Author: Grumpy
THE COMBAT VET BABOON
Jackie the baboon mustered off to war alongside his
human counterpart replete with uniform, pay book and mess kit.
Albert Marr was a farmer in South Africa soon after the turn of the 20th Century. Had the world seen fit to leave him alone, Marr no doubt would have lived out his life in peace and anonymity. However, the world had other plans.
Farming in Africa is not fundamentally dissimilar to farming in other places, with the possible exception of the wildlife. Africa enjoys the richest collection of animal life on the planet. From plains-grazing ungulates to enormous carnivorous aquatic reptiles to the largest terrestrial mammals in the world,
Africa has forever been the destination for hunters and naturalists serious about their craft. Africa also plays host to some of the world’s most remarkable primates.
Living and working in such a vast natural milieu, Albert Marr interacted with lions, leopards and African hoofed stock on a regular basis. One day, while out on his modest farm, he came across an orphaned baby baboon. Marr scooped him up, took him home, and resolved to raise the little monkey as his own. He named the adolescent simian Jackie.
A Curious Family Pet
To this point, this is a quaint story but little else. I have several local friends who raised raccoons as children. I myself had a brace of rambunctious fox squirrels that kept me company when I was a burgeoning man-child. However, in 1914, World War 1 conflagrated. A year later, Marr was drafted. By then, he had grown terribly fond of the family baboon.
Many of the Allied units drawn up to fight in the first War to End All Wars were regional outfits. Forming military units out of men who had been neighbors was a two-edged sword. On the one hand, the pre-existing familiarity went a long way toward fomenting the esprit necessary to establish unit cohesion.
The flip side was that the inevitable losses stung that much more. When Marr reported for conscription, he insisted on bringing Jackie the baboon along with him. Much to everyone’s surprise, his commanders were good with it. It seemed Jackie was going to war.
Smart, agile, cunning and fast, baboons are social creatures who form strong familial bonds in the wild. As Jackie had been raised on the Marr farm, humans were his tribe. Both man and monkey were sworn into the 3rd South African Infantry Regiment (Transvaal) and immediately took to soldiering. Jackie was designated the unit mascot forthwith.
The grunts of the 3rd South African Infantry Regiment
developed a deep and abiding attachment for Jackie.
The Militarized Monkey
The men of the 3rd South African Regiment scrounged up an appropriately-scaled uniform, hat and mess gear. The little monkey was even issued his own paybook. In short order, he learned to stand at attention, assume the position of at ease, recognize and salute superior officers, and light his comrade’s cigarettes.
He ate with a knife and fork like a human, washed up in his own personal basin, and marched alongside the human soldiers during close order drill.
Once serving downrange, Jackie was more than just a pet. He would stand guard duty with the unit sentries at night, his keen senses a boon to tactical operations.
Jackie invariably was the first to detect a pending attack by the Boche. However, Europe during World War I was a terribly dangerous place.
During the Battle of Delville Wood early in the Somme Campaign, Marr and Jackie were among the scant 20% of their unit that avoided being killed or seriously injured. In the winter of 1916, Marr caught a round in the shoulder during the Battle of Agagia while serving in Egypt. Jackie remained by his side, licking the man’s wounds until he could be evacuated.
The strain of combat took a toll on Jackie just as it did his human counterparts. While languishing in the trenches in France under fire, Jackie occupied himself constructing a modest wall behind which he might hide from incoming shells. However, during one particularly heavy barrage, a piece of shrapnel caught Jackie in the leg and arm. The courageous monkey was medically evacuated and treated by the unit surgeons. They reluctantly amputated his right leg and, in so doing, saved his life.
Finally Home
In the aftermath of his injury, Jackie was promoted to corporal and granted an award for bravery, the Pretoria Citizens Service Medal. I can only imagine what it must have felt like to be a human private in his unit and find oneself outranked by a one-legged monkey. Jackie eventually came home with Albert and was presented with his own discharge papers.
Jackie thrived once back home but tragically perished in a house fire in 1921. After having survived so much pain, carnage and death, to have succumbed under such pedestrian circumstances made his passing all the more tragic. His friend Albert Marr, however, lived a long, full life, eventually passing away in 1973 at age 84.
