This short story was previously published on Monday, May 28, 2012, as "Memorial Day (a Short Story)."
The grizzled old man arrived at his destination, his back hunched over and using a cane. He surveyed the scene before him with what combat veterans describe as the thousand-yard stare, a gaze that looks right through you, a look that says he has seen the horrors of war and that he cannot forget them some sixty years later. A vast sea of white lay before him. It was as if someone had planted the seeds for the garden of stone that was before him, ready for harvest.
“How many?” He asked himself, knowing that while there was no finite answer, the true answer was too many.
He trudged his way across the field of marble, stopping at each headstone to take a flag out of his bag and placing one in front of each marker. He read every name and calculated every age. He was tempted to say that a few were too young to be here; however, he realized that all the men and women that were here were all too young to be here, every soul here was cut down in its prime.
“What a waste,” he exclaimed while shaking his head.
Silent and respectful of the sacrifices of those just below his feet he soldiered on, he was determined to complete his mission before nightfall. Across the field he could hear a lone bugler play "Taps," the mournful sound echoed across the landscape.
The forlorn notes of "Taps" brought back memories of long ago when he was a much younger man. He could still hear their voices, still see their faces as if they were standing next to him. The thoughts of the war came rushing back to him. He remembered each death, he was one of a handful that had survived the entire war.
They were so young then, so full of life and ready to take on the world. Few of them had that chance, many of them were chewed up on foreign soil, never to see home again. They gave their lives for a cause they may not have understood or believed in, but, they knew that their country needed them, so they answered the call. He could see himself as a young man trying to comprehend the savagery around him. Trying to understand why he lived and others died.
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As he was reflecting on his past life, a young man with close-cropped hair, a muscular build and a thousand-yard stare approached the old man.
“Excuse me, sir, may I help you put those flags out?”
“Son, this is something I have done every year since I got home in 1946. There were a lot fewer stones then, every year it seems like more and more stones are here. And every year this mission takes me longer and longer to complete. This old vet would appreciate any help you could give me.”
“Sir, I have fallen brothers here as well. It would be an honor to help you.”
“Where and when did you serve, son?”
“I was with the Bravo company, 1/502nd Infantry, 101st Airborne Division. I served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Awful business is what those wars are. I would be honored to have a fellow Screaming Eagle help me. What is your name, son?”
“Troy Miller, sir.”
“Nice to meet you, son, I am Mike Samson, I was with Bravo Company, 326th Engineers, 101st Airborne during WWII. I jumped into Normandy and was with the 101st throughout the war. What was your rank?”
“I was a corporal, sir.”
“You don’t need to call me sir. I was never anything more than a private.”
The two of them soldiered on, placing a flag in front of each headstone. They talked about the different wars and how the wars had changed them.
“What are your thoughts on the war,” asked the old man.
Troy stared off into the distance and sighed, and then said, “I am not sure I can sum up how I feel about the current wars, they are too close to me yet. But, in general, I feel that mankind has great potential, yet that potential gets wasted by old men with big egos. Those big egos do nothing more than send young men to die, those that live don’t come home the same. They are broken, yet try to hide it as best they can. All the while the leaders from both sides proclaim the young men are heroes and martyrs. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained, and the next generation of young men is groomed to go to war for old men with big egos. There has to be a better way to solve the world's problems.”
The old man took in what the young man had said—they walked a bit, putting more flags in front of the headstones. After ten minutes of silence he responded, “Son, if only my generation had your thoughts—sadly, after WWII, there was Korea, then Vietnam, and ever more wars. My only wish now is that we stop adding young men and women to this cemetery. Where one day Memorial Day would no longer be necessary. But, I don’t think that dream will ever happen.”
The young man nodded in agreement as they approached the last headstone. The soil was freshly turned, another addition to the fallen.
“I have to get going,” said the young man.
“You sure you don’t want to go and get a beer with me?”
“I would love to, but I have to go.”
“All right. It has been a pleasure to meet you. Maybe I will see you here next Memorial Day.”
"I will be here, sir. You will see me again."
The old man watched as the young man disappeared over the horizon, he then looked down at the marble headstone over the fresh grave:
Troy S. Miller
Corporal
U.S. Army
1990-2010
Operation Enduring Freedom
The old man wept for the first time in 60 years, all he could think was “what a goddamn waste.”
