Late for a Funeral

By Elaine Little

They left during rush hour. Target: Sokagon, Wisconsin. Named after a Native American tribe. Headed north on I-90 towards Madison. 0800 departure. Reason(s): Funeral Detail. Buckled securely in the assigned government car, a Toyota Camry.  
Sergeant First Class Temple nudged Sergeant Plummer. "Sure, those directions aren't full of shit?"
"They're Mapquest."
"I don't care if they're Triple-A. This trip shouldn't be taking this long, Jesus." He always looked neat and put together. Like he actually steamed his uniform. But why oh why did he have to top it off with a shit ton of Axe body spray?
Temple was pushing 40, like her. But unlike her, there were no kids, no spouse. He lived with his mom, probably in the basement. He claimed he was "helping" her. There seemed to be a lot of guys like him at the unit who tried to take their part-time Guard duty and cobble it into something resembling a full-time job. Putting their hand up for every tour opportunity. Tour hogs, they called them. When they were repeatedly selected to participate in military exercises in Thailand or Panama due to their enhanced availability status, resentment arose.  
Temple turned on a sharp curve and skirted the opposing lane a tad too close as yet another truck barreled past, horn blasting. 
He rolled down the window. "Asshole," he yelled. His middle finger extended behind. 
Funeral details had picked up recently as the World War 2 generation was dropping like flies. Many of these old Vets either seemed to be from small towns or ended up in them. Once you left the highway and steered onto the two-lane blacktop, you were forced to compete for dominance on the only road out or in. Tractors chugged along in front of you without a care in the world while you fumed in your G-car. Trucks zoomed up behind and tailgated until they sped around you as if someone was bleeding out in the back seat. 
Temple jerked his arm back and slapped the steering wheel. It was early but hot and muggy, and they were both stripped down to their stiff green uniform shirts.  Their jackets jammed on hooks in the back seat. Temple's armpits were already dark with sweat. 
Plummer sighed. "We're late." She eyed their gear in the back—the boom box containing the CD for playing Taps. The flag folded into a snug triangular shape. 
        Temple checked his watch, groaned, and gunned the accelerator. 
Sergeant Plummer felt like she'd drawn the short stick. First, getting paired with grumpy SFC Temple. Second, not being able to avoid the detail in the first place. They all arrived at the Guard unit at the same time for funeral assignments. The pay was the same whether you got sent or not.  If you were lucky, you parked your butt on the couch in the day room until your name didn't get called. Lately, the TV had been tuned to CNN, where the buildup to the Iraq invasion was a constant refrain. The TV channel's chyron spelled out: IRAQ SHOWDOWN. Countdown to Destiny. Not her destiny.  
Ten minutes later, they pulled into the isolated cemetery. Eternal Valley, Eternal Memories, Eternal Something.   
They parked in the grass and got out of the car. There was no parking lot.  The cemetery was old, a bit unkempt.  Probably creepy at night with all the old tombstones with the letters carved so faintly like they'd been engraved with feathers. You could barely make out the names or dates. Some newer tombstones or plaques were glistening in the sunlight. They walked along the long lines of mowed grass. You could see where the landscapers had left off. Plummer took a deep breath. The fresh, wet smell eclipsed Temple's musky body spray.
They weren't excusably late. The ten minutes that could be explained away by traffic and missed turns. No, they were 45 minutes late. With excuses composed in their head, ready to be delivered with a long face (this happened more often than she liked to admit), they trudged toward a temporary white awning anchored next to a freshly dug grave. The disturbed reddish-brown soil was the only evidence of a recent burial. She wondered what happened to the flowers. Or if there'd even been any. 
According to the printout, their point of contact/next of kin was a Mr. Henderson.  
As if on cue, the twangy sound of a door springing open and the dull thud as it slammed cut the quiet. Sergeant Plummer turned and saw an old geezer exiting the port-a-potty. Purty Potty, it was called. They always had cringy names. Mr. Henderson fastened his belt as he charged toward them with a furrowed brow and curled lip. She prepared herself for the verbal shellacking. 
Temple extended the olive branch. He put out his hand as the man approached. Henderson ignored it. He was dressed in a worn navy blue jacket that hung oddly as if something was in the way besides his gut. On second glance, she saw he was wearing a holster containing a silver-handled pistol. No need to panic (yet). It was an open-carry state. 
First salvo. "You're late," Henderson said. He just kept staring at the grave. Plummer could tell he was over 50. Weathered farmer skin, probably smoked or more likely chewed. His jeans were an unconventional choice for a funeral. However, she noticed the rules for these things had evolved. Once, they'd been dispatched to a biker funeral. Everyone wore denim, dirty white T-shirts and black leather jackets. By those standards, he was overdressed. 
"My Dad," he said. "I miss him." He stood in silence, which they both respected. Using the time to compose their excuses. 
Then things began to turn. "You guys are late!"  Henderson yelled, his face contorted and full of grief. 
"Sorry, Sir," Temple said. "There was a lot of traffic."
"Where are you all from?"
"Chicago." 
"Don't know why they can't get somebody local." Henderson’s palms rested squarely on his hips.
