Posts Tagged ‘Memorial Day’

My Memorial Day Rant

Tuesday, May 29th, 2012

This year I was going to go with my usual, somber toned Memorial Day post wherein I discussed the humble nature of the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines who laid down their lives for out benefit. I was going to remind the gentle reader that it was military men and women of the highest caliber that have earned them every right and freedom that they enjoy and that those men and women did so by ending what could have been their very own long, brilliant, peaceful lives both violently and prematurely. A subtle and well-phrased reminder of the true meaning of Memorial Day would have been sufficient to appease my need to honor the fallen and remind the public that it is right and good to do so. Not this year.

This year something has been brought to my attention that has stirred in me a fire. This year there will be no gentle Easter sunrise service or a praise-laden Christmas Mass, but a good, old-fashioned Baptist-styled fire and brimstone fury from the bully pulpit. This year, I’m pissed.

The reason I am about as pleased as a man with three penises, syphilis, and kidney stones is an article written by Jennifer Browdy de Hernandez of Bard College at Simon’s Rock. This “professor” wants Memorial Day to be “de-militarized.” That’s right, you read that correctly; she wants to de-militarize Memorial Day. This twit wants to take the one day reserved for remembering the selfless sacrifices of men and women who voluntarily laid down their lives for the good of the many and simply make it a day to remember all of the people that ever died. Allow me to deconstruct this one idiotic point at a time.

First and foremost I would like to talk about the institution at which de Hernandez “teaches” which is Bard College at Simon’s Rock. This college’s recruitment tactics when I was in high school bordered on desperation. I have seen elderly, amputee gutter trollops in third world countries pandering their desiccated wares at fifty cents a pop displaying more dignity than that with which Bard College at Simon’s Rock prostituted itself then and continues to prostitute itself today. I received pamphlets from them literally every week which, by the way, was more often than I received recruiting calls from all four branches of the service put together. Apparently their standards haven’t improved. According to US News and World Report, Bard College at Simon’s Rock is rated “less selective” admitting 80% of all applicants who apply. Now, bear this in mind: according to a recent article at the Huffington Post, only one in four high school graduates can pass the ASVAB. So, your chances of getting into the Army (based only on mental acuity and not physical capacity) are 25% while your chances of getting into Bard College at Simon’s Rock are 80%. AND you will actually PAY to got to Bard College at Simon’s Rock instead of GETTING PAID in the Army.

Basically, a diploma from Bard College at Simon’s Rock longs for the prestige that belongs to a soiled adult undergarment and doesn’t dare dream to strive for the unreachable apotheosis of respectability that a certificate of completion from a matchbook cover art school carries.

Now, as everyone knows an institution of higher learning is only as good as the weakest link in the chain that comprises its cadre of instructors and in this case, hopefully, the weakest link is Jennifer Browdy de Hernandez because if there are any weaker instructors at Bard College their student body is so epically screwed that Greek tragedies would seem like comedies in comparison. Jennifer Browdy de Hernandez teaches “comparative literature and gender studies with an activist bent at Bard College at Simon’s Rock.” Strike one. She poses this question in her article at CommonDreams.org: “why should we reduce our national day of mourning to just those who have died in the line of duty as soldiers?” Strike two. She goes on to say this about her dead family members; “just because none of them died in war doesn’t mean we shouldn’t honor them on Memorial Day” and then has the nerve to suggest that “perhaps we should turn Memorial Day into something more akin to the Meso-American Day of the Dead. Instead of a day of military-style parades, it should be a day to visit ancestral grave sites and lovingly remember those who have passed on.” Strike three, twit.

First things first, comparative literature and activist gender studies is nothing more than bloated opinion. There is no need for facts. There is no need for accurate sourcing. There is no need to teach it at a college because it serves no real purpose. If you want to hear someone talking about how holding hands is forcible rape there is no need to look further than any militant feminist blog or if you want to discuss why Shakespeare’s sonnets are reminiscent of Oscar Wilde’s masturbatory wall scribblings in the men’s room at Oxford, you need look no further than the closest clove-smoking hipster at the local Starbucks. When Ms. de Hernandez starts teaching something that requires actual facts and can actually lead to real, meaningful employment, she can start calling herself a real professor.

