"Ground Control? The Major's gone..."

I have a terrible habit. Whenever someone tells me someone I know has died the first thing I usually say is "You're kidding?"

(Why this is, I have no idea. As if the person who has just broken the news to me is going to reply "Yes, actually I am. They're not dead at all. I just wanted to see your face when I told you that they'd died.")

When I walked into work today I was informed of the death of Peter Beveridge, AKA The Major. "Fuck me..." I said. "I liked The Major."

The last time I saw The Major he was being wheeled out of the club in a wheelchair with an oxygen mask over his face and a frightened look in his eyes. I remember thinking at the time "I wonder if I'll ever see him again?" And I think in my heart I knew I wouldn't, so I stood at attention and saluted him. "See you later Major." I said as he trundled past me. He saluted me, said, "See you later Captain." through the plastic mask that was feeding his lungs pure oxygen, and attempted to smile.

I never knew The Major very well. But I liked him. In his 70 and some years on the planet I know he did things that I could only dream about...

He fought in a war... He married his sweetheart... He loved and lost... He laughed, cried and swore just for the fun of it... And he drank enough rum to knock an elephant on its arse. Regularly.

At the end of my shift tonight I sat with a rum in my hand as a tear formed in my eye and said aloud to The Major. "Where ever you are Major, give 'em hell."

In my heart of hearts I know that he's on another ethereal plane with a rum in his hand, a glint in his eye and his old war friends and his wife are sitting with him.

And tommorow morning he'll have a hangover big enough to make the gods take alkaseltzer and his wife will be wondering where he got the energy...

Peter Beveridge.