THE FOUR MUSKETEERS

They linger in the back of my mind, and more times than not, they make their way to the front. And I am reminded of the poem, “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.”

And they will neither go quietly, nor will they go gently.

And I never tire of their recurring ‘visits’ and I never protest their presence. For they were such a larger presence in my life than the three dozen days a year which we spent together.

For you see, CWO Samuel Simpson, SFC Bob Hoehne, and SFC Bob Bass, and I served together in the reserve forces of this great nation. We were more than soldiers. We were more than associates. We were true friends.

Sam and Bob #1 were members of my section. The former was my “big boss.” The latter was my “little boss.” But in spite of rank, (I was a Staff Sergeant, and the lowest man on the proverbial totem pole), we treated one another as peers, and we made no distinction between us.

And then, there was Bob #2 (Bob Bass). While he was a member of a different section, he “showed up” in our office, (or, if we were doing field maneuvers, in our tent) a couple of times each weekend, and we all thoroughly enjoyed “shooting the bull” with him.

Sam and Bob #1 were all business when there was business to be done, but they knew how to have fun when there was fun to be had; more so the latter of the two, than the former, I think.

Bob was a Yankee, and hailed from New Jersey. He sometimes spoke of “going down the shore” as a young man. And as I have inferred, previously, he possessed (or was possessed by) a sense of humor. Once, when going through the morning chow line, he told the server, “I’d like a grit. Give me one grit.”

And I remember someone once asked Sam where he was from, and he said, “South America.” (and) “You know. Alabama. It’s in the South, and it’s in America.”


Pt. 2

On one particular “road march” the rain began. And “we’re not talking” some average little Florida downpour; (which starts and ends almost before it begins). No, this was a real “frog choker.” This drencher to end all drenchers began shortly after our guard unit left the armory, and continued as our twenty or more jeeps, blazers, and deuce and a halves pulled into the main gate at the Avon Park Bombing Range.

As we rolled into our field area, it was somewhat like the first paragraph from that old volume, “Jane Eyre.”

“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning. The cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so somber, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.”

And similarly, like Jane Eyre, “I was glad of it.”

Once we pulled into the camp, six of us, including Sam, Bob#1, Bob# 2 and I, retreated to the driest available location; a cargo trailer. Apparently, there was very little cargo in it, or if so, only a small tent and poles lay on the floor.

And so, we found ourselves “snug as a bug in a rug,” and quite filling up the drop-down benches which lined each side of the trailer; while the rain continued its unmerciful deluge round about us. Thankfully, the green canvass which lined the wooden structure was “high and dry,” and no leak intruded on our revelry.

My military friends and I spent the next couple of hours talking about a myriad of miscellaneous and sundry things; none of which I recall now. But strangely enough, (to me, at least) as I write these words, it is with tears I remember that day.

It was a personally singular day that came and went, and will never return. But, for whatever reason, it is indelibly etched into my memory.

And I can only wonder if anyone else who sat in that little cargo trailer recalls that little interlude which served to postpone our Uncle Sam’s agenda; if only for a little while.

Pt. 3

CWO Simpson and SFC Hoehne retired from the guard in the early 90’s, and were transferred to the inactive reserve. I soon followed. To my knowledge, SFC Bass served a bit longer, and did the same. But since “The Four Musketeers” lived within ten miles of one another, we maintained contact; unfortunately, more sporadic, than regular in nature, and more so by phone and email, than “tete a tete.”

However, I recall once doing lunch with the guys at a local seafood restaurant. Another time Sam and I shared a meal in his adopted hometown of L.A., as he referred to it. (To be sure, Lake Alfred, not the larger, better known city in California). And sometime during the next several years, I remember speaking to Bob #1 about an upcoming physical exam for UPS. Could he loan me one of his blood pressure pills? Yes, indeed, he could, and he did. As a result, I passed my physical with “flying colors.”

Strange, as I write the foregoing lines, it occurs to me. SFC Hoehne experienced a fatal heart attack in 2002. As I recall, I read his obituary in the newspaper. By that time, he was already in repose in the Florida National Cemetery.

Sergeant First Class Bass, and I shared a common interest. We were both writers. But whereas, he wrote and published a book about the steamboats of early Florida, I wrote books about religious topics, and had, at that time, not managed to publish anything. I spoke to Bob a couple of times about his book, and the process whereby he managed to publish it.

Shortly after the first Bob went on to his reward, the second Bob and I happened to “bump into each other” at a gun show at the “Orange Dome” in the city which hosted Cypress Gardens. Of course, we greeted one another, and reminisced a bit about our dearly departed friend.

And while he moved, and lived and breathed among us for another decade, I never stood in the presence of this good man again. And I regret it.

Sam left us a couple years later, and has been gone over half a decade. And I, alone, am left to tell the tale.



I miss my friends, and I am poorer for their absence.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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