Raccoon

© John A. Ward

Raccoon could be anyone.  He was best at imitating the drill instructors.  He stood outside the tent, and said, "Madden and Boyle, stop grab-assing and get out here”, and we scrambled through the tent flaps and snapped to attention only to see his crooked smile.

He mostly did it at night or on the other side of a door, where the only clue was the sound of his voice.  Any anger we felt was momentary.  He had the gift of making us laugh at ourselves and our situation and getting us to enjoy the irony.  His quiet grin made him a partner in the drama rather than a critic.  We called him the "Raccoon."  I'm not sure why.  Maybe it was his gentle mischievous nature.  Maybe we associated him with the night.  Maybe it was the dark circles around his eyes and the pale ghostly visage that surrounded them.

The Raccoon could sleep standing up.  But more than that, he could wake up precisely when he had to.  He fell asleep in formation, during inspection, and woke up the moment the inspecting officer stepped in front of him.  Then he brought his rifle up from order arms, slammed the bolt open, and the officer snapped it out of his hand, apparently unaware of what a unique event had just transpired.

Once, I drew perimeter guard duty with him in a foxhole at night.  Raccoon was on the parapet, facing downrange along the sights of his rifle, asleep in his unsleeping way.  I woke to the voice of the captain, leading a group of recruits around the perimeter, checking security.  "Now this is the way to do it, "he said, "one man sleeps while the other stands guard."

When I tell this story to old warriors, they are appalled that two Marines fell asleep on the perimeter.  It is a court-martial offense, punishable by execution.  But they don't understand.  I had complete confidence in Raccoon's ability to wake when absolutely necessary, to fire his rifle and hit the target precisely before an infiltrator made the final move to slit our throats.  Rabbits or moving shadows or branches or any of the myriad harmless happenings that became monsters in the night would not bother him.  I knew, because Raccoon told me he had grown up on the bayou and had a mojo bag with a black cat bone, and more than one of his uncles changed in the full moon to creatures we Yankee boys only read about in books.