Second, you cannot take back a holiday that was never yours. Memorial Day isn’t a national day of mourning for civilians nor was it EVER a national day of mourning for civilians. It was a day to remember our war dead and there is a reason for that. You see, everybody dies. Everybody. Not everybody dies FOR something. What Ms. de Hernandez fails to grasp is that there is a tremendous, mind-bogglingly vast difference between laying down your life for a cause and simply dying in your sleep. She wants to honor family members who died of natural causes on the same level as soldiers and sailors who died violent, often horrific deaths on OUR behalf. Sorry, lady, but I owe those soldiers and sailors and airmen and marines a debt that I can never repays them. We all owe them that. We don’t owe your dead uncle Marty jack shit. Your family members lived and died for themselves and themselves alone. Our war dead died for all of us. If you cannot recognize the difference between a soldier being torn to ribbons by Nazi machine gun fire on the beaches of Normandy trying to liberate Europe and crush the Nazi war machine that threatened the world and your grandpa dying of old age in bed at age eighty doing nothing more heroic than trying to eek in one more geriatric finger-banging of your grandma, you’re far too stupid to be teaching remedial obedience school for special ed dogs, let alone college students. The holiday always belonged to the war dead. Always. You cannot take back what was never yours.

Third, there already IS a holiday to honor ancestral forebears and it falls on November second. If that isn’t good enough for you, you can use October 31st or the Mexican Day of the Dead, all of which are devoted to ancestor homage. The days to celebrate the dead that DIDN’T die in extreme circumstances of self-sacrifice already exist. If you want a special day where your family tree is lauded for its service to the country and recognized for its extreme sacrifice, maybe you should have married someone with bigger balls than your gutless relatives and produced an heir that would actually bring REAL honor to your family instead of just concentrating on self-serving ventures that your relatives were only allowed to pursue under the aegis of better men than ever graced your genealogy.

Ms. de Hernandez said of her ancestors that “they bravely gathered what they could carry and set off to try to establish a better future for their descendants.” So basically the bravest thing they ever did was what soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines now call “packing your shit” for pre-deployment. The bravest thing your folks ever did was the most mundane shit ours did. You haven’t earned a fucking thing and neither have your forebears and the only reason that you even have a right to baselessly bitch and moan about it is because better men and women than you and yours stepped up to the plate while you and yours were whining about the baseball players getting all the glory while the spectators were whining about ticket prices.

In short, Ms. de Hernandez, you can feel free to honor your ancestors whenever you like, but Memorial Day is reserved for your moral superiors you ignorant, arrogant quim.

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A Memorial Day Tradition

Monday, May 30th, 2011

A tradition at The Sniper: The Memorial Day posting of In Flanders Fields

In Flanders Fields

LTC John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Other blogs you should check out for their Memorial Day Posts:

Soldiers Angels Germany

Hawaii Magazine

Bouhammer

HometownAnnapolis

Blackfive

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Memorial Day 2011

Monday, May 30th, 2011

It is Memorial Day. Today is the day set aside for the nation to remember her fallen servicemen and women. It’s a complicated day. It’s not Veterans’ Day so don’t make the egregious error of talking about how our service members are out there for you every day and how we should honor them today. Yes, they are out there for us every day. Yes, they deserve praise. No, they’re not all dead. Thank God. This isn’t Veterans Day. Don’t confuse the two. If you feel the need to thank a vet or a service member for their service today, okay. I get it. They get it. We’re also not dead, but we understand the sentiment. And saying “Happy Memorial Day” sounds and feels “off” somehow. Just a nod would suffice, I suppose. Better yet just go visit a national cemetery or a memorial or something. Just stand there in awe of what others were willing to give up for you. You don’t have to say anything. And if you do feel the need to say “thank you”, just say it to those that can’t say it back. It doesn’t have to be out loud. Just thinking it would get the point across because, let’s face it, they probably can’t hear you and the person that really needs to hear those words is you anyway.

