Who will carry the flag?

It’s Memorial Day.  If you’re stateside, as I am, the ribs, hot dog buns, and charcoal are all sold out at your local Wal-Mart.  If you logged onto Facebook or any other social media today (or really anytime this weekend), you’ve probably been reminded endlessly to remember and be thankful for those who gave the ultimate sacrifice in the service of the United States.    And, hope you remember.  And, I hope you’re grateful.  Many of things we enjoy here came at a cost-a high, high cost.  

Service and patriotism seem to be genetic in my family.   I come from a long, long line of veterans and those willing to serve their country in various capacities.   There were the couple of grandfathers who served in the Revolution.  One stayed on in our first army, and lost his life in a battle in 1791.  Another grandfather and a set of uncles were involved in the War of 1812.   When the Civil War came, a grandfather and an uncle fought in blue, and the uncle fell on the field at the Second Bull Run, while other grandfathers and uncles fought in gray-one grandfather, whose name my son and I carry, carried a mini ball in his shoulder for the remainder of his life from Kennesaw Mountain and returned home to care for his sister whose husband never returned from Vicksburg, while another grandfather left Fort Morgan, and his state of Alabama a prisoner, never to see his home again, dying in a POW camp in Elmira, NY.   Other relatives served in World War I.   My grandfather (that same family name my son and I carry) and great uncles on both sides served in World War II.  My dad and my uncle were drafted and served tours in Vietnam.   My brother was in the army during the Gulf War.   Many friends and loved ones have served in some capacity in the current conflict and in peace time.   Some came home.  Some did not.  

Actually, that’s not true.   None of them came home.  Not a one. 

Memorial Day is a time, a day-a 24 hour period, in which we set aside time to honor and remember those who have died while serving their country.   A noble and worthy cause, no doubt.   And I ask you…no, I beg you.  Remember them.  REMEMBER them.   Remember their service.  Remember their sacrifice.   Remember what they stood for.   Remember what they stood against.   Remember those they loved.   Remember those they left behind.   Remember those who are no longer whole because the absence they leave behind can never be filled.   And remember WHY.  Always remember why they fought, why they died.   Do this.   Do this today.   And do it tomorrow, and the next day and the next week, and everyday afterward…because a mere 24 hours is simply not enough.   Thank God for them, because their sacrifice deserves it.  Their sacrifice requires it.

Yet, none of them came home.   None of them really came home. 

Remember those that came home, too, because none of them, especially those that served in war time, really came home either.   At least not fully.  I am the sister, daughter, niece and granddaughter of war time veterans whom I love and admire.   And this, I can tell you without hesitation-part of them is still “over there”, wherever “over there” happened to be for them.

My grandfather served in the European Theater in the Army in World War II.   We were close.   Very close.   We did everything together.    We were definitely members of the “mutual admiration society.”   We talked about, among other things, music, fishing, travel, and history.   And travel and history often collided with his experience in the war.   So we discussed it.  Often.  I knew he was trained near New Orleans-and this afforded him the opportunity to play jazz on Bourbon Street before he shipped out.   His father was working the railroad in Mobile at the time, and often visited him when he had a weekend pass-and my grandfather visited him in Mobile the day before he shipped out.  He hated chocolate the rest of his life because his mother spent all of her ration tickets on a 5lb box of Hershey’s chocolate, which he ate in one sitting on his first day on the boat, and, in his words, “Every fish in the Atlantic Ocean got a taste of chocolate the next day.”  He despised the idea of being in a boat in the ocean for the same reason.  He told me all about London and Paris.   I knew that he wanted to be a pilot, but was too tall to fit in the cockpit.   I knew that it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway, as my grandfather had a few skills that the army desperately needed-railroad experience and the ability to operate telegraph communications and understand and communicate in Morse Code.  That particular skill ensured that he didn’t come home when everyone else did because he was needed in the rebuilding process.  I knew that while in France, he had a jeep driver named “Georges” who often took him into to town to play with local musicians during their free time.   He picked up a little French while there, and often tried to have conversations with me “en francais” when I struggled through French in college.  (That was an epic fail if you’re wondering.)  He told me about his time in Germany, and we compared notes and places we’d both seen in Germany, England and France after I traveled to play music in 1999.  He refused to eat chicken (unless you didn’t tell him it was chicken) because his mother bought every chick she could when she found out her boy was coming home, and they ate fried chicken for—well, for a long time after.  And he made darn sure I knew that he wanted his casket draped in that flag when his time came, and what it would mean to him (and me) for me to have that flag and be proud of it, and that “Taps” was to be played at his funeral.  He was my best friend.    And, as best friends, should, I knew all there was to know about him. 

