I Hate Memorial Day

Every year I get a butt-load of e-mails telling me to catch these sale prices now.

Every year someone somewhere wishes me or the general population a “happy” Memorial Day.

Every year there is an obligatory news bite featuring “Taps” at Arlington National Cemetery, and every year several elected officials who have somehow gotten hold of my Net address admonish me to reflect. Reflect???

Every year my NRA-employed, Republican-voting nabe across the street hangs out a big mammyjammin’ flag.

I never hear anyone talk much about what they propose to do — what justice they will pursue, what inequity they will work to remedy, what diplomacy they will support — so that the world can stop having fucking wars.

Des Morgens zwischen drei’n und vieren,
da müssen wir Soldaten marschieren
das Gäßlein auf und ab,
trallali, trallaley, trallalera,
mein Schätzel sieht herab!

Ach Bruder, jetzt bin ich geschossen,
die Kugel hat mich schwere, schwer getroffen,
trag’ mich in mein Quartier,
trallali, trallaley, trallalera,
es ist nicht weit von hier!

Ach Bruder, ich kann dich nicht tragen,
die Feinde haben uns geschlagen!
Helf’ dir der liebe Gott!
Trallali, trallaley,
trallali, trallaley, trallalera!
Ich muß, ich muß marschieren bis in’ Tod!

Ach Brüder, ach Brüder,
ihr geht ja mir vorüber,
als wär’s mit mir vorbei!
Trallali, trallaley,
trallali, trallaley, trallalera!
Ihr tretet mir zu nah!

Ich muß wohl meine Trommel rühren,
ich muß meine Trommel wohl rühren,
trallali, trallaley, trallali, trallaley,
sonst werd’ ich mich verlieren,
trallali, trallaley, trallala.
Die Brüder, dick gesät,
sie liegen wie gemäht.

Er schlägt die Trommel auf und nieder,
er wecket seine stillen Brüder,
trallali, trallaley, trallali, trallaley,
sie schlagen und sie schlagen
ihren Feind, Feind, Feind,
trallali, trallaley, trallalerallala,
ein Schrecken schlägt den Feind!

Er schlägt die Trommel auf und nieder,
da sind sie vor dem Nachtquartier schon wieder,
trallali, trallaley, trallali, trallaley.
In’s Gäßlein hell hinaus, hell hinaus!
Sie zieh’n vor Schätzleins Haus.
Trallali, trallaley,
trallali, trallaley, trallalera,
sie ziehen vor Schätzeleins Haus, trallali.

Des Morgens stehen da die Gebeine
in Reih’ und Glied, sie steh’n wie Leichensteine
in Reih’, in Reih’ und Glied.
Die Trommel steht voran,
daß sie ihn sehen kann.
Trallali, trallaley,
trallali, trallaley, trallalera,
daß sie ihn sehen kann!

Reveille

In the morning between three and four,
we soldiers must march
up and down the alley,
trallali, trallaley, trallalera,
my sweetheart looks down!

Oh, brother, now I’ve been shot,
the bullet has struck me hard,
carry me to my billet,
trallali, trallaley, trallalera,
it isn’t far from here!

Oh, brother, I can’t carry you,
the enemy has beaten us,
may the dear God help you!
Trallali, trallaley,
trallali, trallaley, trallalera,
I must, I must march on until death!

Oh, brothers, oh, brothers,
you go on past me
as if I were done with!
Trallali, trallaley,
trallali, trallaley, trallalera,
you’re treading too near to me!

I must nevertheless beat my drum,
I must nevertheless beat my drum,
trallali, trallaley, trallali, trallaley,
otherwise I will lose myself,
trallali, trallaley, trallala.
My brothers, thickly covering the ground,
lie as if mown down.

Up and down he beats the drum,
he wakes his silent brothers,
trallali, trallaley, trallali, trallaley,
they battle and they strike their enemy,
enemy, enemy,
trallali, trallaley, trallalerallala,
a terror smites the enemy!

Up and down he beats the drum,
there they are again before their billets,
trallali, trallaley, trallali, trallaley.
Clearly out into the alley!
They draw before sweetheart’s house,
trallali, trallaley,
trallali, trallaley, trallalera,
they draw before sweetheart’s house, trallali.

In the morning there stand the skeletons
in rank and file, they stand like tombstones,
in rank, in rank and file.
The drum stands in front,
so that he can be seen.
Trallali, trallaley,
trallali, trallaley, trallalera,
so that he can be seen.

And that’s what I wish they would play on the radio every Memorial Day.

 

The Guy Who Wakes The Bugler Up

A few days ago a random tweet from Az reminded me of this song for the second time in a 24-hour period. My late and ex, whose military service occurred during the Korean War but whose memory reached solidly back to the entertainment of the 30s and 40s, used to sing it now and then when the wind blew Reveille our way from the military base just adjoining our property. (By that time, there was no longer a real bugler every day, but I cherished the knowledge that I had personally known an Army bugler who recorded Reveille to be replayed daily on the PA, and might still be hearing him across the gap of years.)

You couldn’t debut a song like this today. Someone would form a Society For The Prevention Of Violence Against Buglers, and mount a huge protest and there would be proto-pundits on vapid news programs chewing over what popular entertainment has come to, dehumanizing people who do necessary jobs and joking about death threats. And then the poor guy who wakes the bugler up! What about him, someone would cry? The hand wringing, the boycotts!

(Who gets stuck with that job, anyway?)