This past weekend Mrs. Sniper and I went to Gettysburg, PA for a get-away that was part vacation for the two of us without the kids, part Memorial Day observation for me. Mrs. Sniper knows I get pretty morose about this time every year and she does her best to leave me to my druthers. She knows I want to be left alone for a while on Memorial Day weekend and she understands why. So yesterday while she was taking a nap in our room at the bed and breakfast where we were staying in Gettysburg, I went outside, sat on the porch, had a drink, and started ticking off the names in my head. I couldn’t count the names on one hand but I felt fortunate that I didn’t need an abacus to keep track of them.

Earlier in the morning Mrs. Sniper and I got on our bicycles and rode the entire driving tour of the Gettysburg National Park. We listened to the tour on our iPods while we rode the 21 miles of the tour. I have driven the tour a couple of times and I prefer taking the tour on the bike. There is something quieter, more solemn about the relative silence of the pedals and the heat of the day versus the sound of the engine and the comfort of our SUV’s air conditioning. By the time we reached the top of Little Round Top about ten miles into the tour we were both dripping sweat and I was contemplating how much of an ass-kicker of a hill it was when I thought about the guys that were trying to take this hill on foot amidst a hail of gunfire. I immediately reproached myself and quit my whining. At the 16 mile mark we climbed to the top of Culp’s Hill and I reproached myself again for the same reason. At mile 19 we were at the High Water Mark. For those of you familiar with Gettysburg, you know what that means. For those of you that are not, that is the farthest limit of advance of Pickett’s Charge at the Federal Lines on the third day of fighting.

Although named “Pickett’s Charge” the charge was actually comprised of three Confederate Divisions under Pickett, Pettigrew, and Trimble. Approximately 12,500 men in nine infantry brigades spread out over a one mile long frontal formation which advanced over open fields for three-quarters of a mile under heavy Union artillery and rifle fire. By the time they reached the Emmitsburg Road that bisects the battlefield, the Union troops opened up with everything they had. In unison, 6,000 Union bullets let fly and opened up a murderous swarm of lead that would not abate until the Confederate troops had taken 50% casualties and were in a full rout. The deadly fire was so voluminous that after the battle union soldiers counted the bullet holes in one section of the split rail fence that bordered the Emmitsburg Road. There were 842 of them in a piece of wood 16 feet long by about six to eight inches wide. When you look out at the field these guys had to cross under constant fire, wearing wool uniforms in the almost 90 degree heat of that July afternoon, and knowing full well that they probably would not be coming back, you have to marvel in awe at the incredible courage these men had to have. It’s hard enough having to carry all of your gear that far in the sweltering heat and lethal gunfire of that summer day without having to haul an extra fifty pounds of brass balls but these guys did it. I don’t think I could have. Luckily I don’t think I will ever have to find out. I hope I won’t, at least.

All in all there were about 46-51,000 casualties at the Battle of Gettysburg including close to 8,000 killed in action. That’s almost three 9/11’s dead and a major league baseball stadium filled pretty much to capacity wounded. There were arms and legs stacked like cord wood after all of the amputations and some of the streets ran red with blood. Pigs that had escaped their pens feasted on the flesh of fallen soldiers in the no-man’s land of the Wheatfield and the Slaughter Pen. There were ten wounded soldiers for every civilian living in Gettysburg. The latter cared for the former and their floors were indelibly stained from the pools of blood that collected under their hemorrhaging patients. It was the largest bloodbath of the civil war and one of the greatest losses, if not THE greatest loss, of life in the history of North America. Worst of all is that we did this to ourselves.

