For a Shipmate

I've been thinking a lot recently about Musician Second Class Gerald Cox.

Jerry was a guitarist who lived in East Moline, Illinois, only a few cornfields away from my current home. He enlisted in the Navy as a musician, and, after boot camp and music school, reported to his band in Hawaii. I never heard him play, but he must have been good; his band had a reputation as the best military band in the Pacific.

Jerry's time in the Navy was short. He and his entire band died at their battle stations on USS Arizona as horror rained from the skies over Pearl Harbor on that date that still lives in infamy.

MU2/c Gerald Clinton Cox died at the age of 19, 33 years before I enlisted as a musician. Yet, he is my shipmate. He and I--and all who have served in the U.S. Navy as musicians--share a bond of service and sacrifice that is unbreakable, permanent and, to those who have never served in uniform, incomprehensible.

Memorial Day is set aside so we may remember those who gave their all. In our eyes, they are giants, but, in their times, many were kids. Arizona's Band 22 was made up of Midwestern farm boys and New York city slickers. The average age of the bandsmen was 21. They called each other "Brick," "Swede,""Mad Russian," "Flatfoot Floogie."

Yes, they were young, but the boys in the band were men at their battle stations in Arizona's ammunition hold.

Sleep peacefully, Jerry. You too, Swede, Brick, Flatfoot.

We remember you.
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