The Senile Brigade 
                    A True Story of Heroes in Springdale
                        Copyright 1993 by Dave Laird

On November 10, 1992, in various places throughout the tiny hamlet of
Springdale members of the Senile Brigade began rousing themselves for yet
another day. For long as each of them could remember, Veterans Day always
would be their personal holiday. Thanksgiving was nearly always an orgiastic
celebration of eating and football. Christmas, particularly within the last
ten years so, had become a celebration of their children, grandchildren and,
in some cases, great grandchildren. But Veterans Day was personal to each of
them, as they had fought either in one of the great world wars or Korea and
bore the scars to prove it.

Alex Heatherfield used to embarrass people by whipping his shirt at
inappropriate occasions to show unsuspecting folks the ragged scar that a
German soldier had left across his lower abdomen in the Black Forests of
Germany, but after heart valve, pacemaker, gall bladder and prostate
surgery, it was getting increasingly difficult to tell the old injury from
the new.

Rob McCoy, the youngest member of the group at 56, had only mentioned his
experiences as a prisoner of war in Korea once to Estelle, his wife. Then,
all he would say to her was, "got nuttin' to say about it, and that is
that," and the matter had remained closed for twenty years since. Of course,
Rob hardly ever had anything to say much anyone of consequence, often giving
strangers the impression that he was a morose, angry man, which was not the
case at all. In his own way, over the years, he had pulled more practical
jokes on other members of the Senile Brigade than anyone cared to remember.

Brent Hammerfeldt, the most highly decorated member of the Senile Brigade,
still had his two Purple Hearts, Silver Cross and a Congressional Medal of
Honor stuffed away in the attic upstairs in an old steamer trunk with two
packages of mothballs. Besides his medals were his uniform, a copy of his
discharge papers and a picture of he and several wartime buddies, long since
dead, standing over a bullet-riddled Korean soldier.

Once each year, on Veterans Day, he would purposefully trod up the steep
wooden stairs to the attic, with a fresh pack of mothballs in each hand, and
carefully remove each item from the steamer chest, replacing the previous
years' supply of mothballs. Then, his annual mission complete, he would head
for the Reservation Tavern for beer.

Chester Olefeldt, another Swedish immigrant who had fought during World War
II, had no medals, no uniforms stuck away the corner of his attic. Yet he
had the most vivid memories of bloodshed and of fallen comrades in the
field, for he had resisted the Germans on his home soil in Sweden while
serving as a double agent for the U.S. Army. During the process, he had
watched helplessly as first his father, then two of his brothers were
brutally murdered by the S.S. outside their home outside Bjorne. On the
mantelplace, among the pictures various relatives, grandchildren and great-
grandchildren was a faded picture of a sombre-faced young man standing next
to a taller, older man outside small rural-looking farmhouse. Scrawled
across the bottom of the picture in an indecipherable scrawl, was his late
father's signature. 

Although Chester hadn't the slightest idea who had started the annual
gathering of the Senile Brigade, nor why he, a non-combatant in a war nearly
fifty years ago, associated with the other members of the group. 

Yet, every year, unquestioningly faithful, he always made his appearance,
rosy-cheeked and full of good humor. 

Ignoring the newfallen wet, sloppy snow that overnight had left everything
looking like a freshly-drawn Hallmark Card, each them resolutely completed
their self-appointed rounds of duty, and like the good soldiers that each of
them had once been, they unswervingly honored the traditions they had
accepted and learned. 

Once ensconced on a barstool, subconsciously, each of them did head count,
to see who from within their ranks had fallen, and in their own way,
strained their fading memories to recite once more the names of those who no
longer would grace a faded, worn barstool at the Reservation Tavern. 

Thus, in their own way, they remembered those who had passed on, and
somewhere, someone solemnly played "Taps" as the Senile Brigade convened
their annual meeting one more time to remember all those who bravely faced
death in far-off places.