A Few Thoughts on Memorial Day

Thanks to Al Krause and friends for their contributions to this Memorial Day musing.

Memorial Day


Honoring soldiers, sailors, marines, patriots, freedom-fighters past, ancient and future; in the United States and other countries.

On Memorial Day we honor the memory of those who have died while in the military service of the United States of America. It is also fitting that we remember all those who have died for the cause of freedom, whatever country they are from; for we are indeed all one family and we share each other's common destiny on this planet that God created for us all. Likewise, we think of those who died believing they were fighting for freedom, though the political leaders in their command may have had other intentions in mind. Our thoughts also turn to those who died defending the cause of truth and virtue, whether or not they donned the uniform of their respective countries; and we think not only of those who thus sacrificed in our generation, but in generations past, all the way back to our first parents in the garden of Eden.

There have been many heroes down through the ages, both celebrated as well as unknown, who have given their all for the sake of a better world. Their combined efforts have given us what we have today, laying the foundation for us so that we now are on the brink of achieving the most ideal society attainable by mankind. May we go forward, building on the legacy they left behind, drawing from the courage they exhibited, to bring to fruition a society of freedom and peace for which they helped labor.

The enemies of freedom and civility have provided us with obstacles that have made us strong. Today we honor the many lives that have been lost in the battles that have been fought that peace and freedom might prevail. Today, we also recognize that there may yet be many lives lost, for not only are we closer to achieving the ideal society, but the enemies of freedom have also never been closer to achieving their goal of a counterfeit society of peace -- one of compulsion at the point of a sword. As current conflicts comes to a head, there will yet be many who will lay down their lives in defense of truth and virtue.

May we be faithful to the legacy we have been given, so that truth and freedom may prevail.

Thank you, Al Anderson:

I just wanted to get the day over with and go down to Smokey's. Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time, 1655. Five minutes to go before the cemetery gates are closed for the day. Full dress was hot in the August sun. Oklahoma summertime was as bad as ever--the heat and humidity at the same level--both too high.

I saw the car pull into the drive, '69 or '70 model Cadillac Deville, looked factory-new. It pulled into the parking lot at a snail's pace. An old woman got out so slow I thought she was paralyzed; she had a cane and a sheaf of flowers--about four or five bunches as best I could tell.

I couldn't help myself. The thought came unwanted, and left a slightly bitter taste: 'She's going to spend an hour, and for this old soldier, my hip hurts like hell and I'm ready to get out of here right now!' But for this day, my duty was to assist anyone coming in.

Kevin would lock the 'In' gate and if I could hurry the old biddy along, we might make it to Smokey's in time.

I broke post attention. My hip made gritty noises when I took the first step and the pain went up a notch. I must have made a real military sight: middle-aged man with a small pot gut and half a limp, in marine full-dress uniform, which had lost its razor crease about thirty minutes after I began the watch at the cemetery.

I stopped in front of her, halfway up the walk. She looked up at me with an old woman's squint.

'Ma'am, may I assist you in any way?'

She took long enough to answer.

'Yes, son. Can you carry these flowers? I seem to be moving a tad slow these days.'

'My pleasure, ma'am.' Well, it wasn't too much of a lie.

She looked again. 'Marine, where were you stationed?'

'Vietnam, ma'am. Ground-pounder. '69 to '71.'

She looked at me closer. 'Wounded in action, I see. Well done, Marine. I'll be as quick as I can.'

I lied a little bigger: 'No hurry, ma'am.'

She smiled and winked at me. 'Son, I'm 85-years-old and I can tell a lie from a long way off. Let's get this done. Might be the last time I can do this. My name's Joanne Wieserman, and I've a few Marines I'd like to see one more time.'

'Yes, ma 'am. At your service.'

She headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone. She picked one of the flowers out of my arm and laid it on top of the stone. She murmured something I couldn't quite make out. The name on the marble was Donald S. Davidson, USMC: France 1918.

She turned away and made a straight line for the World War II section, stopping at one stone. I saw a tear slowly tracking its way down her cheek. She put a bunch on a stone; the name was Stephen X.Davidson, USMC, 1943.

She went up the row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone, Stanley J. Wieserman, USMC, 1944.

She paused for a second. 'Two more, son, and we'll be done'

I almost didn't say anything, but, 'Yes, ma'am. Take your time.'

She looked confused. 'Where's the Vietnam section, son? I seem to have lost my way.'

