Still dressed in his dusty desert combat uniform, the old soldier bellied up to the bar, resting his elbows on the well worn mahogany wood where countless other soldiers have quelched a thirst.
“What’ll it be sarn’t major?” the uniformed corporal asked with a distinct Scottish accent while wiping down the space in front of his newest customer, recognizing his rank, a star flanked by a wreath, sitting between three chevrons pointing to the heavens and three rockers adjoining from the bottom.
Command Sergeant Major Jesse T. Martin Jr. hadn’t had a cold beer, or a warm one for that matter, in roughly 14 months and said as much.
Corporal Jack Rodgers of her majesty’s famed 1st Battalion, The Black Watch, Royal Highland Regiment, draped the white terrycloth towel over his left shoulder with a snap and asked, “I’ve pils or ale on draught?” looking directly into the old warrior’s tired grey-blue eyes.
“Make it a pilsner please corporal, thank you,” Martin replied.
“Pils it is then,” replied Rodgers as he turned to fill the order.
Jesse Martin hardly noticed the tall, frosted glass of golden beer set in front of him, drifting off as he listened to the juke box blaring the Mamas and the Papas melodically singing, Dedicated to the One I Love.
While I’m far away from you, my baby,
I know it’s hard for you, my baby,
Because it’s hard for me, my baby,
And the darkest hour is just before dawn—
“Not cold enough for ya sarn’t major?” the corporal barkeep asked after several minutes, bringing the war weary soldier back to the here and now.
“What?”
Again looking deep into CSM Martin’s grey-blue eyes, Jack Rodgers asked, “your beer sarn’t major, not cold enough for ya?” nodding at the untouched glass on the bar between them.
“Oh, yes, it’s plenty cold corporal, thank you,” Martin said and took a healthy pull of the ice cold beer, wiping a bit of foam from his upper lip.
Each night before you go to bed, my baby,
Whisper a little prayer for me my baby.
And tell all the stars above
This is dedicated to the one I love…
“Keep an eye out Rodgers, I’ll want another in a few minutes,” Jesse Martin said with a smile just before taking another long drink of the cold beer.
“Right then,” he said and went back to work behind the bar.
Love can never be exactly like we want it to be.
I could be satisfied knowing you love me.
But there’s one thing I want you to do especially for me—
And it’s something that everybody needs.
Jesse Martin was born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio. The son of a city fireman, Cinci’s Bravest, they lived in the relatively quiet community of Saint Bernard, on Rose Hill Avenue just behind Saint Mary’s cemetery. In high school, he and his buddies would sneak beer from their father’s fridge and hang out in the graveyard “getting a buzz.” After he graduated high school and bounced around from job to job for just over a year, 18 year old Jesse Martin joined the United States Army much to the disappointment of his parents who had hoped that he would follow in Jesse T. Martin Senior’s footsteps and become a fireman for the city of Cincinnati.
When he came home for the first time some 18-months after shipping out to Georgia’s Fort Benning School for Boys, Private Martin, wearing his dress green uniform, adorned with fresh shiny silver jump wings and a pair of highly polished jump boots on his feet, made his parents proud. They beamed at the man their son had become. Jesse found many of his high school buddies still hanging out in the cemetery chasing that buzz and tried to explain the high that came with jumping out of an airplane soaring some 1500 feet above the earth.
While I’m far away from you, my baby,
Whisper a little prayer for me, my baby,
Because it’s hard for me, my baby,
And the darkest hour is just before dawn.
“You allright sarn’t major?” Corporal Rodgers asked as he replaced the empty beer glass with a full icey frosted fresh one.
“Yeah Rodgers, I’m OK, thanks,” he said while reaching for the cold beer.
After taking a healthy drink of his beer, Command Sergeant Major Jesse Martin pulled from his breast pocket a picture of his 5-year old son Tommy, and just stared at it.
If there’s one thing I want you to do especially for me
And it’s something that everybody needs…
Each night before you go to bed, my baby,
Whisper a little prayer for me, my baby,
And tell all the stars above—
This is dedicated to the one I love.
This is dedicated (to the one I love)
This is dedicated to the one I love
This is dedicated (to the one I love)
This is dedicated…
“Handsome boy,” the Scot behind the bar offered.
Without really thinking, Jesse Martin answered, chokng back tears, “yeah, he’s sure to break some hearts.”
“I’m sure he’s proud of his daddy,” the corporal offered.
“Well, his daddy is damned proud of him,” the old noncommissioned officer managed before finishing off his beer trying to nonchalantly wipe a tear. Putting the empty glass down on the bar a little more firmly than he had wanted, Jesse pointed to said empty glass asking for another draft pils.
Each night before you go to bed, my baby,
Whisper a little prayer for me my baby.
