My Hat

One of my first orders when arriving to my new “Top Secret” detail, was to do inventory. Locked away in a warehouse with hot coffee and a clipboard. I wasn’t exactly angry that I was now a clerk. Enough days and nights being shot at and bombarded constantly will have you respecting secretary work. I wasn’t told at first as to why I was chosen for such a lush detail, maybe they got the wrong guy. In any case I kept my mouth shut and happily yes sir’d my way through the days. I didn’t want to be found out and sent back into action if I could help it.

Every day I counted and recounted every crate making sure they matched the morning manifest given to me by my new commanding officer, an English Sergeant. He was a big guy with a big mustache and a big limp. I heard he was a war hero and still had shrapnel in his leg. I liked Sgt. Burton. 

One evening I woke up to the sound of voices in the warehouse just outside my quarters. I went in with flashlight and pistol in hand. A big burly voice rang out, “put out that torch son!” I wouldn’t have recognized him if I didn’t hear his voice. He was dressed in civilian clothes, jacket, and hat. He wreaked of scotch and Brylcreem. I was confused by what he meant by torch and why he was sitting with an open crate. 

He called me son and had me walk over to him. He was drunk. He was leaning over and looking into a crate. I asked him what was going on and in his big burly proper English voice, he lectured me about questioning a superior officer. I thought I was going to be sent back into the war. He laughed and patted me on the back. He told me that he was proud that I had the courage to question something that didn’t look right. He called me a good man. I knew he was drunk. 

He asked me what I had thought about my new detail and if I knew the importance and seriousness of the division I was now a part of. I told him that I didn’t know, that I wasn’t told anything. I even told him that I thought they mistaken me for someone else. He proceeded to tell me what exactly the purpose of all of this was. I was of course skeptical. I asked what was in the crate, he looked at me for the longest time in silence. I will never forget the reverence in his voice when he said, “come here boy, look inside.” 

I suddenly got chills as I investigated the crate in the dark. Look closer he told me, both of us leaning into the crate. This my boy is the cloth of Uriel, it carries the hair of an Archangel within it. As he proceeded to tell me about who Uriel was and about the freak lightning bolt that hit the previous crate, destroying most of the contents, his hat slides off his greasy creamed head and tumbled into the crate. He gasped as he mumbled something repeatedly, I didn’t understand a word, perhaps it was in German, or German by a drunken English Gent.  

When he was done with his mumbling, he retrieved his hat and stared at me. He fiddled with his hat a bit and paused. He handed it to me citing that it was a nuisance to his hair. He turned and stumbled away turning to say in a clear commanding English tone, don’t lose that hat and box up that crate immediately. Tidy up this mess. I expect spit spot by morning tea. Then he left. Strangest night of my life. That would change significantly.