave it a look.

The Mandalay Edition of the Works of Rudyard Kipling, Departmental Ditties, Barrack-Room Ballads and Other Verses/Five Nations and the Seven Seas by Rudyard Kipling. Doubleday, Page Company, Garden City, NY, 1925. Note the last poem is “To Wolcott Balestier,” the dedication to Barrack-Room Ballads.

For the longest time I thought I was the only person in the world who still read Kipling. Then an old Vietnam Vet first sergeant (a guy I didn’t even know could read) dropped a quote. Then I heard a general “kipple.” A battalion commander. A sergeant. A visiting SAS sergeant major presented a bound collection to our battalion CSM. And I found out a little secret; there are damn few warriors in the world who don’t like Kipling. There are some who don’t know about him, but the ones who do are fanatics. It’s almost a way to separate the sheep from the goats.

For anyone who has never read Kipling, if you like my books get a Kipling collection. Rudyard could say it as no one before or since has been able to say it. He speaks to the heart and soul of the soldier. In the end, we’re all Tommies (or M.I. or Sappers or Oont drivers) at heart.

And that is the other reason I bring up my dad.

Aarnadaha— Posleen Senior Battlemaster (Brigade commander).