Foreword -
In today's world of 24/7 news and social media, it's very easy to become blinded by political rhetoric to the point we lose track of why we observe Memorial Day. Memorial Day should not be a day to argue political points of view or to debate the justification for sending young men and women into combat. It should not be just the day when we break out the grill for the first lawn party of the year.
Memorial Day should never be "celebrated", for "celebrate" infers joy or the successful conclusion of some endeavor. Rather, Memorial Day should be "observed", one day out of two in each year in which we engage in somber reflection. It is the day we give the highest of honors to the men and women who earned that honor regardless of their personal politics. They should be honored because they served their country to the best of their ability and gave their lives in rendering that service.
This has been true since the first shots were fired at Concord, Massachusetts in 1775 and it is true today. Memorial Day should be a day when all people come together and remember the men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country and for their brothers and sisters in arms. On other days, we can debate the justifications for and results of that sacrifice, but on Memorial Day there can be no debate about one simple truth about these men and women - their country called on them to serve and they gave everything they had to give. Surely that alone is enough for us to put aside our differences and pay the tribute that sacrifice demands of us.
For those readers who do not reside in the US, I hope you also take time out from the constant rush life has become to reflect upon the men and women who gave you the ability to enjoy the life you lead, and in doing so gave their own lives. In many countries, those men and women were part of a resistance movement instead of the formal military of the country, but gave their lives because of what they believed was right and just and to the betterment of the world and not just to themselves. They're heroes and heroines just the same. They deserve to be remembered and respected and revered.
The scene that unfolded that Wednesday afternoon was one that I'd experienced once before, but it still caused tears to stream down my cheeks. You'd think a man wouldn't do that - cry. We're told almost from birth that guys don't show their emotions. All men learn that, but there are times when it just happens, like it was happening to me then.
I knew it was the same for Alice because this was her second time as well. She had tears in her eyes too, but at least she wasn't sobbing like the first time. That was because this time had been expected. Her father was ninety-five and had been in poor health for the last year. Just before he went, he held her hand and told her he was sorry he had to leave her, but she shouldn't grieve too long because he'd had a good life and it was time for him to go and join her mother. Then he said he loved her, something I'd never heard him tell her before. He'd already held my hand and asked me to promise I'd take good care of Alice.
A few minutes later, there wasn't any of the drama like you see on TV. He just stopped breathing and his face went slack. I'd seen that before too and sometimes I still did in my dreams, though my dreams took place in the sweltering heat and humidity of a jungle in Vietnam instead of beside a hospital bed.
Both Alice and I cried that night in the hospital. I loved that old man like he was my father, because in a lot of ways, he was. He'd steered me into something greater than I was, and though it was overpowering and at times worse than any nighmare I'd ever had, I'll never forget it or him.
We were standing under an awning over the grave site and watching the Honor Guard in US Army dress uniforms slowly side-stepping the flag draped casket to the frame over the vault.
To one side stood an array of men in police, EMT, and fireman's uniforms, and behind them were the police cars and motorcycles that had escorted the hearse from the Methodist Church to the grave site. Almost all except the very youngest of them were veterans of service in some far-off land too, and they were standing at attention.
Around that awning were about fifty men with American flags. Some wore the caps of the American Legion or VFW. A couple wore black vests with "MIA/POW emblazoned on the back. Most, like me, were older and a little heavier than when they'd worn a uniform. Most, also like me, didn't have as much hair either. Still, they stood at attention through the entire ceremony because each and every one was a veteran who was there to honor a fellow veteran as he was laid to his eternal rest.
Once the Honor Guard was in position, the officer in charge of the detail quietly ordered, "Down", and the six men of the Honor Guard lowered the casket to the frame so slowly and in such a smooth, coordinated manner there was almost no sound when it touched.
After that, the six men picked up the American flag at the corners and center, pulled it taut over the casket with a snap and then held it over the casket while standing at attention. I hadn't seen the officer standing off to one side until he began reading from a list of commendations Alice's father had earned in the US Army in World War II. Bill had told me he'd been wounded once, and he'd never said anything about any medals. I was surprised that he'd been awarded the Purple Heart three times, the Bronze Star with "V" and one cluster, and the silver star. He'd never even hinted about more than one Purple Heart and he seemed to be embarrassed about that one.
When the officer finished, I heard the command, "Present Arms" followed by three short commands of "Ready", "Aim", "Fire" followed by the shots of the three riflemen standing about fifty yards away, and then the command "Reset". Three such volleys were fired after which the detail received the command, "Reset" followed by "Present Arms".
I was doing OK until the mournful, soft strains of "Taps" played by an unseen bugler in the distance was the only sound except the occasional sniff from some of those in attendance and the ruffling of the awning in the breeze. I didn't try to wipe away the tears then. It wouldn't have done any good.
The Honor Guard then carefully folded the American Flag into the regulation tri-corner shape. The senior man flattened the folded flag against his chest and then held it up to make sure the flag was properly folded before presenting it to the officer in charge. After slowly saluting the Honor Guard, the officer in charge took the folded flag between his palms and received the slow salute of the Honor Guard leader. He then gave the order, "Honor Guard, Post", and after the Honor Guard marched to the side, he walked slowly up to Alice, knelt down on one knee and and spoke quietly as he handed her the flag.
"On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service."
He stood, slowly saluted Alice, then turned and walked from the awning.
The minister who delivered the grave side service kept my tears flowing.
"We are here today to lay to rest Sergeant William Randolph Brooks. Most of you know him as just Bill, but he was much more than just the man who built your house and who always had a smile on his face. Bill was a hero of The Second World War. He lied about his age and enlisted in the US Army when he was only seventeen. Bill was in the first wave of Army troops that assaulted the beaches of Normandy. He was wounded three times before the war was over and proved his courage too many times to count, but he didn't use that to his advantage.
"Those of you who've served might have heard him talk about those days a little, but Bill preferred to just be a good husband, a good father, a good carpenter and a good neighbor. I would imagine most of us had our lives changed because of something Bill did. Bill was just that type of man, a good, quiet man who led a good life and passed a little of his goodness on to everyone he met.
"I spoke with Bill the day before he passed. He knew his time was near and asked me to only say a prayer at his funeral service instead of an elegy. He didn't want any mention of his medals either. He told me the medals should have gone to the men to didn't come home because they'd helped him stay alive though it all.
Bill didn't want to be given any special honor, but he deserves the honor he didn't want. To give him that honor, I'll recite a poem by Charles M. Province that says more than my feeble attempts at praise could ever achieve."
He then lifted a paper from his bible and began to read.
"It is the Veteran, not the minister
Who has given us freedom of religion.
