Remembering

     The men raced against time. Staggering under their load, they rushed toward the aid station. A crimson trail marked their passage, indicating the urgency of their mission. A few minutes earlier a rocket had slammed into their position grievously wounding their comrade. Now the four of them labored; each at the corner of a poncho. Each one hoping to make it before time and blood ran out. Suddenly a rattly gasp slipped out of the depths of the poncho. The men redoubled their efforts, knowing all the while that, for their burden, time had run out. They arrived at the aid station, and trained personnel took over in a vain attempt to stay the hand of death. Looking at his shattered, bloody corpse I wondered what his wife and children would think. But not all soldiers die in the field.

     Everyone thought Raymond, Ray to his friends, looked haggard. But then, we all did. A year of duty in Iraq wears on you. By the end of your tour the eighteen and twenty hour days stack up. The endless stream of grave decisions weighs you down; do we kill this one or do we give them another chance? Does the intel support a raid? Is the gain worth the possible loss of life? Do I employ the 50 Cal. or will the S.A.W. suffice? No matter the level, a year of life and death burdens the soul and body. Ray, just like the rest of us, was running on fumes as the day of his departure approached. Soon, however, he would be ensconced in the warm embrace of his wife and children. But not for long. The first Sunday back, while singing with his church choir, Ray collapsed and died of a brain aneurysm. No Purple-Heart for Ray. But, he died due to the burden he carried in Iraq as surely as if he’d been swept away by an IED. For others the process takes longer.

     Bill personified the professional Army Officer. Erect, clear eyed, and decisive, he commanded his battalion with the ease of a seasoned man of arms. He was every bit as compassionate toward the wounded as he was ferocious in a fight. His men knew that he loved them and would follow him anywhere. He was everywhere on the battlefield always reassuring the fearful and directing the action appropriately. Between contacts he labored to care for his soldiers and bring some sort of normalcy to the Iraqis who lived in his AO (Area of Operations). He saw the best and the worst of life deployed. But no one knew about the rocks he put into his ruck-sack. He carried that load alone, silently. These rocks weighed him down. Eventually he sought relief in a bottle and eventually had to leave the Army he loved. Shortly afterwards, the internal battle caught up with him and he died of hemorrhage brought on by a fatal mixture of alcohol and prescription drugs.

     So on Memorial Day, originally known as Decoration Day, how do I honor these three men and the hundreds of thousands of men and women who have gone before? What is fitting for such a day? Is there salve for the wounds these three families bear? I think not. Time and life go on; but, some wounds remain, forever altering the trajectory of the lives of those left behind. So while fumbling for adequate actions, this came to mind. We all take an oath to protect and defend the Constitution. Unlike many militaries, American soldiers pledge to defend a body of ideas not a political leader or a geographic spot of dirt. Perhaps the preamble offers some direction in this matter.

“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”

     We ought to lift our hands to bring about the things enumerated in the preamble. Soldiers work to forward these things. We live by them and in some cases die by them. I do not pretend to know what the last thoughts of my compatriots were. I do know that they sought to live out their lives in support of these ideals and I, as one who survived, ought to do the same. Another of our great documents gives further guidance and clarity to this question.

“And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”

     In this era of burgeoning “patriotism” we ought to rethink what patriotism means. Patriotism requires more than flying a flag, singing the appropriate song with the appropriate hand of your heart. Saying pledges before the start of the school day does not equate to patriotism. Patriotism calls for more than voting for your preferred candidate. These things are fine and all citizens ought to engage in these and similar acts; however, for those who penned the declaration during that hot summer in Philadelphia in 1776, patriotism meant sacrifice and service. True patriots give of themselves for the good of the nation. For some in the military this may mean the ultimate sacrifice. So when I pause while barbequing with my family on Monday, I need to consider how I might work, might sacrifice to better things around me. Yet one more document speaks eloquently to this issue.

“With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations."

     With great eloquence President Lincoln reminds us that this great experiment in democracy is not finished and that many hurdles remain for us to leap. He also reminds that we need to care for those who bear the wounds of war; those on the exterior as well as those interior. So on Memorial Day let us reflect for a moment on how we may engage in the patriotic duties that lie around us. How may we forward the cause and how may we bind up the wounds of the fallen? So as I tend the BBQ tomorrow, perhaps I might consider how to best remember my fallen comrades, how I might pick up the guidon and actively move it forward.