by David Wilson
I have always hated funerals, a few years back I had had to go to six funerals over the course of two months and I swore than that if I could avoid it the next one I went to would be my own. To me a funeral is a personal event, whether it is family or just a friend it was not something to be shared with anyone. Call it denial or avoidance or whatever you want, I really don’t care what you label it. We each deal with our grief our own way. We gently laid him down and briefly just stood there staring down at him. All of us in slight disbelief that he was gone and each hoping that he would just get up and say something totally inappropriate. Don cleared his throat, “He was a fine young man. I didn’t know him well but the few times he had been a guest at my house he was always willing to lend a hand without being ask. He will be missed.” “Ah come on Grandpa,” Mat said, “wasn't it you that always told him he was an ass and that his smart aleck mouth would get him shot, stabbed, or hung one of these days.” It came out as a half laugh half sob, but it did lift the mood. Ben added, “It was always funny how he would always hit on every good looking girl but he was scared to death of them if they showed the least amount of interest in him. He had a girl back home that he had been dating since middle school. He always said that the day he graduated he was going to ask her to marry him.”
I stepped up to the group, “I, like Don, did not know him well but I’m a pretty good judge of character and he was a good solid man that I trusted enough to cover my back when there was trouble.” Everyone turned to Beth, who was still quietly crying. Mat moved over to her and gently took her in his arms and whispered something to her. She buried her face into his chest and said, “I am so sorry, I wish this day never happened,” as the sobs took over. I caught Mat’s eyes and motioned him to take her away. He turned her and helped her over to the base of the large oak tree. Mat came back over and jumped down into the grave, I followed Mat and we took Jeff from Ben and Don and gently laid him in the bottom of the grave. Once we had him laid down I motioned Mat to get out, as Mat climbed out I took two of the gold coins we took off the bikers from my pocket and gently laid the coins on Jeff’s eyes. I wrapped the poncho liner and tarp around his face and stood and climbed out of the grave. I looked around and ask if anyone could say a prayer over him. Don stepped forward and in a voice that would have done any small town preacher proud, he recited the Lord’s Prayer. After he was finished, I reached down and grasp a handful of dirt and let it trickle though my fingers into the grave. Each of the others did the same and Ben grabbed the shovel and began to fill in the grave.
Going over to Don and Mat I told them to make sure everything was packed up and that we would be moving out as soon as we could. I then walked back over to the remaining three pistols and the pile of magazines. Giving one each to Don and Mat and split the remaining mags between all of us. Taking mine I slid it into the top pouch of my chest rig, dropped in a couple of mags in my right hand pouch and the rest into my pack. Next I gathered up Jeff’s DPMS and the DP-12 and secured the DPMS in Mat’s bike trailer and strapped the DP-12 and the bandoleers to my ruck sack in my trailer. Noticing the empty loops in the bandoleers I pulled out a partial box of OO buckshot and refilled the loops.
Ben came over and ask about a marker for Jeff’s grave. “Ben none of us will ever forget where he is buried and it won’t matter to anyone else. Most men could not ask for more than to be buried where they fell on the battlefield surrounded by their dead enemies. Jeff will be fine without a marker.” Ben nodded and headed over to his bike to get ready to go.
Epilogue
With everyone on their bikes and ready to move out I told them to stay up by the footbridge and to keep a good watch to our east as I headed down to try and figure out why the Iranians were so concerned about us shooting up their vans. Approaching the vans carefully, I went to the second van because that was the van the men had attempted to get to earlier. Leaning into the passenger side window, which Ben had so thoughtfully removed for me, I could see the vague out line of three barrels stood on end down the center fine of the van. Pulling my flashlight out of my vest I shined the light on the barrels. Each of the barrels where clearly marked as chlorine. Calling everyone on my radio I instructed Don and Beth to stay with the bikes and for Ben and Mat to come down and help me. With their help we were able to push the van over to the boat ramp and let it roll down into the river. It hit with a hard splash and began floating down the river as it filled with water. Within five minutes the van disappeared under the water and was done from sight. Moving back to our bikes we all headed down to the ferry and pushed our bikes onto the ferry. Turning back to the fully engulfed ferry building I signed and felt exhausted. It had been a hell of a day. Now we just needed to get to the other side of the river and head for the mountains. The first steps are always the hardest, or so they say.