One hundred and fifty years later I sat on a porch at a bed and breakfast in Gettysburg drinking wine and ticking off the soldiers and vets that I knew that had gone on to join their fellows from previous wars, accidents, misfortune, or simply old age. I was angry and saddened by their loss and then I remembered that I was a rank amateur when it came to privation. I remembered what I had seen and heard during our tour of the battlefield earlier in the day and my mood changed. I could no longer be angry or sad knowing that my loss was made almost insignificant by the massive loss of life and the myriad tragedies that arose from just three days fighting in the early days of July, 1683. Then something more profound hit me: all of those losses actually are mine, and all of those losses are yours. Every loss of every service member is our loss. Every tragic end to every young life given in honor and service to our country is our tragedy. Every old vet who closes his eyes at night for the last time and never opens them again is a part of our history that we will never, ever get back and therefor the loss of a national treasure.

Today is Memorial Day. It is a national day of remembrance and mourning because every loss of every life given in service to our country is a not only personal tragedy for the family, friends, and loved ones of the fallen and not only a national tragedy for the loss of a patriot, but a personal tragedy for every citizen of the United States of America whether they realize it or not.

Today is Memorial Day.

Remember.

H/T To The Brigade for the picture. They have a lot more of them there for their Memorial Day post. Handkerchief warning. Don’t go there unless you want to get choked up.

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In Case Of War, Break Glass

Monday, May 25th, 2009

I am not “pro-war”. Neither am I “anti-war”. My personal belief is that to take either stance and grasp onto it without the intention of ever letting go is extremism. It’s not logical nor is it rational to believe that either extreme is a good course of action at all times. My personal philosophy is that there is a time for diplomacy and a time for taking up arms and to rule out either one of those two options on the basis of personal dogma is short-sighted. Allow me a metaphorical example to explain my perspective. If you have a dispute with your neighbor over a tree branch that overhangs your property line, it would be lunacy to put a gun to his head and force him to cut off the offending branch. It would be just as ill-advised to try to convince an axe wielding madman that his breaking into your house in the middle of the night was not only a violation of state and city ordinances, but of your Constitutional right to privacy and protection from undue search and seizure. The same thing goes for nations. There is a time for talk, and there is a time for action. There is a time to send diplomats with attaches and delicate words, and there is a time to look at the soldier with their harsh actions at the ready, standing sentry behind the window of restraint that says “In case of war, break glass”.

