Author’s note: “Weekend Short” is a recurring column profiling short stories. Analysis from the readership is encouraged in the comments section.
Welcome to the weekend!
What with it being Veterans Day weekend, it only makes sense to dig into Samuel Clemens’s brief experience with the Civil War as a Johnny Reb who wasn’t really. Reading the Twained account of hopeless militiamen, I’m grateful for the drill instructors I loathed for a time (as one does who finds himself suddenly and mercilessly subject to the whims of devils) but grew to appreciate. Without structure, without reason and institution, there cannot be a military . . . just a gaggle of gun-toting opinions.
Introduction and Excerpt
Published in 1885, the story takes place in 1861 when Twain joined the Missouri Guard to defend against the Union’s “invasion” of that state that never seceded. As Twain explains, the minds and loyalties of Missourians were uncertain about which way they ought to go.
Twain writes:
You can read the rest here, listen to it here, and purchase it here.
Rumination (Spoilers Ahead)
The last line is a Twainish beauty: “I could have become a soldier myself if I had waited. I had got part of it learned, I knew more about retreating than the man that invented retreating.”
I chose this story in particular because it explains what most veterans were like as young ignorants first disembarking the buses at Great Lakes, Parris Island, Lackland, Leonard Wood, and many other recruit-development stills. Most vets couldn’t tell you more than a handful of stories from each year of service after that point, but the two to three months of inexorable formation can produce a dozen stories offhand. The reason is simple enough: We sucked at everything (har har, no, this is not a Navy-exclusive observation).
Every day offered 16 or more hours of mental application to master the requirements while downloading all the branch’s programming — the history, language, and comportment. When we left, we used a fraction of the information, but it was nonetheless necessary to establish hierarchy and purpose from the first. Marine vets never wondered who would cook or clean or who was in charge. Air Force recruits always knew which chair and masseuse was theirs. A veteran is, as much as anything, a lifelong representative of his branch. He’s its recruiter, critic, and advocate. My service was middling: an average sailor with average contributions who read more than he worked (imagine that). But when people thank me for my service (a cliché that some vets can’t abide, whether out of scorn for trite phrasing or shame for an underwhelming stint), I say it was my pleasure. No one is thanking MM2 Abel, really; rather, they’re thanking a proxy for the greatest Navy in world history. That’s pretty cool.
Twain and his men failed to invent a military for themselves because they were brigands: without pride or higher calling to call on during trials. Institutions need mythic figures — the Army has George Washington, and the Navy has John Paul Jones. U.S. recruits have the advantage of centuries of tradition and history to form them. Veterans add to the mythos of their services, and whatever that contribution resembles, it’s worthy of gratitude.
Wisconsin Postcard
I attended the Packer game last week, making for a 6–1 record in Packer games I’ve viewed from the bleachers. Granted, this incredible statistic has a lot more to do with the Packers’ success during my 30 years than it does with whatever effect my decibel contribution may have. If you’ve never attended a game at Lambeau, you really must. Parking next to a gnome for 20 bucks, walking through working-class ranch homes, and then spilling out to take in the tundra temple is a thrill like no other. Speaking of, the Packer game is starting, and I’ve got to go.
Here’s “John Paul Jones” by Johnny Horton:
Author’s note: If there’s a short story you’d like to see discussed in the coming weeks, please send your suggestion to label@nationalreview.com.