Memorial Day

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323. Memorials

Over the Memorial Day Weekend, C.W. likes to appear in his inquisitive young man form and visit military cemeteries. Don’t ask why. Something about all those orderly-spaced tombstones fascinates him. Devoted readers will remember the time we visited one in Little Rock and witnessed an elderly vet remembering his lover who had died at Pearl Harbor. He’s probably dead now too. The World War Two vets are vanishing at a sad and alarming rate.

This time we were driving to visit a spot near here where a group of Confederate soldiers from the Civil War era are buried. C.W. was peppering me with questions as usual.

“Tell me again the difference between Memorial Day and Veterans Day.”

I took a breath. “I’ve told you before. On Veterans’ Day we honor all veterans who have served in the military.”

“Even the girls?”

“Of course even gi ... the women.”

“Oh. And Memorial Day?”

“We pay tribute to those who died serving in the military.”

“Oh. So this weekend honors those who died gloriously in battle?”

I started to respond, but held myself. “We’ll see,” I said.

We drove into the cemetery, a sad and lonely spot as so many are. It was there that C.W. learned this was the resting spot for a group of soldier who were not slain in battle but died of a highly contagious disease that ravaged their unit.”

His face turned ashen. “They weren’t stabbed or shot or blown up or something?”

“No,” I said. “They simply took sick and died. That was the case in a majority of deaths during that particular war.”

“Most weren’t killed in battle?”

“No. Most died from disease. There were no sanitary measures taken on either side of that conflict. Filth and the subsequent spread of disease took a tragic toll.”

“No sanitary measures?”

“None. Not even designated latrines.”

“But the Roman armies practiced sanitation before the designated birth date of the Galilean.”

“We forgot them,” “or maybe we just thought they were too much trouble or expense.”

Would that your wars could be
so neat and orderly. - C.W.

“Your species let men die from lack of medical care?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And the leaders of that war are considered great men now?”

“Yes. We even celebrate the birthday of one of them as a holiday in our state.”

Apparently shaken, he shook his head. “Soldiers fighting for their cause but dying because of improper medical care. Is this the way your species goes to war?”

“Not anymore,” I said. “We provide excellent medical care for our men and women in combat.”

“Yes,” he said, looking out at the tombstones. “It’s only after they leave the battles now that the medical care diminishes.”

“I’m afraid so,” I said. “It’s considered too costly.”

“Well,” he said. “It is cheaper to build memorials.”

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202. Service

“You want to do what?”

“Calm down,” C.W. said.

“Calm down nothing. What are you planning now?”

“I told you. I want to enlist.”

I collapsed onto a kitchen chair. “In the military?”

“Yes. I need you to help choose the branch.”

“Oh goodness.”

“I could join the Navy. You know, follow in your footsteps.”

“Are you insane? Enlist?”

“You did.”

“I had to. Now let’s not hear any more about this.”

He pulled a chair out and sat across from me. “Afraid it’s too late for that.” He had taken the shape of a young, athletic youth of 18, with bright blonde hair and sparkling eyes. “Too late.”

“Too late how?”

“I’ve already talked to the recruiters, one from each branch.”

“Oh no,” I said. “You haven’t.”

“Afraid so. They want to talk to both of us. I told them you were my dad.”

“Oh Jesus. You didn’t. Those guys are like bulldogs when they get a prospect. They put insurance salesmen to shame.”

“Well get ready. The natural or synthetic substance used to add a color to or change the color of something is cast.”

“The ‘dye’ may be cast, but we can uncast it. This is insane.”

He looked at me with surprise. “What’s wrong with you? Aren’t you patriotic?”

“When things call for it.”

“And when they don’t?”

“When they don’t, I tend to agree with Samuel Johnson that patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel. Anyway,” I said, hoping to change the direction of the conversation, “what prompted this?”

“Simple,” he said. “Tomorrow is Memorial Day.”

“And?”

“Haven’t you seen the great outpouring of love for our service members? Why, even the stores are staying open in their honor. Oh, and by the way, you’re supposed to buy Mrs. Big Dope a diamond for Memorial Day. And a car for me.”