It’s not important that you know my life’s story right now, other than this fact: I’m a vet. I am a combat veteran on the United States Army. I served in Afghanistan as an infantryman from 2004 to 2005 in such places as Bagram Airbase, Forward Operating Base Ghazni, Forward Operating Base Salerno, Wardak Province, and Kabul. I was on the Quick Response Force tasked with providing emergency response for units in trouble, downed aircraft, and, in the event of a coup, the evacuation of President Karzai himself. I have engaged the enemy directly. I have been shot at and I have shot back. I and my platoon have engaged the enemy in firefights, worked side by side to capture Taliban fighters, and destroyed massive weapons caches. I have been rocketed. I have found myself in minefields. And I’ve been bored out of my mind. I have seen the ugliness of war. I have seen the good side of war. Yes, that’s right… the good side. Good and bad are unwitting neighbors in war.
There is an old Russian saying “нет худа беэ добра” which means “there is no bad, without good”. I know it’s hard to believe, but I have seen it with my own eyes. I’ve seen US soldiers and Afghan soldiers dancing together during the nightly feasts that took place after the sunset during Rammadan. I’ve been there when the bullets and RPG rounds came in a few minutes later because the Taliban didn’t like us cooperating. I’ve seen Afghan children laughing and jubilant as we handed out school supplies in remote villages and I’ve seen the shelled out remains of a girls’ school that the Taliban rocketed because they weren’t very keen on the idea of educating girls. I’ve played with Afghan children, and seen the aftermath of them playing with Russian mines because the Russians were either too lazy or too spiteful to remove them. I’ve known men whose only mission when they left the base was to go out and assess villages to see if they had enough clean water, sufficient medical care, and to make sure that the Taliban and al Qaeda weren’t harassing the locals. And I’ve seen those soldiers leave Afghanistan in flag draped caskets. I have seen a woman clad head to toe in a Burqa thanking my men for their presence, their efforts, and their sacrifice. I have seen Pashtuns, and Daris, and Tajiks proudly holding up a purple thumb indicating that they voted in the first democratic elections in that country’s history. More remarkably, I have seen a woman holding up a purple thumb indicating not only women’s suffrage but, as she had the option to vote for a woman, the first time women were granted the right to run for office there.
My fellow soldiers from my platoon have stopped their own patrols in their tracks in order to help a local man build a wall. On numerous occasions I have fed local children on KBR’s dime without KBR’s knowledge. We shared our rations with the local children as well as our water. I would venture as far to say that there isn’t one soldier from my platoon that didn’t pay out of pocket to buy local children bread or cookies or soda or whatever. Not one. And believe it or not, my platoon was not the exception. It was the rule.
The atrocities that you hear of on the news are not the rule, they are the exception. They are sensationalized for political gain and ratings. Our nation’s military is often slandered as a whole for the actions of a few in the name of power and money. Atrocities sell newspapers. Being against atrocities gets votes. But those atrocities are no more indicative of the state of mind of the common soldier as a civilian mass murder is indicative of the mindset of the average American. The military is a cross section of our society. Soldiers are people just like everybody else with hopes and dreams, faults and weaknesses… with one glaring exception. They are willing to die so that others might live. They are willing to risk death or capture so that not only their countrymen, but people of other countries can live free. They would even die to defend the right of their fellow Americans to slander them after their death just out of principle.
Soldiers, despite common misperception, aren’t just poor kids from the slums or criminals trying to avoid jail or idiots who can’t find another line of work. They are everyone. I have served side by side with enlisted soldiers who held masters degrees, juris doctorates, hell, I’ve served in some units that had more degrees than a thermometer. They are educated as well as ignorant. Smart as well as dumb. They’ve come from wealthy families as well as poor. One soldier that I had came from such a wealthy family that he thought the median income in America was $150,000 per year. Poverty wasn’t a common reason for joining the military. The desire to serve was. I know that it is very difficult for some civilians to understand that, but it’s true.
I’m sure most of you remember Pat Tillman. Pat was a football player for the Arizona Cardinals and turned down a lucrative NFL contract to enlist in the Army. He joined the Army Rangers because he wanted to serve his country with the best that the country had to offer. Pat Tillman died in a firefight in Afghanistan due to what is commonly agreed to be fratricide. Regardless of how he died he still died fighting for what he believed in… this earned him the derision of columnist Ted Rall. Rall, a syndicated columnist and editorial cartoonist called Tillman an “idiot”and a “sap” and characterized his motives for joining the Army thusly: “Sign me up, as long as I get to kill Arabs.” I suppose had Pat Tillman eschewed a well-paid sports contract and joined the Army 65 years ago, Rall might well have mocked him for wanting to kill Germans… but he would have never had the guts to print that because that war was popular.
The popularity of a war should never be the yardstick by which we determine how well our veterans, and much more importantly, our military dead should be treated. By and large soldiers don’t pick and choose their fights. They only choose to serve and hope that the nation’s leaders choose wisely when to use diplomacy and when to use force. Soldiers themselves very rarely desire war. They might want to serve, and if there is a war they will most likely want to fight, but it is a rare occurrence when they actually want to go to war. The vast majority of soldiers are quite content to stay home, work normal jobs, raise families, and live a nice, peaceful life. But if the call comes, they are also reticent to leave their fellows to fight the fight alone.
To give you a better understanding of this sense of duty, let me tell you a story about a little town in Virginia that was home to a National Guard unit. As you know, the National Guard is comprised of part time soldiers. They train one weekend a month, two weeks a year. They are students and farmers and businessmen and factory workers and teachers and craftsmen… they are you and I with a very tense second job.
This particular National Guard unit was Company A of the 116th Infantry Regiment of the 29th Infantry Division based out of Bedford, Virginia… or the “Bedford Boys” as they were called. On June 6th 1944 the Bedford Boys would find themselves on the tip of the Allied spear as the lead assault element for Operation Overlord… the D-Day landings at Normandy… the Invasion of Europe by allied forces. It was a daring full frontal amphibious assault meant to gain the allies a foothold on Europe via the beaches of France and with 160,000 troops it was the largest amphibious assault in history. That day the Allies faced 380,000 Axis troops. Of the 160,000 allied soldiers to land that day, approximately 5,500 would never see their homes again… 2500 of those were American soldiers. A Company of soldiers is usually made up by 33 men in the Infantry. Of the 33 soldiers of Company A, only 1/3 of them survived the first half hour.

