In the comedy of errors that is my family's frequent blight, it was decided to have the funeral out in Massachusetts and then move the body back home to Lockport and interr him in the family plot. This was accomplished by the lovely young Nancy, a girl about my age who was Noel's neighbor for ten years, and also happenned to be a mortician.
My uncle Noel was a Marine. It was impossible to know him for more than five minutes and not know this. He became a Marine in 1942 in the South Pacific. It was a hard time and place to be a Marine, but the ones who survived that time were Marines at a level that may not be achievable anymore. He never felt particularly like a hero for the things he did, he was just a Marine, and he did what Marines are supposed to do.
The USMC provided an honor guard at the burial. I am pretty sure these weren't real Marines. Their dress pants had visible wrinkles. There were only 5 with guns so Noel got a fifteen gun salute. The worst thing was the flag. They didn't fold it tight enough to tuck it properly. They undid and refolded it twice and finally resorted to folding the end into a point and jamming it in.
I make a big deal of this because this type of flubbing around was the sort of thing my uncle taught me to associate with squids or regular army (he never spoke ill of the air force,they provided close air support). In matters of ritual the Marines were always superior. In my admittedly limited experience I have found this to be true. I am doubly disappointed because I know that it would have mattered to Noel. Like a great Viking being buried in a common grave instead of being burned in his funeral ship these things matter to warriors.
