Kill the Bass Drummer
I want
to start this piece by saying that I have a great deal of respect for those men
and women who have served, or are serving our country in the military. My
grandfather fought in France and Germany during World War 1, my father on Iwo
Jima and Guadalcanal in World War Two. My wife, the coveted Laura, recently
spent over four years in Afghanistan. I, myself, spent a full day and a half in
the United States Air Force. I certainly appreciate those who have given even
more than their lives, who have had their minds disrupted, deleted, or even
destroyed because of the horrors of war.
At age
fourteen, I took employment as bass clarinetist with the Elk’s Band, a group of
fine concert musicians who played in various locations around central Illinois
and west central Indiana. Our repertoire consisted of classical pieces, the
occasional show tune, and patriotic numbers by John Phillip Sousa and his ilk.
One fine Sunday all forty-two of us climbed aboard the bus and headed for
Danville, Illinois, to play a concert at the VA hospital. The director rose to
his feet as we neared our destination, and cautioned us about the upcoming
venue.
“We’ll
park at the back of the auditorium,” he said. “Go directly inside. Do not look
around, do not leave the group, do not talk with any of the
inmates.”
“Inmates?” I thought.
“I’ll
pass out playlist when we get set up. The program will be very docile. When its
over, pack up and get back on the bus as soon as possible. If there is any
trouble, stay together. There’s safety in numbers.”
“Safety in
numbers?” I
wondered.
I was
sitting next to the bassoonist, long a member of the band, who explained that
this particular Veteran’s hospital housed men who had, for whatever reason, lost
their mental stability while in the service of their country. The Elk’s band had
not played there in over eight years. The last time they had played there
the director had called for some Sousa after his first two rather placid
selections failed to elicit applause from the five or six hundred onlookers.
When Stars and Stripes Forever lumbered into the section where the trombones
come on strong descending down the scale, an overly excited worthy in the fifth
or sixth row, moved by the stirring performance, leapt to his
feet.
“Kill
the bass drummer!” he shouted, and charged the stage.
A
large number of his compatriots, equally moved by the music, buoyed by his
fearless assault on superior numbers, took up the cause and joined in the rush.
Cries of “Over the top, boys!” and “You wanna live forever?” filled the air.
Dozens of veterans of the first and second world wars and Korea, attacked the
musicians. The band, with most of their clothes, some of their instruments, and
none of their dignity in tact, made it out the back door to the waiting bus.
Injuries were minor, but the band refused to come back for eight
years.
We
played the concert. An hour and twenty minutes of things like “Sheep May Safely
Graze and Pasture,” a truly boring experience. The audience never moved or
reacted in any way. Back on the bus and out of danger, a Dixieland jam broke
out, and we boogied all the way home.
Four
years later a college professor I had a huge amount of respect for told me he
believed it was in my best interest to leave higher education before I learned
how not to think. I took him at his word and dropped out of college. Certain
members of my family took exception to my escape, and pressured me heavily to
return to the halls of higher learning as soon as possible. I enlisted in
Danville Junior College. The year before, Danville Junior College had installed
its campus on the grounds of the same Veteran’s hospital where sheep could
safely graze and pasture. So could the students, the college propaganda said.
The more troublesome inmates of the institution (veteran, not student) had
either died off, or had been transferred to other locations. The population was
down to about eight hundred patients, only outnumbering the seekers of education
by about twenty percent.
I went
to Danville Junior College for a while, passing through the large iron gate,
locked and heavily guarded after sundown, off limits to the vets during the day,
moving through the depressing stone buildings, going to class with students who
felt and sometimes acted, like prisoners. It was not a happy place. A friend
there, Jerry Bailey, decided once that since the mental patients out numbered
the rest of us, if majority rule was in effect, we were the ones who were
insane the minute we stepped on campus. As time went on, I became convinced he
was right.
One
afternoon, Bailey, me, and two other misfits were walking down the long sweeping
drive to the front gate, two abreast, and just naturally fell into step. Down
the road we marched for nearly a quarter mile. When we reached the gate and
stopped, we noticed nearly a hundred of the vets were right behind us, in a
column of twos. They also had fallen into step, increasing in numbers as they
followed us to the street. There was no guard, the gate was open, freedom
beckoned. Three of us freaked. Bailey, some years my senior and a Viet Nam
veteran, remained calm. He looked over the column quietly.
“Ten-hut!” he shouted. They snapped to.
“Ha-bout hace!” They turned.
“Howard-harch! Yo lef, yo lef!” The entire assemblage marched away, back
up the drive.
Bailey
looked at me. “Rank tells,” he grinned. “I was a corporal!”
On
that day, in that place, with that company, the boy was a full-bird
Colonel.