Let me put that in perspective… the population of Bedford VA was 3200 in 1944 and they lost 22 of their fellow citizens in one day. As of 2007 the population of my “city” was 25, 733. If we were to have an invasion of that magnitude with the same percentage of casualties today, my town would lose 177 of their sons, fathers, brothers, and friends… in one day. At the current print size and style, without advertisements, it would take 30 pages in the local newspaper just to print the obituaries… for that one day. But the unfair proportion of casualties suffered by that town isn’t the amazing part of the story. The amazing part is that the Bedford Boys knew their odds before they waded ashore. They knew they were walking into a meat grinder, wading onto the killing floor of a human slaughter house… but they did it because they knew it had to be done and apparently nobody else was up to the task. They could have run. They could have faked an injury or deserted or fled to Canada… but they didn’t. They didn’t because that would have meant that their brother or their friend would have taken the bullet that was meant for them. They didn’t because maybe they would be the one to save their brother or their friend from certain death. They took on that burden freely, without coercion, without threat, and most certainly without promise of survival. They knew as they looked to the left and to the right of them that morning as the landing crafts neared Omaha Beach that most of them wouldn’t make it off the beach that day unscathed, and that many of them wouldn’t make it off the beach at all. But still they pressed on, because the one thing they were promised was this: if we succeed here, we have a good chance of stopping one of the greatest evils to ever curse the face of this planet. If they succeeded here, they could stop Adolph Hitler and the pandemic spread of Nazism that threatened not only the liberty of every human being on the planet, but their very lives. The signs were all there that Hitler would not stop until the entire world was his. Diplomacy was lost on him. Appeasement was just a free pass for him. Already Nazi U-boats were lying in wait off the coast of the US. Already the ovens were burning at full capacity at Auschwitz and Treblinka. And even as some were protesting the war at home, soldiers of the Allied Expeditionary Force were throwing themselves into the jaws of the Nazi war machine in a desperate attempt to grind it to a halt.

They succeeded, but at a cost so precious as to be mind-numbing. 405,399. That’s how many of our soldiers, sailors, and airman lost their lives in World War II. That’s roughly four times the population of Winchester and Frederick County Combined. That’s 136 times more than the attacks of 9/11/2001. Since the American Revolution, we have sacrificed 1,314,559 men and women on the alter of armed conflict. Some died in wars for freedom, some in wars for justice, and some in less nobly-intentioned undertakings… but nobly none-the-less. The lucky ones died immediately in combat and are listed among the official war casualties. Others were not so fortunate. Some died because of the war years later because of war related maladies such as cancer caused by agent orange or depleted uranium. Others fell victim to the battles they fought over and over again in their heads until one day they couldn’t take it anymore and the war finally one.

One more casualty.

One more victim.

