the rest of their grieving elsewhere, Dennis Hart would materialize once more to diligently see that the work of putting the dead to rest was done “proper like.”
What nary a soul in Melby knew of Dennis Hart was that he was a highly-decorated Navy veteran of the Second World War. He had served as a gunner’s mate, second class, onboard a Northampton class light cruiser, the USS Houston. “The galloping ghost of the Java coast,” she had been called, out of both fear and respect. But then, on the night of February 28 th , 1942, she became true to her namesake as she succumbed to the sea under the relentless fire of an overwhelming Japanese fleet. She took nearly three quarters of her complement with her as she rolled over into the ink, with the remaining crew of three hundred and sixty-eight men suffering to be captured just as soon as they struggled ashore at Bantam Bay.
For the next three and a half years, Dennis Hart and his comrades beat back death as best they could, whiling away the war as prisoners, starved, beaten, and worked each day until exhaustion. By the time their ordeal was over, seventy-seven more seamen had lost their final battle and it had been Dennis Hart who’d broken his hands and back against the earth to see that at least fifty-six of them rested in the peace they deserved.
It wasn’t a day befitting a funeral that morning in Melby; it was brimming over with life at every turn. The cicadas poured their droning over all, but even they couldn’t drown out the birds—mostly crows gathered in a glade of maples—and the squirrels and a stray dog as well that barked because apparently it’d nothing better to do. The limb rats teased the lost blue tick and its jowls slavered at the thought of having one of them between its grotesquely protruding ribs. Nearby, a blue jay quarreled with a mockingbird amongst the low lying brush as if there might not be enough grubs and grasshoppers to share between them, while seemingly everywhere else the bees bounded to and fro, delirious with the panoply of fresh flowers adorning each and every marker.
Just as had been the case over the past three years, yesterday’s was an absurdly enormous floral delivery that arrived every other week from an unknown benefactor with only the instructions that it be distributed throughout the tombstones equally. The wild honey bees couldn’t resist the flowers although the sad irony was that the buds were thick with death and all but nectar-dry. The little pollen that remained with them, after being cut, wrapped and delivered, was for the most part uselessly spread between the wilting blooms by the stubborn bees. All wasn’t in vain, however, as a very small portion did manage to find its way to the wildflowers beyond the cemetery’s border.
Dennis had no more than satisfied himself with Raymond Stout’s grave when the sound of the first of a long line of vehicles, trucks mostly, was heard to arrive. While the rumble of engines and the slamming of doors continued to grow in waves, the wails of despairing women and unsettled children rose steadily more and more as a constant above all else. Finally, in an effort to soothe those so troubled, a chorus began to sing a gentle hymn.
From the scrub, the mockingbird and his blue jay antagonist ceased their quarrel and each found a bough from which to observe the curious proceedings. The blue tick hound was reticent and tucked both his head and tail, disappearing off into the wood where the squirrels gave pursuit to torment him some more. All the while, the bees continued their futile quest for nectar, and the cicadas thrummed oblivious to the passing of man.
Just before the procession of pallbearers led the mourners with their shouldered burden, Dennis Hart slipped away as he always did, guiding his squeaky wheelbarrow off through the hip-deep weeds, taking the long way back to his tool shed. As he went he was only slightly surprised to spy a sight he saw more often than most
What nary a soul in Melby knew of Dennis Hart was that he was a highly-decorated Navy veteran of the Second World War. He had served as a gunner’s mate, second class, onboard a Northampton class light cruiser, the USS Houston. “The galloping ghost of the Java coast,” she had been called, out of both fear and respect. But then, on the night of February 28 th , 1942, she became true to her namesake as she succumbed to the sea under the relentless fire of an overwhelming Japanese fleet. She took nearly three quarters of her complement with her as she rolled over into the ink, with the remaining crew of three hundred and sixty-eight men suffering to be captured just as soon as they struggled ashore at Bantam Bay.
For the next three and a half years, Dennis Hart and his comrades beat back death as best they could, whiling away the war as prisoners, starved, beaten, and worked each day until exhaustion. By the time their ordeal was over, seventy-seven more seamen had lost their final battle and it had been Dennis Hart who’d broken his hands and back against the earth to see that at least fifty-six of them rested in the peace they deserved.
It wasn’t a day befitting a funeral that morning in Melby; it was brimming over with life at every turn. The cicadas poured their droning over all, but even they couldn’t drown out the birds—mostly crows gathered in a glade of maples—and the squirrels and a stray dog as well that barked because apparently it’d nothing better to do. The limb rats teased the lost blue tick and its jowls slavered at the thought of having one of them between its grotesquely protruding ribs. Nearby, a blue jay quarreled with a mockingbird amongst the low lying brush as if there might not be enough grubs and grasshoppers to share between them, while seemingly everywhere else the bees bounded to and fro, delirious with the panoply of fresh flowers adorning each and every marker.
Just as had been the case over the past three years, yesterday’s was an absurdly enormous floral delivery that arrived every other week from an unknown benefactor with only the instructions that it be distributed throughout the tombstones equally. The wild honey bees couldn’t resist the flowers although the sad irony was that the buds were thick with death and all but nectar-dry. The little pollen that remained with them, after being cut, wrapped and delivered, was for the most part uselessly spread between the wilting blooms by the stubborn bees. All wasn’t in vain, however, as a very small portion did manage to find its way to the wildflowers beyond the cemetery’s border.
Dennis had no more than satisfied himself with Raymond Stout’s grave when the sound of the first of a long line of vehicles, trucks mostly, was heard to arrive. While the rumble of engines and the slamming of doors continued to grow in waves, the wails of despairing women and unsettled children rose steadily more and more as a constant above all else. Finally, in an effort to soothe those so troubled, a chorus began to sing a gentle hymn.
From the scrub, the mockingbird and his blue jay antagonist ceased their quarrel and each found a bough from which to observe the curious proceedings. The blue tick hound was reticent and tucked both his head and tail, disappearing off into the wood where the squirrels gave pursuit to torment him some more. All the while, the bees continued their futile quest for nectar, and the cicadas thrummed oblivious to the passing of man.
Just before the procession of pallbearers led the mourners with their shouldered burden, Dennis Hart slipped away as he always did, guiding his squeaky wheelbarrow off through the hip-deep weeds, taking the long way back to his tool shed. As he went he was only slightly surprised to spy a sight he saw more often than most
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