But I didn’t.   At least not for a very long time.   My grandfather landed in France the day after D-Day-to a carnage that I simply cannot fathom, and part of his responsibility was to help “clean up” the mess, and identify any who might still be saved.   And as much as my grandfather talked, and believe me, he could carry on a three hour conversation with a brick wall, he never spoke of it, except the one time to acknowledge that he had been there, and that he just couldn’t talk about what he saw.   You see, no matter how fully he lived afterward, no matter how happy he was to be home, a part of him forever stayed on that beach in Normandy.

My big brother was my idol, my knight in shining armor, my hero.   And that was before he joined the army!   I practically worshipped the ground he walked on.   I pretty much went along with anything he wanted me to do-well, except for that time we had a fight over which one of us had to drink the “New Coke” we accidentally got out of a drink machine once.    No one was more proud of him when he joined the army, and I don’t know that anyone was more crushed when, while he was on leave, we came home to find his leave had been cut short and he had to immediately return to Fort Bragg in order to prepare to leave for Desert Shield.   I know exactly what he looked like when he got on that plane at 4:30 in the morning, and I know exactly what he looked like when he got off a plane in Birmingham roughly eight months later.   And to this day, I can’t put a finger on it, but he looked different.   And he was different.   Really different.   I still worshipped him (and probably do a little still), but regardless, it was never the same.    Part of him, I can only guess, is still over there in the sands of Saudi Arabia and Kuwait.

And then there’s the Vietnam vets in my life-my father and my uncle.   I came after the fact, so I’ve only seen the aftermath, but it’s there.   I have always known my father was proud of his service in Vietnam, but I only recently have learned more about it, and I doubt I’ll ever know all of it.   He was an MP,  in the 504^th, Company B.   I now knew he was in some way involved in Ban Me Thuot and I know he was in the area of Pleiku, but I didn’t know that til the last 15 years or so when his buddies found him and asked him to come to a reunion.   Before that, I knew he was an MP and his best friend’s name was Zeigler, and that Fess Parker once visited them while there.    That and that something had terrified him.   He’s always hated loud noises, especially fireworks.  And then there were the nightmares.    Plus, just a general uneasiness he’s always had about him.    A far cry from the wild country boy I heard stories about.  There are problems lingering from Agent Orange-problems my uncle (his brother) fought til the day he died-and the mental anguish I can only assume comes with what they saw-so horrible that his brother tried to keep him from having to go by offering to stay.    Whatever it was, I see it in him still when he sees pictures.   And still, we don’t talk about it.  His demons are there, as I imagine they always will be.   They were there til the end for my uncle.   Those demons replace what was there-that part of him, that part of my uncle, that never came back.   I will never know my father fully, although I saw him last week, because part of him is still in Pleiku.

And there are those who are worse.  Those who come back physically and mentally impaired.   Those who came back, physically living, but so dead inside that all trace of their humanity has disappeared.  Those who are no longer recognizable to even their dearest, closest relatives.   Those who lost their very souls fighting for something they believed in though they are still breathing.    And those who can no longer live without what they left behind “over there”  and so end it all rather than dealing with the pain.  

You see, the fact is, no one who leaves for war ever comes back  from it.   They can’t.   It’s impossible to see what they have to see, to endure what they have to do endure, and be the same person that left.   Hence the young man my great grandmother said goodbye to was not the same man that returned to her years later.    The two sons my grandma had to let go overseas were not the ones who she welcomed home.  And that is the reason why the brother I watched get on the plane was not the I watched get off one.

Aside from learning a few more details about my father’s army service, I’ve learned something else since my father has been attending his military reunions.    They are not merely a unit.   They are a family, bonded by trial and fire.   And they love each other, care for each other, and protect each other until the bitter end, whether it’s been 2 months or 30 years.   Nothing, and I mean nothing-not even death-can separate that loyalty and love.   

Today is Memorial Day.  Remember those who were lost entirely.   Hold highly in regard those who gave their lives so that we might be safe and protected, and care for and remember those whom they left behind.   Their sacrifice is the greatest of all, and should be honored as such.     Be grateful that they loved enough to lay down their lives in service.    But don’t just remember them today.  Remember them every day, because it’s the right thing to do.  Pray for them and for those that are left pining for them.   Help honor their memory in any way you can.    But remember also that no soldier returns as he or she left.   Part of them is still over there as well.  Pray for them and do what you can for them, too, because that is what their brothers and sisters who did not make it home at all would have done, and it’s the least we can do to honor their memory.

“No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”   John 15:13

In one of my favorite films, Glory, the commander asks his troops before the final battle, “If this man should fall, who will carry the flag?”.

Many have fallen.  Who will carry their flag?

Because their sacrifice demands it---Get up and go!!