"That's a great idea," Plummer said. 
The old man over enunciated. “EVERYBODY was here ON TIME. Sister couldn't wait. Had an appointment. My buddy, Lionel, had to get to work.”
"And the others?" Plummer asked. 
Henderson rested his hand on top of his holster. "I’ve been told you don't have enough personnel for a gun salute."
Temple nodded. "Sorry, Sir. You're right. We don't even have a bugler." He pointed at the boom box. "We play a recording."
"You got a gun recording, too? A 21-gun salute?"
"Uh, no," said Plummer. He couldn't be serious. 21-gun salutes were for heads of state. The dead guy, the Veteran, was—she looked down at her paperwork. It appeared he had been discharged as a specialist or corporal. She looked up. "If we did have a rifle detail, he would’ve only gotten a three-volley rifle salute."
Temple stared at her and shook his head. She'd just made it worse.  It was essential to make every family member think their loved one's demise was as crucial as any general's. But he wouldn't like it if they played the CD anyway. A recording that often skipped in the middle. No matter how many times Plummer cleaned the CD or begged them to order a new one. 
            Henderson chuckled to himself. Then, he tilted his head toward the two. "You know I'm a Vet too."
            "Thanks for your service, Sir," Temple said. Plummer jumped in. "Thanks for your—"
Henderson waved their solicitations away. "So, when are they going to send you two to the fight?"
Plummer gazed at Henderson. A perfectly innocent question, maybe. But she sensed a hint of malice. Like they were being toyed with. He was more pissed at them being late than he let on. His anger was erupting in short, passive-aggressive spurts. 
Back at the unit when they were going to Iraq was on repeat. Off-putting stuff. But by they, she figured it meant those active-duty folks who signed up for that shit. Not National Guard types hanging around until they put in enough time for a pension. 
"We have no idea about that Sir. But when the time comes, we're ready,” Temple said. 
He sounded entirely too pleased at the idea. For him, Iraq symbolized money, not danger. Plummer recalled him getting pumped up after watching yet another "Ramp Up to Iraq" special on CNN that week in the day room. He said he wouldn't mind going.  Expounding on combat pay, cost of living allowance, and basic housing allowance. No mention was made of the life insurance his mom would receive if he didn't make it back. 
Henderson smiled and thankfully let the subject drop. He brightened. "I got an idea. You all can still go through your little ceremony. He thrust his chin in the direction of the grave. "He's not going anywhere."
Plummer shot Temple a questioning look. He only shrugged. "Sure, we can do that."
Temple pointed his chin in the direction of the boom box.  
Plummer cued up the CD. The sound of Taps filled the air.  "Attention" Temple bellowed. 
Plummer stood up straight and saluted almost in unison with Temple. Henderson hesitated a bit before bringing his hand, which was shaking a bit, to his forehead. 
Taps concluded, Plummer and Temple pulled white gloves out of their pockets, put them on, and paced several steps away from Mr. Henderson. Temple secured the flag. Plummer grabbed one end as they unfurled the triangular bundle.
Temple was always the folder. He was a funeral detail veteran and could fold like a pro. Sergeant Plummer was the holder, pulling it tight. When it was once again in a tight bundle, Temple rendered a crisp salute after Plummer received the flag. Plummer repositioned the flag so that the wider side faced out in preparation for the presentation to Mr. Henderson, who was fumbling with something.
Pop! Pop! Pop! 
Temple dove to the ground. Plummer froze. The shots stopped. But what goes up must come down. There was no place to dive under. She was just as safe on her feet. The refrain, 'Don't let the flag touch the ground,' ran through her head. There were no instructions for out-of-the-box occurrences such as this. 
The shots still echoed as Temple scrambled to his feet. "Plummer to the vehicle. Now!"
Henderson was composed and silent as he returned the pistol to the holster.
Plummer hurried to him and handed him the flag. Then she saluted. 
"Sorry, ma'am," he said, even though she wasn't one. "Couldn't resist giving my dad a proper send-off. He would've liked that. 
"Plummer, move out, or I'm writing you up!"
He wouldn't do that. He hated paperwork. 
Plummer turned, grabbed the boom box, and ran towards the car. She climbed in and slammed the door. 
Temple slipped the key into the ignition. "Are you stupid?"
Plummer cowered in the passenger seat. He was right. She couldn't explain why she wanted to finish up, put a fine point on each task she accomplished, even in the wake of craziness. What was it in her that made her like this? She glanced back. Henderson hadn't budged. His gaze fixated on the grave site. 
The car's undercarriage bumped and scraped the road as they exited the cemetery way too fast. The radio blared. Temple must have left it on when they pulled in. He pushed the button to silence it. But not before a three-car pileup was reported on I-90. 
"Is there an alternate route?"
Temple frowned. "We're going to be late.” 

****

Army Veteran Elaine Little’s short stories and essays have been published in literary journals to include “Proud to Be,” “The Warhorse,” and “Consequence Forum.”  Her essay, “Bitter Tea” was performed by actor, Sharon Stone at Hollywood’s Post 43 for “Honor In Their Words,” commemorating the 50th anniversary of the U.S. Vietnam withdrawal. She’s a screenwriter who participated in ArtsUpLA’s Veteran’s film project and was selected for the 2025 Writer’s Guild of America Veteran’s Writing project.