lives lived

 With the passing of Memorial Day my thoughts have turned to the meaning and significance of that day. There were no parades, no 21 gun salutes, no commemorations held here in Greensboro, Md. Businesses were closed in observance, some businesses, not all. All in all, if you were not on social media or watching the news there would have been little to remind you of what day it was. But I shouldn't complain, I have done nothing to change a thing. I have made no effort to organize, arrange, or make any plan for any type of commemorative service. I have to say to myself, I have been as apathetic as everyone else when it comes to that. I just quietly place my flags on the graves of a few veterans I know and fly my flag at half-staff until noon. I post my poems on Facebook in remembrance of those lives lost. I express my sentiments. Still, I haven't taken any action beyond that. 

 This year I will be seventy years old. I am struck by that simple statement of fact. I'm reminded of when I turned forty. I thought forty was pretty old and my wife says I went out and got a crew cut. It was a crisis. That isn't what I remember though. I remember getting that haircut and the barber asking, do you want your eyebrows trimmed? Yeah, you're getting on when you have to trim your eyebrows, or your ears! Now I'm facing seventy. I really don't feel much different than when I was forty. I do have a larger bald spot and my hair is definitely thinner. But the hair on my eyebrows and ears is going strong! It's been thirty years since I retired from the Navy. I served for twenty years. That means it was fifty years ago when I joined the service. Really it was fifty-two years ago because I did get out for two years before reenlisting. Fifty -two years. 

 All of this reminds me of how young those soldiers and sailors were. From the perspective of time, looking back, I can see plainly now just how young we were. Yes, I say we, because I was among them, those veterans, shipmates and comrades in arms. We sure felt like grown-up men, but the truth is we were just young boys. We drank, we swore, we carried guns and spoke of war. We wore those uniforms proudly, chests stuck out walking with a swagger. The vigor of youth. Invincible, immune from tragedy we went forth. Young boys, no more, we thought we had become men. But you have to live to really become a man, to really understand and appreciate what life has to offer. And I am struck with that realization, especially on Memorial day, of all of those that never made that journey. Their lives were cut short, ended in defense of an ideal, a promise and an obligation. The average age of a soldier killed in combat is in their mid-twenties. But that is the average, more 19 years old are killed than any other group! Nineteen years old. Today, not old enough to buy a beer, a cigarette or rent a car!

 Now I'm not saying I'm reflecting back on how lucky I was. I was never engaged in any major combat operation at all. Yes, I can claim to be a Veteran of the Vietnam war, I was off the coast on a ship far away and safe from attack. I was there for operation desert shield/desert storm but not on the ground. In my twenty years of service, I was in the "combat" zone as defined by congress and received "combat" pay but never had a single shot aimed my way. Lucky? Yes, I guess you could say that. That is what I did in my youth. And yes, I was young then. When I retired from the service I was presented with a shadow box, as is the custom, and on it there is a small plaque that says, "Father Time" a nickname I was given at my last command because of my advanced age! I was thirty-eight at the time. I earned that moniker because I was married, with children and did not go clubbing and engage in all those things the young single guys did. I was just an old man. 

 We all hear about the sacrifice these men made. We realize they lost their lives. What many fail to realize, to understand is what was lost was the ability to have a life. They never had that chance. It wasn't a choice. No one goes into battle believing they are going to be killed. They go afraid, aware of the danger, but believing they will somehow survive. The bravado of youth. It's the challenge to manhood that drives the majority, in my opinion. I can't really know the thoughts and feelings of another but have talked to enough to get an idea. Intestinal fortitude or foolish pride? That's a very fine line to draw. A mental barrier to overcome. 

                                             "Only the dead have seen the end of war" (George Santayana) 

Lives ended. Young lives, and only the aged can understand that fully. The old soldier, the old sailor, standing tall, rendering a hand salute with a shaking hand and a sadness in their hearts that never goes away, can understand what was lost. Only those that get to finish the march, to see that final battle understand. A cause for celebration? No, it's a time for reflection. A time to remember not what was lost, but rather what was taken in exchange. A time to remember lives lived.