THOUGHTS ON MEMORIAL DAY

RAISING THE FLAG ON IWO JIMA

Monday, Memorial Day, 9:00 AM.  51 degrees F. at the ferry dock.  Wind NE, changing to W.  It is now 60 degrees on the back porch, with occasional strong gusts of wind.  The sky is overcast and it is still raining, after over a half an inch fell last night.  The humidity is 97%, and the barometer, presently at 29.71", is still falling.
   I was something of a wise guy at 21 years of age when I was in basic training, but I was put in my place, gently but firmly, by Sargent Arpin, an avuncular figure who replaced a succession of inept drunks as my platoon sergeant.  He was rather rotund, out of shape, and more of a father figure than a military presence. How and why he ended up with our bunch of troublesome misfits was a mystery.
   Sometime after Sargent Arpin's  arrival, the commandant, doubtless sensing an overall lack of military decorum,  issued orders that the entire post would stand retreat at the end of each day.  That involved changing into clean fatigues, polishing boots, and standing at attention and saluting while retreat was played and the flag lowered.  All that was viewed as unwelcome nonsense by myself and many others, and I had the trepidation to ask Sargent Arpin why all this was necessary, although I considered it merely a rhetorical question.
   The sargent, who took all this very seriously for some reason unbeknown to me, answered in full, his rheumy eyes suddenly clearer, his middle-aged stance suddenly fully military:  "Private Ode," he said, calmly but  sternly, "We stand retreat to honor my buddies who got their asses shot off on Iwo Jima."
   Sarge, I am sure you have long since gone to that great muster in the sky, but you live on in the memory at least one of your charges, himself now an old man.
   I sincerely hope someone had the good sense to bury you in a military cemetery, next to your old buddies, and I hope they play taps over your graves today.
   With a real trumpet, and not one of those tinny-sounding, tape-playing fakes.

_______

   

   Memorial day was originally known as Armistice Day, marking the brutal stalemate of World War I, the "Great War," the "War to End Wars," that was but a prelude to the further, even more brutal wars of the Twentieth Century.
    It sometimes seems we are no further on the road to peace and human progress than we were a century ago, and yet we cannot break faith with those who threw to us the torch. To do so is to deny their sacrifice, and abandon all hope of a better world.

IN FLANDERS FIELDS
by John McRee

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.