Been trying to post this since last night, local server was down.

It is Memorial Day again.

To those who now serve, I salute you, and offer my deepest thanks. I hope and pray each of you will come home safe, and soon. For those who have relatives, or friends in service, I hope they also come home safely.

For those who didn’t come home.

Today at sunrise I went to the local cemetery, in the Armed Forces section I attended a gathering for those who served this country. Names were read, special notice of the names whose stones have the small star engraved on them was taken. Those who sacrificed all.
We remembered those who came home missing something, physically, spiritually or with their soul in pain.

Names from many conflicts were read, WW I, WW II, Korea, Viet Nam, others.

Stories were be told later by their families, some made us laugh, others brought tears. We remembered them, some memories were be fresh, others decades’ old. But each one was treasured as they were shared.

Some brought silence, those were the stories that show the true valor of our men and women in combat. Of what America can and will put forth in the face of evil.

The Airman who shipped out two days after his wedding, never to see his son born to his widow.
But the Japanese lost an aircraft carrier, possibly shortening the war a few days, saving untold lives.



A Marine, holding his position so the rest of his squad could get to cover, and eventually away from Chosen Reservoir. He didn’t, but ten men did.

The Army tank gunner who watched his entire unit get wiped out, but held his own until reinforcements arrived. He came home to hatred and prejudice, he eventually lost everything, including his life. No matter he had received the Medal of Honor, he was black.

Those small numbers of very special men who slip behind enemy lines and inflict damage critical to winning. Effective in huge disproportion to their numbers. Not seeking, or expecting glory or medals. They win, live, sometimes lose and die in the shadows.





I remember them often, I have been fortunate enough to know some of them in my life. One wrote this. One day, if I am very, very lucky I might be able to write half as well. This one gets me every time. It is given freely to any who would like to share it, he was that sort of man. I have no idea what it cost him inside to write this. But I remember him telling me once that to write this sort of story> he dug around in his soul and find a shard of broken dreams. Then he would dig it out and write about it. Said it hurt like hell, but soon he would find them all and the pain might stop. I hope he did.

Sacrifices.
R ‘Slick’ Wolfe
2001

I just wanted to get the day over with and go down to Smokey's for a few cold ones. Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time, 4:55. Five minutes to go. Full Dress was hot in the August sun. Oklahoma summertime was as bad as ever, the heat and humidity at the same level, too damned high. I saw the car pull into the drive, '69 or '70 model Deville, looked factory-new. It pulled into the parking slot at a snail's pace. An old woman got out so damned slow I thought she was paralyzed. She had a cane and a sheave of flowers, about four or five bunches as best I could tell.

I couldn't help myself. The thought came unwanted, and left a slightly bitter taste: "Shit! She's going to spend an hour, my damned hip hurts like hell and I'm ready to get the hell out of here right by-God now!."

But my duty was to assist anyone coming in. Kevin would lock the "in" gate and I could hurry the old biddy along,we might make the last half of happy hour. I broke Post Attention. The hip made gritty noises when I took the first step and the pain went up a notch. I must have made a real military sight; middle-aged man with a small potgut and half a limp, in Marine Full Dress Uniform, which had lost its razor crease about 30 minutes after I began the watch. I stopped in front of her halfway up the walk. She looked up at me with an old woman''s squint.

"Ma'am, can I assist you in any way?"

She took long enough to answer. "Yes, son. Can you carry these flowers. I seem to be moving a tad slow these days."

"My pleasure Ma'am." Well, it wasn't to much of a lie.

She looked again. "Marine, where were you stationed?"

"Vietnam, Ma'am. Ground-pounder. '69 to '71."

She looked at me closer. "Wounded in action, I see. Well done, Marine. I'll be as quick as I can"

I lied a little bigger. "No hurry, Ma'am."

She smiled, and winked at me. "Son, I'm 85 years old and I can tell a lie from a long way off. Let's get this done. Might be the last time I can come. My name's Joanne Wieserman, and I''ve a few Marines I'd like to see one more time."

"Yes, Ma'am. At your service"

She headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone. She picked one of the bunches out of my arm and laid it on top of the stone. She murmured something I couldn't quite make out. The name on the marble was Donald S. Davidson, USMC, France 1918. She turned away and made a straight line for the World War II section, stopping at one stone. I saw a tear slowly tracking its way down her cheek. She put a bunch on a stone; the name was Stephen X. Davidson, USMC, 1943. She went up the row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone, Stanley J. Wieserman USMC, 1944.

She paused for a second, "Two more, son, and we'll be done."

I almost didn't say anything, but, "Yes, Ma'am. Take your time."

I pointed with my chin. "That way, Ma'am."

"Oh!" she chuckled quietly. "Son, me and old age ain't too friendly."

She headed down the walk I'd pointed at. She stopped at a couple of stones before she found the ones she wanted. She place a bunch on Larry Wieserman USMC, 1968, and the last on Darrel Wieserman USMC, 1970. She stood there and murmured a few words I still couldn''t make out.

"OK, son, I'm finished. Get me back to my car and you can go home."

"Yes, Ma'am. If I may ask, were those your kinfolk?"

She paused. "Yes, Donald Davidson was my father; Stephan was my uncle; Stanley was my husband; Larry and Darrel were our sons. All killed in action, all Marines."

She stopped, whether she had finished or couldn't finish I don't know. And never have.

She made her way to her car, slowly, and painfully. I waited for a polite distance to come between us and double-timed it over to Kevin waiting by the car. "Get to the out-gate quick, Kev. I have something I've got to do."

Kev started to say something but saw the look I gave him. He broke the rules to get us there down the service road. We beat her, she hadn't made it around the rotunda yet. "Kev, stand to attention next to the gate post. Follow my lead." I humped it across the drive to the other post.

When the Cadillac came putting out of the hedges and began the short straight to the gate I called in my best gunny's voice: "Tehen Hut! Present Haaaarms!"
I have to hand it to Kev, he never blinked an eye; full dress attention and a salute that would make his TI proud. She drove through that gate with two old worn-out soldiers giving her a send off she deserved, for service rendered to her country, and for knowing Duty, Honor and Sacrifice.

I am not sure, but I think I saw a salute returned from that Cadillac

----------------------------------------

There is not anything I can add to that.