Call of the Bugle Boy
by Smilin' Jack Costello 

Monday, Jan. 21, 2002
Well, bless this mess, Shorty! You ever see a toe done swole up ‘at big? It’s durn the size of Fran Hufnagel’s bosom now. No, the left one, Shorty. Shyeeoot, ain’t you never seen a infection of this cal’ber, Shorty? Well, sure ‘nuff, look who I’m talking at.

There’s a buddy of mine, you know ‘im, Shorty, Jeff T. Silobottom, he says the only way to sure-fire cure a infection of gangrenous p’portions is to get on that thing and suck it full force ‘n’ get all the sick outta there. Jeff T. Silobottom, you remember ‘im? He died a few years back now. Some mysterious mouth ailment, I do believe. Kind soul, but his advice is less useful than a Democrat at a gun club picnic.

All this talk of suckin’ reminds me of a awful urge I gotten lately, Shorty. You know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Yessir, every once in a cycle I get me the hankerin’ to lissen up to some bugle music. Which reminds me here of a story I do believe you ain’t heard none yet. It’s about a ol’ army boy, bugle player, Donny Calhoun.

Donny was a good ol’ boy, one o’ the better of the good ol’ boys. He went and signed up to fight in the double-double-U two, can’t get more r’spectful of the country than to sign up for the service, you know. Sure ‘nuff I would have were it not for my trick knee and flat foot on the right side, you know to which I’m referring, Shorty. And you needn’t explain again about your fear of gettin’ killed, I perfectly unnerstand. But despite our failin’s, Donny Calhoun got in the service fine and was defending our right to avoid painful humiliation on the battlefield over in that far away German place, I forget the name of it now.

Donny’s job was to blow on the bugle when this fancy red light come flashin’. The red light warned of air raids an’ business comin’, and the bugle horn sound was demanded to warn the sleepin’ army men of a air raid, in which case they could get up and get to the bombin’ shelter to keep from getting’ bombed up by the enemy. You’re right, Shorty, a more important job there’n never was in the army, at least for the purposes of this here story.

Well, Donny settled in and got all soft and easy-goin’ what with the enemy on the run. Last thing anyone expected was a attack at this point. The Nazis was runnin’ for the hills, and the good guys were in hot pursuit. So nobody was more’n surprised but poor Donny when a attack did come. To beat all, Donny had been dippin’ into a mess o’ radishes since no one else in camp wanted ‘em, and he also dug deep into some bean pudding mailed from home. This here combination was not a wise idea, as you can ‘magine.

So Donny’s in camp holdin’ his achin’ belly when the red light starts flashin’. He’s done panicked right, he ain’t seen a red light in months and almost plum forgot what to do. But he sucks it up in good fashion and darts out the tent and up the highest tower in the camp.

As you know, Shorty, climbin’ high ladders and sick stomachs don’t rightly mix, and Donny’s only human. He gets to the top o’ the tower and he can’t summon the breath to blow the bugle. And his belly’s about to blow out from the inside with all the vittles fightin’ up a storm in there. Donny’s so upset he’s about cryin’, he can even see Hitler’s planes comin’ in low in the weak sunlight o’ the mornin’. This is the time for heroes, Shorty.

Well, what Donny Calhoun did won’t be in any learnin’ books, Shorty. Ol’ boy Donny won’t be getting’ any purple hearts or green clovers for his effort in the great war. But he saved lives and that’s all ‘at matters. The men scrambled out of the beds to the sound of the most awful chokin’ horn and the flattest note in history, but it woke ‘em up. Kinda sounded like a dead beagle’s last howl of pain ‘fore he meets his maker, spoken into a high quality micr’phone.

Them boys rush out of the tent and see the red light flashin’, the German horseflies closin’ in, and Donny Calhoun in the highest tower with a bugle stickin’ out his backside. That tol’ them all they needed to know. They got to the shelter and avoided a awful German decapitatin’.

Poor ol’ Donny didn’t make it. He missed gettin’ all bombed, but died later o’ complications from removin’ of a bugle from one’s personals. His s’periors listed his death as unnatural causes. Now all that’s left o’ Donny is the stories, passed down from one good ol’ boy to the next.

And his horn, which I happen to have right here. You can play a bugle, can’t ya, Shorty?