“Memorial Day honors service members who died in battle after they enlisted. Do you want to be one of them?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be. The Army recruiter promised that with my knowledge of aerodynamics I would be a drone operator. Never leave the country. See?” He produced a recruiting ad that encouraged kids to become members of “The Stateside Shock and Awe Team.”

“Oh Jesus,” I said.

“Don’t you love your country?”

“What’s love got to do with it?” I thought I might divert him with the words of a song by his favorite singer.

Ignoring me, he said, “Then there’s Veterans’ Day. I’ll surely be honored on that day.”

“Oh yes,” I said. The flag decals will be shining on every automobile and every store will have a sale.”

He straightened in his chair and said, “Why are you so cynical?”

“Because I’ve been down this road.”

After thinking it over, I've decided.
Maybe the best way to honor the fallen
is to have no more wars. - C.W.

“And aren’t you proud that your country takes two days to honor those who serve?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “But therein reside the reasons I’m wary.” I made a few clicks on my computer.

“What are those reasons?”

I turned the computer around so he could see a news article reporting how one of my state’s senators had voted against funding for veterans’ benefits.

“The other 363 days,” I said.

 

 

 

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151. Memories

It is usually C.W. at his most annoying. Of course I mean his assuming the shape of a question-a-second pre-teenager. This time, though, I decided it might be a learning experience.

He showed up in his shorts, flip-flops, and tee-shirt ready, as he said, “To party-hearty and enjoy the Memorial Day fireworks.”

I waited until he had finished his litany of expected festivities. “Do you think that is what Memorial Day is for?”

“Well yeah,” he said. Then he cocked his head. “Ain’t it?”

“No,” I said. “It should be a day of somber reflection.”

“A what?”

“A day that we remember those who died after they answered their country’s call for military service during times of war.”

“Oh, gross,” he said.

“Go change clothes,” I said. “We’re taking a trip.”

An hour later we were at our city’s military cemetery on the east side of town. It was quiet. Most folks were attending a large festival nearby. A few solitary souls were wandering the grounds. Some stood quietly in front of one of the white tombstones. A small group was placing flags on each one. It was a peaceful, lonely place.

“Lookit,” C.W. said, pointing to a man who was kneeling before one of the graves. Before I could stop him, he had raced over and stood beside the man, a well-dressed figure appearing to be well into his eighties.

Miraculously, C.W. took this opportunity to show both restraint and respect. He stood silently until the man looked up in greeting.

“Is this someone you knew?”

The man nodded. “We served together on the old Nevada.”

“What’s an Old Nevada?”

“It was a battleship.”

“He died?”

“In 1941.”

“How old was he?”

“He had just turned eighteen. We both had.”

“How did it happen?”

“The ship came under attack and we were on our way to our battle stations when a bomb hit near us.”

“He died there?”

“No, he was the only one that wasn’t hurt.”

C.W. looked confused.

“He carried the rest of us to a safe location, one by one.”

“And then?”

“After he saw that I was safe, he checked the group and saw that one of us was still missing.”

“And?”

“When he went back that time, he never returned.” The man lowered his head and sobbed.

I was watching, proud of C.W. who waited until the man had regained his composure.

“I’m so sorry,” C.W. said. “It must have been hard on you to lose a shipmate.”

The man looked up at him through reddened eyes. “A shipmate?”

“Yes sir. A shipmate.”

“A shipmate yes. A hero, yes. But more. He was my sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening, a gentle breeze across my cheek on a tropical evening, and the beauty of the ocean’s roll on a following sea. I have missed him every day for over 71 years. I would have gladly given all those years for one more touch of his soft hand.” He began to cry again.

“Gee,” C.W. said. “Did he win a medal?”

Seems to me that war is crappy enough
without getting the bigots involved. - C.W.

“No,” the man said quietly. “Before the attack, we were both scheduled to be cashiered from the navy. His name was hardly ever mentioned afterwards. They wouldn’t have buried him here except that his family had some influence.”

“That don’t hardly seem fair.”

“The world is not fair, my son,” the man said as he stood. “And war even less so. Now if you will excuse me, I have a plane to catch.” He walked away on unsteady legs to where a taxi waited.

As C.W.came to where I stood, I couldn’t help asking, “Did you learn anything?”

“Shut up,” he said, and I swear he had tears in his eyes.