My Honor Flight Read Online Free Page B

beat him even though he had a pair of kings in his pocket. 
He really IS a lousy card player.”
     “So did he
play the kings on the last round?” asked Kozlowski.
     “Yes.  He
had two pair, kings and sevens,” said Trumbull.
     “What did
you have?” asked Kozlowski.
     “Full
house.  Threes over... kings.”  He winked at us.
    We all
laughed about that one for days.

Chapter 3 - Buzz Company Olympics
    I should explain what the
ACTUAL Buzz Company really was.  The company included nine platoons.  My
platoon was the Ninth.  So, I guess we were the leftovers of the leftovers.  I
think that’s how we ended up with Cap Reynolds as our CO, instead of a
lieutenant.  Looking back, I don’t understand that at all.  Cap was a master
tactician in battle.  He saved our asses more than once, and he had a keen
insight into human nature.  He probably could have run the whole damn company
or even the division, but I’m glad he didn’t.  Being in the Ninth Platoon
didn’t make us any less valuable or lower-ranked in the company.  We had the
right mix of fellas to set the tone for the whole company.  In fact, we named
it! 
    We trained in that camp
in England for about six weeks.  By May, we were getting comfortable enough
that we started thinking a little more like we did back home.  Old Oily
Chartelli, being the opportunist he was, cooked up a scheme.  He figured we
would have a Buzz Company Olympics.  Every man would pony up one dollar.  We
would have nine sporting events, and each platoon could enter one competitor
per event.  If a platoon member won, his platoon got one ninth of the pot.  Then
the platoon would split those winnings.
    Oily just wanted to make some
money.  He figured if we set it up, we could pick the events that favored
people from our platoon.  For three days, he pestered us.  It was annoying! 
We’d head to mess, and he’d start in.
     “Anyone here any good at
jumping?”  A bunch of grumbles.
     “How about the sprinting?” 
Grumble, grumble.
    Chartelli finally pulled
us all together one night after mess.
     “All right, yous goombas! 
I been patiently trying to find out if you got any talent, and as far as I can
tell, this is the biggest group of no-talent SOBs in the army!  Come on! 
Somebody’s got to be good at something?”  After he told us that if we each gave
a dollar we could get nine back, we got a lot more interested. 
     “I can swim,” said
Franklin Butler. 
    His name
wasn’t Frank or Frankie, it was Franklin.  He said he was named after Ben
Franklin and Thomas Jefferson.  We called him Senator.  He was a blue blood out
of Boston.  He had that real thick accent, calling Boston Baahston .  Butler
never talked much about himself.  He carried himself different than us.  He
wasn’t a snob.  He was friendly enough to talk to, and he would pull his own
weight just fine.  He never complained about weather or food.  And believe me,
he had plenty of opportunity to complain about both.  He walked real tall, with
a kind of dignity.  He seemed to rise above the misery, like he was floating
just above all of the horrible conditions we faced.   
     “Swimming,
huh?” grimaced Chartelli.  “Nah man, there ain’t no way we can convince eight other
platoons to pony up a swimmer.  Besides, there’s nowhere around here where we
could swim.”
    Tom Duncan
cleared his throat.  We all looked at him.  He hesitated. 
     “I’m a
member of a circus family.  I can walk a rope.”  This wasn’t quite as unusual
back then as you might think.  There were more circuses back in the day.  But
it was still rare.  I’d never known anyone from an actual circus, so I thought
that was really interesting.
     “Hot damn!” yelled
Oily.  “That’s the jackpot, man!  I guarantee if we got someone from a real
circus, no one can touch us!  Now we’re gettin’ somewhere!  What else?” 
     “Scrapping!” yelled Kozlowski. 
Everyone