The saying fit his globe-circling military career well, and it certainly fits my nomadic life as an itinerant gun-bum. If money and possessions are moss, I haven’t gathered much, but as Dad often added with a smile, “Oh, but there have been some interesting moments.” That too applies to me. All it takes is a phone call to bring some back to vivid life.

“Connuh!” the voice rasped, “Wheah’s me bluidy ear, mate? Ha’ ya passed it yet? Hahahaha!!!” It was “Bruce 1,” an old pal and veteran of Australia’s SAS. He had lost an ear in an outback motorcycle accident years before when he crashed through a stock fence. Days later, another friend went to salvage the debris of Bruce’s BMW and plucked that ear, already mummified in the baking heat, from a strand of rusted fence wire. Presented with this prize, Bruce thenceforth carried it in his shirt pocket, taking every opportunity to pull it out, like, in response to being asked “What happen’t your ear, mate?”

“Ow, nuffing, mate,” he’d say. “See? Here i’tis! Bluidy thing kep’ fallin’ off, so’s I keeps ’im safe in me pokkit naow.”

That’s what he used to do. Some years after the crash, myself, three Bruces including Bruce 1, and a bloke named Peter were returning from an overlong fun & fishin’ trip, flat out of provisions with a long way to go. The only supplies to be had at a remote station were cases of Foster’s Lager and two huge sacks of dried Turkish apricots. Both would almost last through a moonless night’s ride cross-country in a topless Rover 109, exuberantly piloted by Peter, our embittered designated driver. He lost the coin toss.
Many miles and beers later, Peter achieved four-wheel flight over a rocky whoop-de-doo, scattering empty cans, apricots and passengers throughout the Rover. Bruce 1 had been passing his ear around, commenting on how very like a dried apricot it looked and felt.

Somewhat reorganized, we plunged onward, sippin’ beer and munchin’ – well, mostly dried apricots. It wasn’t until a pit stop at dawn that Bruce 1 dug wildly at his pocket, then demanded, “Wheah the bluidy ‘ell’s me bluidy EAR, mates? Wunna you blokes has swallered ’im!” Maybe not “golden,” but a memorable moment …

Two stomachs voluntarily emptied for inspection, but Bruce 1’s ear was MIA. One brought up something that looked like a drowned mouse. Bruce 3 yakked up a rubber washer and two Aussie pennies, which reminds me of …

4 Coins, 4 Boys, 1 Moment

Like their cannons and cars, colonial-era Germans built their railroad engines to last. The example sitting at a former German East Africa water-stop had been puffin’ along since before World War I. Her crew obviously loved her, and she glittered under a fierce midday sun. So did I, but my sheen was sweat — gallons of it.

I was roasting solo because my “trainees” — two platoons of native troops and their officers — had split into two groups according to dialect, and taken over the only two shaded spots on the baked red clay of the rail yard under two ancient baobab trees. Not wanting to show favoritism, and give them temporary respite from their tactical taskmaster, I steamed alone. Until the boys shuffled up.

They were four local boys about 6 to 8 years old. Two of them wore only dingy T-shirts and the other two, equally-dingy ragged shorts, making me wonder if they traded off wardrobes occasionally, or two would wear both shirts and shorts sometimes while the others wore their birthday suits for a different fashion look. For several minutes, they toed the dust and swiveled their heads, trying not to stare at me while stealing quick glances. Finally one faced me resolutely, pointed his finger and stated, “Mehr-i-ka!”

I tapped my chest and affirmed, “Mehr-i-ka. Yes. A-MEHR-i-can,” and smiled. This was apparently the funniest thing they had ever heard, and a signal for celebration and a rush up to my knees. “MEHR-i-kuh! YOO Mehr-i-ka!” Dudes, the cat was outta the bag. One of the troops must have spilled the beans. Columbus landing was nothing — The Fearless Four had discovered a real, live, no-kiddin’ MEHR-i-can! Although we shared only a smattering of words in my scant Swahili, we had the greatest, most convoluted and complex conversation imaginable over the next hour.

After a while I realized, given their ages, location, and the recent political history of their country, I was quite likely the first and only Mehr-i-can they had ever seen. Wow.
While discussing with gestures and grunts such delicate international questions as how far, how big, and how many buffalo, beads and people Mehr-i-ka had, we inspected each and every item in my pack and pockets, often dividing “samples” among the lads, like my spare bush scarf, which had to be cut in four equal pieces. They became pancake-like hats. Explaining that some strong cough drops were not candy but med-sin, with demonstrative coughing and hacking, took at least ten minutes and left us all needing a cough drop.

Two boys trotted off and returned with some unidentifiable fruit — or maybe they were vegetables. I only know they were juicy and nasty — and the kids dug out dripping tidbits for me with their grubby little fingers. It would have been a major diplomatic faux pas to demur, so I suffered through “lunch.” Clearly, we were now a brotherhood. The occasion had to be commemorated, and the troops were about to push on.

The Order Of A-MEHR-I-KA

I found four US pennies in my “personals.” The train was sitting there, its engine running. The crew was eagerly cooperative. When’s the last time you flattened pennies on a railroad track?

I punched holes in them with the marlinspike of a British Army folding knife, and cut four lengths of orange twine from my signals kit. Each boy was decorated with the Order of A-MEHR-i-ka, “Copper Class.” The timing of our departure was perfect. There were tears, hugs and formal handshakes all around. As our train chuffed away into purpling sunset, four raggedy little boys wearing pancake hats stood saluting at attention. A lone ray of light flashed on a copper medallion.

If you think four pennies won’t buy anything, let me tell you: They’ll buy a moment worth far more than moss.