One more sacrifice.
In some ways I am envious of the dead. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to be dead. I am more than quite content to be alive. I have a wife, a family, and friends that love me. I have hopes and dreams and someday some of them may even come true. But I am envious of our nation’s honored dead because they don’t have to endure the emptiness that their absence leaves behind. I am envious that theirs is the ultimate honor… humbly accepted, freely given, and irrevocable. And more than anything I am envious that they never lived to see the memory of their fallen brethren dishonored. I am envious that they never had to see their own deaths politicized, their bodies paraded through the streets in effigy, and their coffins used as soap boxes for propagating polarized agendas. I’m envious that they never lived to see the complete and utter disregard for their memory, so cavalierly smeared by a few, and forgotten by many, many others. I’m envious that they don’t have to see the day specifically set aside to honor their memory used as an official opening day for pools or an excuse for a white sale or a Hyundai sale-o-rama disguised in thinly veiled patriotism.
Memorial Day is the one day set aside to remember them, to remember the ones who gave everything they ever had, and ever would have, in the vain hope that their sacrifice would ensure that no one else would ever have to make that sacrifice again. It’s been said that when a new recruit signs his or her name on their enlistment papers or their commission that, in essence, they are signing a check payable to the people of the United States for an amount “up to, and including, my life.” Memorial Day is dedicated to those that had that check cashed for its full amount. The least we can do to repay them is to remember them. Not just the ones we know, but the ones we don’t… especially the ones we don’t.
I have said this before and I will say it again here: they gave all of their tomorrows, just so that we could have our today. If the need be, in case of war, break the glass and they will be there… but don’t ever forget the shattered pieces that are left behind.

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A Memorial Day Missive

Monday, May 26th, 2008

I fall into a funk right about this time every year. This morose, baleful attitude coincides with our annual observance of Memorial Day and is inextricably intertwined with that holiday to the point of conditioned response. I wish it were not so, but it is. Every Memorial Day thoughts of my fellow comrades who have shucked off this mortal coil and took the permanent ETS flood back to me in uncontrollable waves of unwanted and unpleasant emotions that hit me with the force of a tsunami in the most awkward and inconvenient times… usually when I’m trying to talk about said comrades. It’s understandable to feel discomfort at the acute and almost tangible absences of friends and family that have gone by, especially if you’ve endured misery with them or if you know that they’ve undergone hardships specifically so that you wouldn’t have to.

But I’m not sure that my dead friends and colleagues are the only reason I get emotional around Memorial Day. I think my reasons for visceral discomfort this time of year are more profound.

Today in church our minister gave his yearly Memorial Day sermon. I go to a pretty liberal church, so I truly appreciate that he does this every year… especially to the chagrin of many others in our congregation. I know that there are more than a few of them that would cast our lot to the wolves just as soon as look at us, but would simultaneously swear up and down that they stood for peace, equality, justice, etc, etc. But, according to the minister himself, as long as he’s here there will be a Memorial Day Service and a Veterans’ Day service every year.

The only issue I have with his sermon is the reactions that it brings. Not anti-war, anti-soldier reactions, but just the “just not getting it” reactions that some of the audience displayed. At the end of the service there was a time of silence when people could say aloud the names of loved ones (that had served) that had passed. Some did just that, but some were just naming off relatives that worked in the government at some point and happened to be dead. Sorry, that’s not the same thing.

I guess my big problem with Memorial Day is that a lot of people just don’t get it. They make big plans, they cookout, they hit the beaches, they go camping, and generally use the weekend as a supplemental vacation without a second thought as to why they have the freedom to do so. The vast majority of Americans sit down on Thanksgiving and actually do give thanks for all of the good things in their lives. The vast majority of Americans actually do celebrate our nation’s independence on July 4th. The vast majority of Americans do celebrate some sort of religious rite on Christmas. And, unfortunately, the vast majority of Americans can’t even tell you the difference between Memorial Day and Veterans’ Day let alone observe those days for what they are.

I mentioned to my wife that I wanted to visit Normandy one of these days and see Omaha Beach. She asked me why I got so solemn about that. She wanted to know why visiting that place was important to me, especially because the people that hit those beaches and died in the sand there did so before I was even born. She didn’t get it. My answer to her was this: I owe them. Every day I get up I owe them. Every day I walk around in a free country I owe them. Every time I cast a vote, read a book, say what I want to say, and think what I want to think I owe them. I owe them for every day from my birth to my own death… and so does everyone else.

Soldiers don’t fight wars for fun or profit. Soldiers fight wars so their kids don’t have to. Soldiers fight wars because there are weaker people out there that need to be protected from bad people and despite what some people might have you believe yes, there are bad people out there and no, talking to them will not stop them from trying to kill you. Soldiers, however, will stop them from trying to kill you or they will die trying and that is exactly the point. They tried.

