They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. – Lawrence Binyon
“Can you really play that thing?”, the boy scout asked the scientist. The youth might have been twelve years old; he might have come up to the scientist’s shoulder, and the older man was not tall.
The scientist did not respond in words. Instead, he lifted the cornet that he held in his right hand as if to say, “Why else would I be carrying this?”
The scoutmaster, overhearing the conversation, reached into the open tailgate of the white minivan that had brought him and his troop to the small cemetery for the Memorial Day commemoration. He opened a small black case, and removed from it a bugle, a military-style instrument without the valves that the scientist’s cornet had. And then, he removed a cylindrical object from the bugle’s bell, and touched a button. Immediately, the insert rang out “To the colors” – and the context for the scout’s question was revealed. The scientist joined in, and he and the machine completed the bugle call in near-perfect unison, to the boy’s open-eyed amazement and the amusement of the few folks that had already gathered for the upcoming ceremony.
“I was a bugler for a boy scout summer camp”, the scientist confided to the scoutmaster, “back when elephants had fur.” The scoutmaster, whose beard had a few more not-gray hairs than the scientist’s, responded “Yeah, I remember when mastodons roamed the earth.”
“That gadget’s actually pretty good”, the scientist continued. “Most of the bugle inserts that I’ve heard have been rather lame.” “It comes in handy”, the scoutmaster replied, “because we do many of the Canadian bugle calls as well as our own.” The scientist wanted to ask whether the troop was doing this in the hope of being adopted by Canada, but decided that, given where they were and what they were called to do, it was neither the time nor the place for the question. Instead, he played a few bars of “Last Post”, the British Commonwealth equivalent of “Taps”.
A few minutes later, the honor guard from the local American Legion post arrived. They, the scout troop, and the few spectators that had assembled, walked into the cemetery and arranged themselves in order.
A call to attention. A prayer. Three guns. Taps.
A short walk to an adjacent cemetery. Repeat.
Then, the party was dismissed, and all returned to their buses and cars for the return to their homes.
The scout caught up with the scientist as he was packing his horn into his car. “When will I be able to play like that?” he asked.
The scientist’s thoughts flashed back to earlier in the day, to the Memorial Day parade in the town center. He was there to perform “echo Taps” with a member of the Legion who had been the bugler at that town’s ceremony for at least the past thirty years. The Legionnaire was not much grayer than the scientist was, but he was ailing, and hard of hearing, and he was concerned that, because of recent medical procedures, he had not had enough recovery time to play well. The two had discussed how the echo was to be performed, and agreed that the Legionnaire would be excused from the cemetery services. The small parade arrived at the town square, and the two buglers, after singing the “Star Spangled Banner” with the crowd, settled down for what they expected to be a long time until their services were called on.
Abruptly, shots rang out. The first volley of the three-gun salute. The scientist jumped to attention, ready to play when the third gun sounded. He looked at the Legionnaire, prepared to follow his lead.
The Legionnaire stood in utter confusion. The second volley rang out. “They shouldn’t be done yet”, he mumbled. Third volley. He stumbled towards the podium to ask what was going on.
“That’s you!” the sergeant at arms called in our direction. And the scientist, with sadness in his heart, made an executive decision. He played “Taps.” Alone.
He apologized afterwards, which the Legionnaire accepted with grace. “I guess I don’t get to play Taps this year”, he acknowledged, somewhat ruefully. Then, his vaguely unfocused gaze dissolved, and was replaced by the eager face of the twelve-year-old. “When will I …?”
“Learn the horn, and practice”, the scientist advised. “You will be called upon soon enough. Maybe sooner than you think.”