Originally Posted by
cavuman1
Here in the United States today is Memorial Day, a day of remembrance for the multitudes who gave their lives in the defense of our country. Created in 1868 after the bloodbath which was the American Civil War, this national holiday is observed somewhat nonchalantly by the majority of our populace who use it as a three-day weekend designed to gorge on beer, whiskey, and vast assortments of grilled fare. Not that there's anything wrong with that concept; yet I wonder if many of us take a few moments of prayer or silent contemplation for those we have lost forever.
My great uncle lost his two sons, my first cousins once-removed, in one horrid week in 1945. World War II was winding down in the Pacific. Cousin Barron was on the bridge of a destroyer escorting the heavy cruiser U.S.S. Indianapolis during the invasion of Iwo Jima. The ship took two Japanese torpedoes broadside, one in the forward powder magazine. Split in half, she went down nearly instantaneously, taking most of her crew down with her. Barron was one of the unlucky ones. A week later, Cousin Clarence, whose nickname was "Speedy", flew his B-24 Liberator with eight crew members into the side of a mountain on New Guinea. He was being pursued by a Japanese Zero; one engine of his aircraft had been knocked out of commission and another was on fire. The weather was atrocious - deep advection fog covered the island and hid mountains and airfields alike.
My great uncle never got over the loss of his boys. He lived to 103 and spoke fondly of them each and every day as if they were still alive. Then the tears would come...
The wreckage of Speedy's plane was discovered by a team of anthropological naturalists in 1992. Say what you will about the U.S. government, I assure you mortuary and crash investigation teams were top notch. All of the deceased's' families were invited to Arlington National Cemetery one fine Spring morning. The government spent several hours debriefing us, then they took and expertly answered questions for another hour. We were all relieved to learn that death had come in an instant for our poor family members. There was no suffering. Then it was time for the funeral.
Black Jack, the same horse who was harnessed to John F. Kennedy's caisson, was in full regalia. He was prancing and chafing at the bit. A coffin containing the few bones discovered at the crash site was draped in the American flag. A large Honor Guard marched slowly in exquisitely-timed meter beside the caisson. I was one of about two-hundred family members who, in respectful and contemplative silence, followed our soldiers, sailors, and Air Force members to the grave site. A large white marble crypt awaited the coffin. Remarks were made by the Vice Chief of Staff of the United States Armed Services, then Taps was played. The flag was folded and handed to my other first-cousin, Jane, the sister of Barron and Clarence whom she had lost so many years ago when they were all young and vital. It was an unforgettable experience made indelible by the melding of the immense sadness with the military precision which honored our dead so powerfully. Then the tears came...
I wonder if other PPRuNers would care to comment on their losses. There is something wonderfully cathartic about it.
- Ed