I pointed with my chin. 'That way, ma'am.'

'Oh!' she chuckled quietly. 'Son, me and old age ain't too friendly.'

She headed down the walk I'd pointed at. She stopped at a couple of stones before she found the ones she wanted. She placed a bunch on Larry Wieserman, USMC, 1968, and the last on Darrel Wieserman, USMC, 1970. She stood there and murmured a few words I still couldn't make out.

'OK, son, I'm finished. Get me back to my car and you can go home.'

‘Yes, ma'am. If I may ask, were those your kinfolk?'

She paused. 'Yes, Donald Davidson was my father, Stephen was my uncle, Stanley was my husband, Larry and Darrel were our sons. All killed in action, all marines.'

She stopped. Whether she had finished, or couldn't finish, I don't know. She made her way to her car, slowly and painfully.

I waited for a polite distance to come between us and then double-timed it over to Kevin, waiting by the car.

'Get to the 'Out' gate quick. I have something I've got to do.'

Kevin started to say something, but saw the look I gave him. He broke the rules to get us there down the service road. We beat her. She hadn't made it around the rotunda yet.

'Kevin, stand at attention next to the gatepost. Follow my lead.' I humped it across the drive to the other post.

When the Cadillac came puttering around from the hedges and began the short straight traverse to the gate, I called in my best gunny's voice: 'TehenHut! Present Haaaarms!'

I have to hand it to Kevin; he never blinked an eye--full dress attention and a salute that would make his DI proud.

She drove through that gate with two old worn-out soldiers giving her a send-off she deserved, for service rendered to her country, and for knowing duty, honor and sacrifice.

I am not sure, but I think I saw a salute returned from that Cadillac.

Thank you, Skip Leonard:

Here's a collector's item...

HEADQUARTERS GRAND ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC
General Orders No.11
WASHINGTON, D.C., May 5, 1868

I. The 30th day of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet church-yard in the land. In this observance no form of ceremony is prescribed, but posts and comrades will in their own way arrange such fitting services and testimonials of respect as circumstances may permit.

We are organized, comrades, as our regulations tell us, for the purpose among other things, "of preserving and strengthening those kind and fraternal feelings which have bound together the soldiers, sailors, and marines who united to suppress the late rebellion." What can aid more to assure this result than cherishing tenderly the memory of our heroic dead, who made their breasts a barricade between our country and its foes? Their soldier lives were the reveille of freedom to a race in chains, and their deaths the tattoo of rebellious tyranny in arms. We should guard their graves with sacred vigilance. All that the consecrated wealth and taste of the nation can add to their adornment and security is but a fitting tribute to the memory of her slain defenders. Let no wanton foot tread rudely on such hallowed grounds. Let pleasant paths invite the coming and going of reverent visitors and fond mourners. Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages of time testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten as a people the cost of a free and undivided republic.

If our eyes grow dull, other hands slack, and other hearts cold in the solemn trust, ours shall keep it well as long as the light and warmth of life remain to us.

Let us, then, at the time appointed gather around their sacred remains and garland the passionless mounds above them with the choicest flowers of spring-time; let us raise above them the dear old flag they saved from dishonor; let us in this solemn presence renew our pledges to aid and assist those whom they have left among us a sacred charge upon a nation's gratitude, the soldier's and sailor's widow and orphan.

II. It is the purpose of the Commander-in-Chief to inaugurate this observance with the hope that it will be kept up from year to year, while a survivor of the war remains to honor the memory of his departed comrades. He earnestly desires the public press to lend its friendly aid in bringing to the notice of comrades in all parts of the country in time for simultaneous compliance therewith.

III. Department commanders will use efforts to make this order effective.

By order of
JOHN A. LOGAN,
Commander-in-Chief

N.P. CHIPMAN,
Adjutant General

Thank you, Jerry Norris. For all his Navy veteran brothers of the Viet Nam era:

How long has it been since we all were young together? Strangers becoming more like brothers than friends. Sharing things that most will never know, building bonds that are stronger than blood.