War is the most inhuman of human pursuits. Politicians make the policies, and young men do the bleeding and dying. In this poignant tale of one combat veteran and his crippled pet baboon, we see personified the raw inhumanity of the thing. Perhaps Jackie the war monkey has a message for us all today.
Categories
The Invictus Singer
You may be armed when you’re packin’ a gun, but that doesn’t mean you’re invincible. Jason Gordon learned this lesson the hard way — from a 74-year-old man with a gardening appliance.
Jason had already robbed the elderly Oran McGlamry the day before, so he probably felt pretty tough when he came back after the old fellow in the front yard of his Albany, N.Y. home. “Old man, I’ve got you now!” he said, pulling a .38 revolver.
“No you don’t,” replied McGlamry, who instantly rushed Jason with his weed-whacker running at full throttle. Possibly envisioning what that spinning plastic line could do to various portions of his anatomy, young Jason turned and tried to run, but fell on his face.
This had the unfortunate but pretty damn funny effect of presenting his butt to McGlamry and his vigilante weed trimmer. Gordon didn’t get away. He got his butt trimmed. Lotsa times.
McGlamry was not charged with corporal punishment of a wayward youth, nor use of an Assault Gardening Appliance.
Lottery Winner … Sorta
Patrick Gayle had no idea why anybody would want to shoot him. Then, after he was shot, he had no idea why he was still alive. Easy, Patrick, you get to live because you’re a loser.
The Harrisburg, Pa., man took one in the 10-ring, a stray bullet from a nearby gang fight. The slug hit a credit card, a cigarette lighter, and a $40 wad of losing lottery tickets in Patrick’s shirt pocket, delivering a painful thump but, incredibly, leaving him unperforated.
“You want to talk about being lucky?” asked Gayle, apparently no longer upset with his choices of numbers. “Those tickets saved me!”
Cops later grabbed a 17-year-old gangbanger alleged to pull the trigger. He’ll be charged with attempting to punch Gayle’s ticket by punching his tickets.
Tough Interrogation
In South Carolina’s Lowcountry, a patrolling deputy was on the lookout for a suspect in the robbery of a Circle K convenience store when he spotted a guy who roughly fit the description. Hey, not enough for a hot stop, but close enough to pull up in his cruiser and casually say, “I want to talk to you about an incident that happened at the Circle K.”
“Yeah, I did it,” the self-jailing suspect admitted, hanging his head. Boy, that guy was one tough nut to crack. That deputy ought to make detective on this case!
The area’s only previous notable crime occurred last year when a mental magnum walked into First Citizens Bank in St. George and asked some suspicious questions about another bank. Minutes later, he strolled into the nearby First National Bank and tried to hold them up, demanding $500.
The teller carefully explained she didn’t have that much money and suggested he check with the loan officer, whom she pointed out. Einstein fled, but several minutes later burst into yet another bank, the First Carolina, where he leaped over the counter, waved something wrapped up in his hand, and demanded cash.
Of course, this time he didn’t name an amount. After all, he didn’t want to have to hassle with a loan officer.
A teller finally gave him some money, and he left. It’s amazing he was caught, considering the only clue he left behind was his ID card, with his name, date of birth, and home address. What’s in that South Carolina water, anyway?
Categories
Glory By Will Dabbs, MD
Here we see an American boy in his natural habitat.
This is the way we were all designed to be raised.
I get to indulge in a little fiction from time to time. I do love it so…
Malcolm Mabry’s was a hard life. It is invariably difficult being a 12-year-old boy. Testosterone is a toxin, and it is painful building up that initial tolerance. And then there was Misti.
Misti was his 15-year-old sister. She was mere weeks away from her sixteenth birthday. Then she would be able to drive. Misti reminded Malcolm of this fact constantly, quietly infuriating him. Despite the three-year age difference, he was hands-down the more responsible of the two.
The Mabry kids were homeschooled. That brought its own challenges. Malcolm’s parents held fairly traditional values. They didn’t even have cable TV. Malcolm spent his free time exploring the wilderness and drawing. He likely could have been content with that had Misti not kindly pointed out how secluded, mistreated, and put upon they both were. Her attitude was corrosive.
Both kids had friends through church, but most of those friends went to real school. As a result, they seldom had anyone over. They lived twelve miles from town on a secluded farm. They called it a farm, but it was really just a big stand of timber. They had considered chickens, but Misti had put her foot down. She was not going to live in a place that raised chickens. Malcolm’s parents weren’t exactly sold on the idea, anyway, so they let her win that one.
