“It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead will not have died in vain” (Excerpt
from The Gettysburg Address of Abraham Lincoln)
Too many funerals. So many times I’ve stepped aside, pausing in the order of services for our beloved departed to permit the military ritual to proceed with the formula honoring dead servicemen. Two usually quite young men—at times, women—from the branch of the military in which our loved one had performed his duty, slowly, solemnly approach the casket suspended on straps above the grave. They work in tandem, folding the flag of our nation twice lengthwise, keeping the thin rectangle taut as the one at the base begins making triangles, working his or her way towards the stars. Then the folder places the cloth triangle between the hands of the partner, saluting in a rigid, deliberate fashion. The holder of the flag paces to the next of kin, presenting the flag along with words of appreciation on behalf of a grateful nation. To conclude the program, a trumpeter plays taps.
That’s the normal ritual, performed over and over for veterans of World War II. They are who we think of when we use the term “veterans.” They served their nation at a time when the whole country became involved in the wars “over there,” as in the song. Some fought in the Pacific Theater, others in Europe. I recall what our church looked like through those four years. From the choir loft a banner hung with red, white and blue bunting and words of patriotism. Grandma’s front window displayed a five-sided little banner with three vertical stars on a yellow background. Three sons in the service. Long after the war was over, three veterans visited my grandparents to explain just how their son Michael had been killed in the D-Day invasion in France, and what he, in his dying moments, wanted them to tell his parents.
Nowadays it’s not the same. We have been waging a war in the Middle East just as long as WWII, but our nation is not at all as involved as they were sixty years ago. We have no universal draft. This war is fought by professionals. Then the papers were filled with news from overseas. Today with all our modern means of communication, it’s monitored and spun, as they say. Our government frowns on dead warriors returning home in their coffins. We can go on with our everyday problems: Stock market prices, athletic contests, rankings of recent motion pictures, which Hollywood star is divorcing whom and who she will marry next—all this fills up our media and our lives as though nothing is taking place in the faraway lands of Afghanistan and Iraq.
The war before the present one, in Vietnam, was more than a disaster. It was not enough that we went into that land and lost the war—we have never yet honored those who served in that sad time. They returned not with the heroes’ welcome they expected and deserved—after all, they for the most part had been drafted into a situation they neither asked for nor wanted—but they were treated with scorn and ridicule. To this day many of them bear mental and physical scars from the experiences they endured. I think of the young man naked in our garden pond slamming down the field stones on the perimeter because, as he told the VA physicians, “I was getting the pond ready for Jesus’ baptism.” He’s really a man filled with Christian faith. He just hadn’t taken the pills he must digest for the rest of his life. Whether the wars were won or lost, the veterans of our nation deserve honor and respect from us all.