Young Crusaders

"Be proud and brave" said the guy’s father to him, and to all within earshot, as we waited in the pissing rain for the trucks that were to bus us on the first leg of what would prove to be a long journey to the Florida training area. Our buddy’s father was indeed a "father" for not only was he our buddies father he was also by profession a preacher, and full to overflowing with ecclesiastical bullshit.

He was a kind of throwback to the days of African and Pacific Island Missionaries, who enthusiastically revelled in spreading the Lords word amongst those classed as the devil worshiping heathen. He had relieved a man whom we had all deeply respected because of his quiet way of getting things done for any who requested his help. Believer or non-believer he assisted all regardless of faith, or lack of it. He also never thumped the good book nor grated on our nerves with pious claptrap the way this new guy did.

Yep, our old Preacher was truly a father to all, a perfect example of what a spiritual leader should be. Even better, he had survived two tours in Vietnam.Therefore, he was one of us

Our new Preacher turned to address all gathered there, raised his arms and spread them wide. Face lifted skyward as the rain thundered down in a heavenly torrent. He cried out in prayer "Lord, bless these young Crusaders who go forth and do your work, to smite thine enemies, let them be a credit to you and their families as they fight the good fight, the lords fight, crushing the heathen before them!"

With a smile on his lips, face turned to the heavens and arms still held wide, he slowly lowered his gazed over us. Expectantly waiting for shouts of joy, for a great outpouring of crusading cheering, of helmets being thrown into th...

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The trucks rolled in and we piled aboard with much inane and pointless screaming from the Non-Coms. I then looked over the camp for one last time. In a far corner of the parade square, I could see a solitary figure standing in the torrential rain with his arm raised in a form of salute, it was the Preacher. As we tore out of the camp in a great blue cloud of exhaust fumes, only one arm amongst us raised in reply to the his salute. No, not his sons, it was mine. For at that moment I truly had felt sorry for him.

Then the lone-wolf howled again by shouting at the top of his voice at the Preacher. "Hey! Tell me! If we are young Crusaders doing the lords work how come he always pisses on us then!" So he had taken in some words of the prayer after all. Whether one of us actually believed what was in it would eventually turn out to be altogether another matter.