Memorial Day Memory

 

 

            With every new memorial day that comes over the years, I remember one that brings to my mind a young man who lost his life in the Vietnam war. I would have been about eight when he fell. I never knew him, and don’t now remember his name. But I have not forgotten him.

            This is how I feel I know him though.

            It was a beautiful day in Seattle almost twenty years ago. It was a memorial day and I was visiting a friend. This day was made for walking, so we jumped into the car and drove about looking for a park in which to take a stroll. In the search, we happened to drive by a huge cemetery. Getting the affirmative from my friend that it would be fitting  to walk about the grounds and find the graves of the fallen; to say a short prayer for their sacrifice and ask God to have mercy on their souls, we parked, got out, and began our search.

            We came upon many, a few from WWI, many from WWII, and quite a number from the Vietnam War. Not being from the military, neither of us could figure out what much of the nomenclature on the gravestones meant. PVT, 1^st Class we assumed was Private first class. There were some with SGT, which we figured meant Sergeant and some with Capt.. Some had the emblems or insignia for the services, like the Marines, but there were many military abbreviations we couldn’t decipher. These titles obviously meant a lot to the soldiers, also to their loved ones, otherwise  their loved ones would not have  put them on the fallen soldiers memorials. It seemed a little wanting on our part not to be able to honor these soldiers more on account of our not understanding their histories.

            I was determined to partially remedy my ignorance. And so I did. My companion and I were standing over the grave of a Vietnam soldier interpreting as well as we could his military standings. It seemed that he belonged to a tank battalion. Frustrated, I looked up and saw a small crowd of people looking with some confusion for a gravesite. They were quite a ways off but my discomfiture of not being able to decipher these military abbreviations prompted me to go ask them if they might know.

            I left my companion and made the long walk to this little crowd and asked them if they might come and interpret for us. They graciously obliged and traversed the grounds back to my friend. They were elderly and had a man somewhat older than I with them.

            When they arrived, I pointed at the gravestone and began to explain my difficulty when I noticed that they were completely silent and in tears. For lo and behold these were the parents of the fallen soldier whose grave we bent over; accompanied by the soldiers older brother.

            They had been looking for his grave for quite some time, couldn’t find it and were in fact leaving the cemetery when I had gone and fetched them.

            They told us their story. Their son was indeed part of a tank unit. I do not now remember his rank. He was killed when on a rescue mission for some soldiers who had been pinned down behind enemy lines. As his Dad told it, his son led a number of tanks into a fiery hell, with the enemy throwing every kind of ordnance at them that they could muster. In that hell he lost his life.  It was clear that the heroic action of their son brought some solace to them, but the pain of the loss was still keenly felt. His mother told us little details of his life and now how her son’s suit still hangs in the closet where he left it on his last leave. He left it hanging there with the words, “I probably won’t need it anymore.”

            I could see that this fallen soldier’s brother had never gotten over the loss of his childhood companion. He told us many stories of he and his brother’s young adventures. A catch in his voice and a repressed sob showed his heart was still broken.

            It was a painful but wonderful story, one that we both gained much benefit from and they agreed that no other then Divine Providence could have brought us together over their sons grave.

            I pray for this young man’s soul even today. Many of you have fathers, sons, or brothers who have fallen and don’t need a story like this to enliven in your minds what we should be so thankful for, but some of us do, and these parents did that for me and my companion.   

            I still don’t know all the nomenclature the soldiers are regaled with. Maybe that’s the way it should be. They are an exceptional group and a little mystique is warranted.

                                    And the Fallen, May They Rest in Peace

 

Have a great day,

David Cools