The soldiers we honor on Memorial Day are not the ones whose hands you can shake or for whom you might buy a beer. The soldiers we honor on Memorial Day are the ones that died so that others might live and carry on the fight. They’re the ones who sacrificed their youth, their freedom, and their very breath so that the breath of freedom could be born again into the next generation of American youth.

From time to time I think about my colleagues that aren’t with us anymore and I mourn them a little whenever those thoughts roll through my head. Still, I’m not sure if that’s what Memorial Day is for. I think Memorial Day is for thanking the ones that you didn’t know that died for you anyway. And for all of the people that come up and thank me for my service on Memorial Day, I appreciate your good intentions but the people that you should really be thanking are the ones that can never again say “you’re welcome”.

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Memorial Day

Monday, May 28th, 2007

In a truly just world, there would be a rash of vandalism charges today from people trying to dig up graves in National Cemeteries to kiss the asses of their betters who died securing their freedoms. From the first caveman that picked up a rock and grunted his displeasure at a larger caveman trying to take what was his… demonstrating his will to protect his liberties, to the Spartans at Thermopylae, to the patriots at Bunker Hill, and to the grunts in OIF and OEF today, men of character have stood up against tyranny and injustice in the name of freedom with the full knowledge that such stands might be their last. They are the heroes. And we all owe them a debt of gratitude that we can never repay.

This Memorial Day, take time away from your BBQ’s and websurfing and ultimate Frisbee to remember the ones who made it possible for you to live like this. Remember the ones who gave all of their tomorrows so you could have your today. Remember the ones who ache every year at this time because they feel the tangible loss of someone so dear, so brave, and so selfless that the emptiness can never be filled and comfort them if you can.

You owe these men… we all owe these men everything.

In Flanders Fields By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) Canadian Army

IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow Between the crosses row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

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Reprehensible

Wednesday, May 16th, 2007


(Please forgive me for posting a picture of Edwards at the same time as one of Flanders Field, but you’ll get the point later.)

John Edwards has earned that title time and time again for various reasons, but this one takes the cake. He wants people to protest the war on Memorial Day. That’s right. He wants to turn a national day of remembrance and mourning into a political circus sideshow with him as the ringleader. In fact, he’s been sending out e-mails to try to get people to do just that… including carrying anti-war protest signs in Memorial Day parades. This kind of stunt is at about the same level of tasteless bullshit as say the KKK staging a rally on MLK Day. It’s politicizing the sacrifices of men and women from our armed services (people for whom he is not fit to clean toilets, let alone lead as their Commander in Chief) and the losses suffered by their friends and loved ones.

I personally hold Memorial Day sacred. Each year it’s the same thing: I put on my CD of the US Air Force Reserve Bagpipe Band playing amazing grace, stand at attention, and render honors. No kidding. Call me a dork, call me a geek, call me what you will… but do it while I’m going through my yearly ritual of respect and remembrance and you’ll be calling yourself an ambulance. And I think the standard should be carried to anyone who makes a mockery of our fallen men and women on the one day when the nation takes pause and glances at those headstones in our national cemeteries and those monuments with all of those names on them and thinks “damn, all of those names are on those blocks of stone, so that my name could carry on. Those guys gave up all of their tomorrows, so that I could have my today.”

I agree with Paul Morin, national commander of the American Legion, when he says that:

“Revolting is a kind word for it. It’s as inappropriate as a political bumper sticker on an Arlington headstone.” And “Edwards is hardly the first politician from either political party to exploit this day, a holiday that was consecrated with the blood of American heroes. But the e-mail makes me sick nonetheless.”

John Edwards, you make me sick. As for Paul Morin, thank you for sticking up for those that can’t (you know, the ones that were too busy fighting to protect our freedoms and our very lives to realize that they had given up their own to do so). It is my deep suspicion that somewhere in Arlington National Cemetery, a skeletal hand is trying desperately to raise up and salute Mr. Morin… and another is trying desperately to try to raise up its hand and present a different gesture to John Edwards.

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