Malcolm’s mom was a disciplined woman. They did school according to a rigid daily schedule. That meant starting early and running late. The farm was their playground, science lab, and food source. They harvested game in the woods and caught fish in the pond that served as their backyard. They didn’t need wild stuff to live—Malcolm’s dad had a good job. However, his parents wanted the kids to have those skills. Misti pushed back at absolutely every opportunity.
The past Christmas had been epic. Malcolm had gotten a rifle—a Ruger 10/22 with a Tasco scope. He was thrilled to get it. Misti got a cell phone. It was a hand-me-down from her mom, but it had service. That phone was Misti’s ticket to freedom. She lived on the accursed thing. Malcolm’s parents consoled themselves with the realization that it was going to happen eventually anyway.
Every day, they ate lunch, did an hour of math, and then took a break. Misti invariably spent hers on her phone. At 1:30 sharp, Malcolm took what he called an explore. He would slip into his mud boots and wander the farm, just being a boy. An hour later, he came back sweaty and tired. That was the point.
The 10/22 really is America’s utility gun. Most shooters start out on such a piece.
He had done this for years. When he was a little kid, he carried a knife, the edge of which his dad had ground down in the workshop. When he got a little older, he graduated up to a BB gun and then a pellet rifle. Ever since Christmas, he had been authorized to pack his .22. Malcolm’s dad had been in the Army and impressed upon him what a weighty responsibility this was. Malcolm took that responsibility seriously.
Malcolm and his dad hunted together with some regularity. He had already killed two deer, a turkey, and a bunch of squirrels. His mom called squirrels tree rats and reviled them on principle. However, they still ate whatever they shot. Malcolm’s dad would not tolerate anything less.
Malcolm once came home boasting of having shot a turtle. His dad listened patiently to the story and then gently explained that taking life was a big deal and something that should never be done frivolously. The point was made without bruising Malcolm’s feelings unduly. From that point forward, he only shot stuff he would eat or venomous snakes. Venomous snakes were always fair game.
Malcolm’s dad was at work, and his mom was in town buying groceries. When the school clock read 1:30, Malcolm was rabid to get outside. Misti’s company had become extra-tiresome. His explore was incongruously both invigorating and exhausting. After around fifty minutes, he broke through the treeline surrounding his house and was surprised to see an unfamiliar vehicle.
There was a beat-up white van parked some twenty yards from the house with the back doors askew. Malcolm had left the garage door open. More curious than alarmed, he watched as a tall man with a shaved head emerged from the garage carrying his dad’s chainsaw. The man put the saw in the back of the van and then went back into the garage. Moments later, he emerged again, this time carrying his mother’s microwave
The Ruger 10/22 rifle is the most popular rimfire rifle in the world. More than five million copies are in circulation.
That’s when he remembered. This same man had shown up unannounced at the front door the week prior, claiming to be a handyman. Malcolm’s mom had sent him on his way, rightfully claiming that they had no work for him. However, that evening over dinner, she admitted that the guy gave her the creeps.
Malcolm, for his part, had no idea what to do. Then the man came out again. This time, he was carrying Misti.
Malcolm could see that his sister was struggling. Her hands and ankles were bound with black duct tape, and there was another piece over her mouth. She looked terrified.
He saw the man toss Misti roughly into the back of the van and reach to close the back doors. Malcolm dropped down onto one knee and formed a support with his left hand against a sapling, just as his dad had taught him. The boy steadied the rifle and studied the scene through the scope.
Malcolm’s heart was leaping out of his chest, but he was a hunter. He knew how to manage that. He could now see the tattoos on the man’s bald head clearly. For the briefest, tiny moment, the man stood erect and motionless after shutting the van doors. Malcolm placed the crosshairs over his ear, raised the sight about two inches to account for the distance, punched off the safety, and squeezed the trigger.
There was no noise. For a moment, Malcolm thought the gun had misfired. However, the big man crumpled behind the van as though hit with a sledge. Malcolm snapped the safety back on and pulled himself to his feet before tearing down the hill toward the van, the man, and his sister.
Malcolm would later explain that everything had unfolded too quickly for much conscious thought. The local sheriff sympathized. A week later, Malcolm Mabry was the most famous 12-year-old on Planet Earth.