Cat shots into a formless black night, when sea and sky are one. Only the gauges point to altitude and life. Or into a hot, still day, when lift seems but a theory. Straining against the straps, willing it to climb. Hours strapped to a hard seat, mask cutting your face. Seemingly alone in a universe of three. Stretching for home, fuel balanced against Charlie time. "Foul deck. Continue to hold." Can sweat replace fuel? CCA through the muck, bathed in St. Elmo's ghostly glow. Pilot on the gauges, B/N searching for the sight of the plane guard's wake or Mustang's faint lights. Gear down. Flaps down. Hook down. "Call the ball." Pin point of orange, two green bars. "Folder five, ball." Air speed, line up and ball. Seconds to get it right. Pitching deck, don't chase it. "Folder five, power!" A rush of lights. Jarring hit. Scraping hook. Please catch. Full power. Slammed into the straps. Yes! From flight deck chaos to the ready room's warmth and the LSO's dreaded review: "High start, low in the middle. Okay three."

And there were joys that never grew old. On top of sun-blessed clouds, little less than gods. Or high in a clear night, a billion stars humbling the soul. The low-level rush, hills grabbing for your guts. Face in the scope, find the aim point, track. Master bomb on. "Follow BDI." Tone. Pull! Two and a half Gs. Release. Roll. Shack! Happy hours at the club. Unplanned weekend parties. Married couples who'll feed bachelor JOs.

Off to WestPac. Mai Tais beneath the "bang bang tree." Popcorn and "juice" in the JO bunkroom. Atsugi for hotsy baths and sake to forget night traps. Cubi and San Miguels, "fragrant river" and "monkey on a stick." Hong Kong's good cheap suits and floating restaurants. Pollywogs becoming shellbacks on crossing the line Down under, where past sacrifices still bring respect. Finally, homeward bound. "Open up those Golden Gates."

But life on the edge brings soaring highs AND crushing lows. Friends so full of life, can they really be gone? Empty ready room chairs bring the sad truth: Fatherless kids, wives now widows and men who will never grow old. "Glory, glory, what a helluva way to die." "And they'll never fly home again." Practicing for war until the real thing came. The wrong war, in the wrong place, fought the wrong way. Too many good men gave their all for so little good.

Does anyone remember but those of us who loved them? The wall may be black, but the names are golden.

Now those who remain come together in joy. So many years have flown and our bodies are weaker. But the memories and the bonds are forever strong. And, for a moment, we all were young together again.

Thank you, Steve Weisbrod:

THE THINGS THEY CARRIED:

They carried P-38 can openers and heat tabs, watches and dog tags, insect repellent, gum, cigarettes, Zippo lighters, salt tablets, compress bandages, ponchos, Kool-Aid, two or three canteens of water, iodine tablets, sterno, LRRP- rations, and C-rations stuffed in socks. The carried standard fatigues, jungle boots, bush hats, flak jackets, and steel pots. They carried the M-16 assault rifle. They carried trip flares and Claymore mines, M-60 machine guns, the M-70 grenade launcher, M-14's, CAR-15's, Stoners, Swedish K's, 66mm Laws, shotguns, .45 caliber pistols, silencers, the sound of bullets, rockets, and choppers, and sometimes the sound of silence. They carried C-4 plastic explosives, an assortment of hand grenades, PRC-25 radios, knives and machetes.

Some carried napalm, CBU's, and large bombs; some risked their lives to rescue others. Some escaped the fear, but dealt with the death and damage. Some made very hard decisions, and some just tried to survive.

They carried malaria, dysentery, ringworms, and leaches. They carried the land itself as it hardened on their boots. They carried stationery, pencils, and pictures of their loved ones - real and imagined. They carried love for people in the real world, and love for one another. And sometimes they disguised that love: "Don't mean nothin'!"

They carried memories!

For the most part, they carried themselves with poise and a kind of dignity. Now and then, there were times when panic set in, and people squealed, or wanted to, but couldn't; when they twitched and made moaning sounds and covered their heads and said "Dear God", and hugged the earth and fired their weapons blindly, and cringed and begged for the noise to stop, and went wild and made stupid promises to themselves and God and their parents, hoping not to die. They carried the traditions of the United States military, and memories and images of those who served before them. They carried grief, terror, longing, and their reputations.

They carried the soldier's greatest fear: the embarrassment of dishonor. They crawled into tunnels, walked point, and advanced under fire, so as not to die of embarrassment. They were afraid of dying, but too afraid to show it. They carried the emotional baggage of men and women who might die at any moment. They carried the weight of the world, and the weight of every free citizen of America.

THEY CARRIED EACH OTHER
--Author Unknown--


I hope you enjoyed the day off. Somewhere near the end of this day take time to remember those for whom the day is dedicated."