And tell all the stars above
This is dedicated to the one I love…
“How old is he?” CPL Rodgers asked as he delivered a fresh beer.
“He’s five, turned five three months ago, I was able to make it in time for his birthday on R&R.”
Sensing that the sergeant major wanted to talk more, Corporal Jack Rodgers stuck around, offering a sympathetic ear, a skill he had acquired tending bar at The Smuggler’s Inn back home in Dumfries.
“I should’ve retired two years ago like she asked,” Martin offered, pausing to take another swig of beer. “That was after my second rotation, but I was too stubborn, had to take this ‘last assignment’ and a third tour.”
Corporal Jack Rodgers stood there just listening, nodding with understanding.
“She left me, just as she had promised she would if I accepted this assignment, took Tommy with her,” he took a deep breath, quivering with grief, “I loved her, him, them,” unable to speak another word, he reached for his near empty beer.
“How ’bout another sarn’t major?”
“How ’bout a boiler maker?”
“Right then,” Corporal Rodgers said before pulling another draft and pouring two fingers of Glenfiddich into a jigger. Placing the glass of beer and jigger of single malt in front of the old soldier he asked, “planning on getting pissed sarn’t major?”
“No Rodgers, just numb. Just a little numb,” replied Jesse Martin before dropping his shot glass into the beer, quickly taking a healthy swallow of the boiler maker.
“Enough Jesse! Enough! You’ve done your time!” Gail Martin pleaded with her husband. “What about Tommy? He turns five next year and you’ve only been here for two of his birthdays! What about Tommy Jesse? What about me!?” she argued before her eyes filled with tears and her voice crackled before succumbing to uncontrollable sobbing.
Jesse T. Martin Jr., Command Sergeant Major of the 1st Battalion, 76th Infantry Regiment recalled the day his wife of 12 years spoke those words. He remembered being unable to respond, just standing there feeling helpless as his wife cried her eyes out, pleading with him not to take the assignment.
Regaining control of her emotions, Gail Martin dried her eyes, took a deep breath and looked straight into the grey-blue eyes of the man she loved dearly and said, “If you go sergeant major, Tommy and I won’t be here when, if you get back.”
After a silent pause of what seemed like several minutes, Gail Martin turned and left the room, her heart heavy with the knowledge that once he deployed, she’d never see her husband again.
He had seen her and Tommy just once since that fateful day, it was when he had went home on R&R, barely in time for Tommy’s birthday. Nothing was going to keep him from making it home for that, not even if Bin Laden himself was hitchiking along the road to the airport.
“Numb yet sarn’t major?” the Scot asked.
“Not yet Rodgers, let’s try another why don’t we?”
“Seargent Major!” called Lieutenant Colonel William “Bill” Hanson from his office six feet away.
Walking from his 6′x6′ office in the Battalion Tactical Operations Center constructed of plywood and tucked away on the north side of the FOB, just minutes away from the airfield, CSM Martin stepped into the old man’s similarly constructed office, “Yes sir?”
“You just getting back sergeant major?” the battalion commander asked.
“Yes sir.” replied the tired senior noncommissioned officer cacked in a combination of sweat and dust.
“That’s your second convoy this week sergeant major, and you went out on three last week,” the senior officer rebuked.
“Sir,” Jesse Martin began, “A leader leads fro…” a mortar round ripping through the roof of the building exploded just feet from the battalion sergeant major cutting off his explantion, instantly killing him. LTC Bill Hanson was medically evacuated by helicopter to the nearest treatment facility before eventually flown to Walter Reed Army Medical Center where he was later fitted for prosthetic legs and rehabilitated.
“Sufficiently numb sarn’t major?” Jack Rodgers asked the daydreaming soldier.
“Sufficiently numb corporal, thank you,” replied Jesse Martin as he hopped off the barstool and headed for his hooch looking forward to crashing on his cot.
“God bless sarn’t major and come ’round again,” offered Corporal Rodgers as he cleared the glasses and wiped down the old mahogany bar.
As soon as his head hit the pillow, Jesse Martin drifted off to sleep. That is until he was awakened by a familiar voice…
“Jesus, this is Tommy Martin praying,” the young boy said kneeling beside his bed, his eyes closed and his hands clasped with palms together and fingers pointing to heaven. “Please watch over my momma Jesus, she’s been so sad today, and if you see my dad in heaven, he’s a soldier, a command sergeant major that got killed in Iraq, please tell him that I love him, and I miss him, and I’m really proud of him. Amen.”
Each night before you go to bed, my baby,
Whisper a little prayer for me my baby.
And tell all the stars above
This is dedicated to the one I love…
Sgt Hook out.
CSM Jesse T. Martin Jr. was first introduced At the Station.
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This post is filed under: Fiddler's Green & The Soldier
