A Veteran’s Day Meditation Some months back I wrote, through the persistent tears of a father, how my son the Army Special Ops Captain was leaving for Afghanistan to begin yet another tour of duty. Indeed, in “Wrestling with a Young Man’s Duty,” I attempted to articulate the fear that every parent, wife, or child must countenance when their loved one flies away from their arms into Harm’s Way. Having invested so much of our hope and happiness into these brave young hearts spinning away from us, a part of us stops breathing and stands in limbo on a shelf until they return. Last week, my son returned, and I could finally go about the business of living again – of planting for the harvest that all living creatures undertake as they toil in the expectation of happiness and meaning. Today is Veteran’s Day. In order that we may understand in truth, one’s inquiry must start at the very beginning. The Great War, as it was once known, had been the most terrible conflagration of human death, suffering, and misery that had been experienced in modern times. This cataclysm of sixteen million dead and twenty million wounded irrevocably changed the cultural/political landscape and the gene pool of Europe. So great was the collective cry of relief when the Entente and Central Powers laid down their arms on that crisp Fall morning, that what we now know as World War I was universally heralded as the final “war to end all wars.” In retrospect, the melding of unabashed hope and naïve hubris accompanying such a bold claim can now only raise an occasional brow of incredulity; for we have been bitterly schooled in the unveiled horrors of the human heart, culled in the flinty crucible of the Twentieth Century. But on the eleventh day of the eleventh hour of the eleventh month in the year of our Lord 1918, even if for only a brief span of years, our spears: even if not beaten into ploughshares, were put to the side and men provisionally swore in their chests to make war no more. That following year, American President Woodrow Wilson proclaimed: To us in America, the reflections of Armistice Day will be filled with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country’s service and with gratitude for the victory, both because of the thing from which it has freed us and because of the opportunity it has given America to show her sympathy with peace and justice in the councils of the nations… It would not be until 1954 that the term Armistice was replaced with “Veteran” by President Eisenhower, as the hallowed ground of the Somme and Verdun were partially eclipsed in memory by exotic haunts such as Normandy, Leyte Gulf, Pork Chop Hill, and a thousand others. Indeed, our Veterans have stood as flesh and granite living and bleeding testaments: answering the eternal rancor abiding in the black designs of tyrants. In our namesake, through the exertions of fathers, sons, and lovers, resides the oxygen of liberty that fuels the noble heart in throwing down those grim towers - in the gilded service of peoples who can never repay us and whose countenance we have never fully beheld. We who rejoice in our ecstatic blessings at the return of our beloved warriors know in the vault of our beings that it could have been otherwise, and it seems that for nearly every tear-stained reunion filled with beaming smiles there has been a darkened house with pulled shades where men and women wrestle with the lonely blistering repercussions that tragically accompany that mailed fist of duty - as it forever freezes and torments in its glacial embrace. For such as these, the annual exhumation of beautiful ribbons and the eloquent prose of poppy strewn fields grows threadbare as aching arms strain to remember the fallen whom are forever young. These are the harried lives left behind on the windward shore of a Great Sea to nurse afresh wounds that that are excised annually - that no Gold Star will ever redeem. For such as these, the time we have accorded as Veteran’s Day stands as a dual-edged knife of memory. Only five days after his twenty-second birthday, at an age when young people have only begun tasting life on their own, Marine Cpl. Jeff Starr was struck down by a sniper’s bullet in Ramadi on Memorial Day 2005. Despite his youth, Starr was well into his third Iraqi deployment when the bullet pierced his heart and he never regained consciousness. In 2004, Jeff and thirteen of his fellow soldiers were pinned down in Falluja by several hundred members of the insurgency and fought tooth and claw for several long agonizing hours before reinforcements arrived. This harrowing event would make a profound impression on him, prompting him to compose a letter that was recovered posthumously and delivered to his parents in August, months after his death. He wrote the following letter to his girlfriend: Dearest ---- Obviously, if you are reading this, then I have died in Iraq. Im writing this for one reason only. On April 13th 2004, I thought I was going to die. My only regret is that I hadnt spent enough time with you. That I hadnt told you everything I wanted to. Being in Iraq for a 3rd time, I dont want to feel that way again because it was the worst feeling ever. So this letter is in case I wont ever get the chance to tell you. I kind of predicted this, that is why Im writing this in November. A third time just seemed like Im pushing my chances. I dont regret going, everybody dies but few get to do it for something as important as freedom. It may seem confusing why we are in Iraq, its not to me. Im here helping these people, so that they can live the way we live. Not have to worry about tyrants or vicious dictators. To do what they want with their lives. To me that is why I died. Others have died for my freedom, now this is my mark. Well I cant type forever, I know you want to read more but I thought simple and to the point would be easier. I love you with all my heart. Goodbye my Love... Cpl. Starr had planned to leave the Corps in August and begin a career in law enforcement. He had joined the service as a high school senior and had earned two Naval medals of Distinction, one for valor. His parents, Brian and Shellie Starr of Snohomish, Washington, as well as all who loved his shining face, have borne, and will continue all of their days, to bear the burden that a young corporal saw fit to take upon his youthful shoulders. And for this we honor him on this eventful day. On Veteran’s Day, where the once great City of Human Freedom again bows its head and remembers the collective sacrifice of its Best and Brightest Children, it should be a civic blasphemy, at least for this day, to engage in the wrangling of venal politics. The heroic deed needs little fanfare because the noble renunciation of one’s life or the faithful rendering of service to others shouts to the hilltops. Tales of gallant service should reverberate gratitude in our soul’s very marrow, and the fact that such a day is often reduced to just another episode of unreflective pleasure says reams about us spiritually. But on this day, the hedonist has no place here. This day is for those who answered the clarion call, manned the ramparts, and poured themselves into the breach. These so honored are incandescent lives, known perhaps only to their family and friends - all whom share a part in that stunning loss that will never fully heal. The American Veteran has always warred down tyranny without blinking, without regard to life or treasure--without standing down. In Arlington, or in a verdant shrine in a thousand home towns, those ribboned crosses bear homage to liberty in silent witness. It is the solemn echo of sacred duty, of towering sacrifice, and of abiding love. Glenn Fairman writes from Highland, Ca. He can be contacted at arete5000@dslextreme.
Posted on: Sun, 10 Nov 2013 21:58:43 +0000
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