Set in the Spontoon Island universe. 'Nuff said.

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In Review, Pass

A Thursday Prompt story
© 2018 by Walter Reimer


Prompt: troop


“It’s damned hot out here,” a slim cougar muttered. The feline tugged at the stock collar of his maroon formal uniform tunic. A few others in the ranks muttered their agreement.

“You volunteered,” the badger standing at ease beside him said, “just like all the rest of us.” He tipped his forest-green kepi back a bit, scratched under the hatband, and replaced the headgear. “She needs a good sendoff.” A few furs nearby, attired in their formal uniforms and all sporting three chevrons on their sleeves – silver for petty officers, gold for sergeants – nodded.

“Deirdre did right by us, back in ’43,” a pronghorn antelope femme said. “It’s fitten we do right by her.” Her ears perked as a tall whitetail buck emerged from the front door of St. Athanasius’ Hospital. She and the other one hundred and nine enlisted members of the Rain Island Military Collective grew quiet.

The buck appeared to get a bit taller as he straightened up, at attention. “Guard of Honor, Ah-ten-SHUN!” he barked, and the group obeyed instantly. “Open . . . RANKS!”

At the command, each rank took a step forward, widening the gaps between them.

“SALUTE!” All of the noncommissioned furs saluted, right fist to right ear, and held it as the buck executed a smart about-face and saluted.

The doors to the hospital opened and a small group of furs stepped out. The head of the Military Collective, Commodore Wiegert, led them and all were in their formal uniforms. The Vice-Commodore for the Air Arm and the head of the Army Union, General Gray Cloud, held the doors open and saluted.

Out came a hunched-over Irish wolfhound in a wheelchair, a comforter in her lap despite the heat and a maroon uniform tunic bearing the broad gold stripe of Commodore draped over her shoulders. A nurse in formal whites pushed the chair, and brought it to a halt a few paces from the cervine.

Commodore Wiegert took up a position facing the canine in the wheelchair, his staff flanking him, and the feline saluted. “Commodore Deirdre O’Rourke,” he said loudly, “the Military Collective is here to honor you on your one hundred and tenth birthday.”

A shaking paw raised, clenched into a fist, and moved up to her right ear as the wolfhound returned the salute. The whitetail buck shouted, “RETURN! AT EASE!”

Arms lowered and formerly rigid poses relaxed.

It was a signal.

The group of sergeants and petty officers, all of them the elected Syndics of their units, began to sing the Naval Syndicate’s song, in honor of the branch O’Rourke had first joined:

“We are the Naval Syndicate,
The bold R. I. N. S.;
We may not shoot, we won’t salute,
We always look a mess;
But when the shot and fur flies
Our enemies will see
Just what can get accomplished
Through solidarity!”*

The wolfhound’s paw shook as she lowered it, lips moving silently as she sang along. When the song was over, the buck saluted again. “Commodore O’Rourke,” he said, “the formation is ready for review.”

Wiegert took over from the nurse, guiding his wheelchair-bound predecessor around and through the ranks of the formation, his staff trailing behind him and pausing for each of the noncoms to touch the elderly woman’s paw or offer a birthday greeting. No wishes for a long life, though; it was common knowledge in the Military Collective that the canine would not see her one hundred eleventh birthday.

By the time her circuit through the ranks was finished, O’Rourke’s head was bowed but a slight movement of her shoulders betrayed the fact that she was crying. Commodore Wiegert brought her around to face the detail again and paused as she gestured to him with her left paw.

He bent close, ears perked as her lips moved, and nodded. He looked up at the buck.
“Sergeant, fall the detail in.”

The buck nodded and turned. “Ah-ten-SHUN! Close . . . RANKS!” The formation obeyed, and Deirdre O’Rourke was helped to her feet, the Vice-Commodore for the Fleet whisking aside the comforter that she’d had in her lap.

The wolfhound stood as straight as she could, an easy two inches taller than the feline. She snuffled back her tears and raised her right fist to her ear in salute as the noncoms facing her took off their kepis and sang Happy Birthday before offering three cheers to her.

The display seemed to sap what energy she had, and the old canine was assisted into her wheelchair. The detail stood silent as she was bundled off to the hospital and to the room that would be her world until she passed away.

When the front doors closed, the formation quietly fell out and returned to the air-conditioned comfort of the buses that would take them back to base.



end


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*Sung to the tune of ‘The Church’s One Foundation’