In Lieu of Flowers P1 - Isaiah Bey

In Lieu of Flowers

PART I 

Isaiah Bey 

It is a source of great melancholy that I may not today -as all who should hear this will- be attending the funeral of the late Dr. Ramsbury, whom I've gathered a strong acquaintance with during our years of service in the war as well as the decades of continued companionship thereafter. There has no doubt been whisperings of my possible location throughout the duration of the procession, as I was indeed widely known as Eric's closest friend. So much so that it would be of no consequence to exclude my name, as many of you would otherwise be hearing it for likely the fourth time. Nonetheless, I must assure all that I am in very safe company, and offer my condolences to the Ramsbury family as I mourn for my dear friend in solitude. I send this letter to offer some form or another of closure for those also mourning for my dearly departed friend and hope that it may lessen the effects of grief on the heart. Let it been known that all events discussed hereafter are entirely factual, and told only with the intent to provide some insight on the less knowledgeable of my dear friend: 

     It was while stationed in Cuba that I met my friend, a soldier at the time, and exchanged first words with him. He'd been sent to have his rifle inspected for faults or damages. I, being one of six inspectors in a large tent filled with similarly dressed men and a table one could use for dining with around sixteen people took his weapon and proceeded to place it into a bin towards the far end of the tent where all weapons to be checked were left. I gave him a code and tied a ribbon with the same number to his rifle. This was standard practice, seeing as we would not want to give a soldier a weapon that was not his own. I didn't see much consequence to the idea, however, as most who were stationed here used identical gear. Of course I never mentioned this to my Commanding Officer, for he was one to deal out punishments for the most minuscule hint of resistance to orders. 

     I nonetheless had then taken his rifle to later be inspected. I barely made a glance at my soon to be friend until he commented. "So this is what you all do in here?" he said, a southern accent peeking out of the stern tone he'd likely adopted during training. I took a closer look at my future companion and saw a fairly short (much shorter than standard military men at the very least) man, or boy, as it was difficult to discern from his childish facial features with short sandy hair and deeply orange tanned skin. I almost laughed at the sight of this louse of a soldier. I responded with the same direct tone with which he'd addressed me: 

"Indubitably, Soldier. I'm here to make sure your weapons don't fail you in a time of need, keeping you safe behind the scenes." 

    I almost smirked at the recitation of my CO's lines of rubble he tells those of us not on the battlefield. The real truth for my being here was that I'd had no interest in bearing arms for this nation of narcissists, and took the duty of inspecting weapons the minute it reached my ears. 

"I'd prefer it if you did not refer to me as soldier, Sir. Tomorrow I start work as a doctor here, and will not be one of the many fighting our enemies. I'll be working 'behind the scenes' much like yourself and Officer Greenley." I smiled at his clear recognition of the mocking of my CO, and finally took notice of the tag on his uniform.

 "Nice to meet you, Doctor Ramsbury."
He smiled.
"Likewise." 

     In the next three years I and my new companion spent much time together in our camp. After completing our duties we'd drink like dogs in the hospital tent while the other doctors slept. It was during this time that we exchanged many origin stories. He told me about how his life was in Louisiana, and how the military was the best option for him, young, penniless, and without direction. I told him of my similar beginnings in Chicago, and my dubious enlistment into the army. I'd done it for the benefits that would come after a quick service, so long as there would not be a war. Unfortunately for me, the war began, and I was to be sent to Cuba after only a year of service. I felt that I’d likely be killed in some conflict that I had no concern until I procured my job inspecting weaponry. My friend recounted his attempt to quickly withdraw from the military when the prospect of war was first announced. We shared many a laugh at our own cowardice and quickly bonded, becoming irrefutably close friends.

It is at this point in the letter that you may, if the time requires it, omit the following passages and continue at the point at which I begin with the words “With some doubt in mind.” I’ll underline it so that those with diminishing vision may find it with ease. If the time may allow it, however, I encourage you to move along into the next passages, as they provide the greatest insights into the workings of my dear friend.

     It was upon the deathbed of my fifth year of service that I, as well as my friend were gratefully sent back to the America’s. We’d completed our respective contracts, forever fulfilling our duties to the government. Let it never be said that Eric Ramsbury didn’t serve his country! Nonetheless, there we were sent back to return with some form or another of direction in life. I myself, had not acquired much during my time in Cuba, but I may not be able to say the same for my friend. As Dr. Ramsbury he tended to many a wounded soldier, and often relayed the horrors of his medical proceedings during our many talks. Like the soldiers, he’d seen the blood and toil of war while I, I managed the polish.