Story Time: PT is important for all career fields

Volunteered for honor guard before it became a detail squadrons had to pony people up for. Back then you could get an achievement medal after 300 hours, or 100 details, so there were incentives. Plus, I played bugle, so I typically didn't have to do a lot. At most funerals, I usually wasn't even seen, so it was a nice way to render honors.

One detail for a WWII vet, they came up short some folks, so they asked me to pitch in with the pallbearers at the funeral home and escort the casket. Sure, that's something I practiced, too easy. We arrive early, work out what's happening where, and then wait on the chaplain.

When he arrives, he's in blues, minus service coat. I'm taking some liberty with the phrase, "in blues," because this walking blob of chewing gum was spilling out bad. His short sleeve cuffs were cutting of circulation to his arms, his buttons were screaming, and he probably couldn't look down and tell you if his shoes were still tied. Dude was fat, end of story, and hasn't put on blues in some time. In his garment bag was his tie and jacket. My buddy and I looked at him, over at the bag, and instantly knew this was about to get worse. Instinctively, we both went for the tackle box in the van with odds and ends to fix uniforms to prepare ourselves for what's to come.

We get back and the chaplain starts to get dressed, starting with his top button to put on his tie. He can't get it because sausage neck says no. So we get a handy top button spacer from the tackle box and hook him up so it closes, but it's still very snug. He's almost immediately redder in the face and neck. Next the tie, which goes on ok but adds to the tension on his neck. It's also about a full three inches above the belt buckle, but that's ok, the jacket will cover right?

Well, maybe. He moves to put it on and it's pure comedy. Like trying to stuff a marshmallow in a piggy bank. Eventually, he gets it on, but he looks like the Michelin Man, can't bend anything, and the tension in the buttons is amazing. I'm thinking I'm truly impressed with the quality and construction of the buttons, when suddenly, the top one pops off with gusto. It flies a good three feet off his swollen abdomen, ricochets off the wall, and bounces twice off the ground. So much for impressed. We grab a safety pin from the tackle box, pin the button on (and the jacket shut for extra support), cross our fingers and hope for the best.

Go time. We stand behind the back row, waiting for the viewing to end so we can scoop up the casket and march it to the hearse. The chaplain is up front, off to the side, visibly distressed; he's sweating something awful, and he's clearly struggling to breathe while keeping everything sucked in. I'm seriously concerned we're going to have to save his life at some point during the detail. But the family had arrived and is seated, and the funeral director opened the casket. The deceased was in khaki service dress of his day, looking quite smart and peaceful. We're committed. We stand at parade rest and watch helplessly as the chaplain moves to the podium. It's waist high, next to the casket. The chaplain reaches as if he's going into his coat to retrieve notes, thinks better of it, and instead rests his hand on the podium and begins to speak.

As he spoke, I began to see why this chaplain was chosen by the family: he truly had a gift. It was as though through his voice you could truly feel the presence of a higher power, there to personally touch the grieving, providing comfort and peace. Salvation was promised. Loved ones were soothed. It was amazing. I had forgotten about all the uniform issues, the sweating, the puffiness. The chaplain was in his element and now looking every bit like he belonged in front, a shepard to his flock...

...and I think he felt it too, because without thinking he swung his arm to gesture to the deceased. The jacket, reaching its limit, just couldn't take any more. The top button pulled through the safety pin, launched off the coat, bounced off a vase, and landed in the casket. There was a long, pregnant pause. The chaplain, to his credit, got back on track, led us in prayer, and wrapped it up. He moved around the front of the podium as if to retrieve his button, but the funeral director, having possibly been the only person in the room to not see where the button went, closed the casket and nodded our way.

"Detail, attention! Forward, march." And so it went, with us escorting one of America's greatest generation, and the lone button of one of America's fattest, off to eternity.