Military holidays are times when I stop to remember how brave men have put on the uniform to defend us. It awes and humbles me. I couldn’t care less what the definition of the day is. No one tells me when I should mourn those gone. I mourn when I see a flag flying on one of the military days.
My grandfather carried a flag on Memorial Day until the government refused to allow him to enlist for World War II in his 70’s. In a fit of pique, he refused after that. He’d been in the Spanish American War and World War I and he was sure there was SOMETHING he could have done for his country in World War II.
My father’s will left money to the bugler who blew Taps over his grave at his funeral. He always regretted being forced to retire from the service. I’ll remember father on these holidays regardless of whether it’s Federally Allowed or not.
Every chance I have to remember helps me keep them alive in my memory and I won’t lose a single chance.
As for those lost in battle, father’s poetry reminds me. He joined the year after World War I ended and he was trained by the men with the stories.
ZERO HOUR
Grey stars agleam in a blank, dead sky
Grey guns agrowl below.
Grey clad men out beyond the wire
Grey fields in the star-shells’ glow.
The barrage is a pounding symphony
That ears attuned cannot hear.
There’s something flicking the parapet
There’s something above you fear!
Not fear of “stopping one” above,
Or fear for the man beside.
There’s something flicking the parapet
There’s a fear you cannot hide.
“Stand by!” The rifle is cool in your hand
And your heart pounds hard and quick.
There’s something flicking the parapet
Number Three of the squad is sick.
The rifle hurts the palm of your hand
Like gripping a stiff, wire brush
There’s something flicking the parapet
“Walk slow through the wire, then rush!”
The whistle! The ladders! Up over the edge!
And your legs seem stiff and sore.
There’s something flicking the parapet
Number Three is sick no more!
Grey stars agleam in a blank, dead sky
Grey guns agrowl below.
Grey faces turned to the glowing stars
Where men lie dead in a row.
“My father’s will left money to the bugler who blew Taps over his grave at his funeral.”
Blowing Taps was the only thing i did as a kid, that i did for free
later in life, till the VFW closed, on any given day/night there’d be somebody in there i blew for be it their father brother son cousin uncle and bought me a drink
RIP