On May 30th, 1918, thousands of American Doughboys struggled along a salient in the German line near a French town called Cantigny. I don't know how many of them realized that it was Decoration Day, the precursor to Memorial Day. Most were just probably struggling to stay awake after three days of constant fighting. Days earlier, under command of General Robert Bullard, the U.S. 1st Division of the American Expeditionary Force took part in their first full scale battle of World War I. So from the 27th to the 31st of May, the AEF struggled. The second to last day of the battle would be dubbed Memorial Day after the war, but it had nothing to do with Cantigny. It had everything to do with the men who lay in the trenches, never to see home soil again. Most were buried there, in shallow graves in the French countryside.
Today, we visit the fallen in cemeteries across this great country of ours. I hate how so many young people, people my own age, think of Memorial Day as a day to sit through stupid assemblies. It drives me crazy, absolutely crazy, when I hear this.
I grew up with two uncles who were both soldiers. I am very proud of both, and would end up sitting at the kitchen table listening to their tales of military life. It fascinated me. It was from there that I dedicated myself to veterans' affairs. But Memorial Day is different in that it celebrates are remembers those who died in the line of service. We have so many soldiers who have died in the service of this great country of ours, both named and unnamed.
I have stood at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and looked at the nameless graves in Gettysburg's National Cemetery. The sadness that I felt, looking down knowing that this man who fought for his country died and we can't even honor him with a name, is indescribable. Anyone who can see the white headstones in Arlington,
I once spoke with a veteran of the Second World War. I have known a few and always listened to their stories with awe. But his struck me in particular, for what he had said was something that broke through the stony exterior the man I had known. He told me of the distinctive sound a flamethrower made, and how he could still hear it to this day, and that as he crossed the ashen sands of a Pacific island, he could hear them on either side. When from the one side, he could no longer hear them, they went to check it out. As it turns out, a Japanese soldier had clambered out of hole between two of the flamethrower wielders spun on him and fired on each other. He said, after several minutes of bowing his head, "I think about my friends every day." There is something, a bond, a kinship forged only in battle. A bond that people like us everyday Joes can never achieve, never understand.
The things I see in those who have served and watched their friends die is a deep sadness. It is a thing that haunts them. But I have seen them truly happy when they aren't alone in remembering them. I am sure that there are so many families that wished they were celebrating with their sons, their daughters. But they aren't. Teach them to celebrate again, America. Shake hands with a veteran and just appreciate the ones you have in your life. I'm happy I can celebrate my uncles in person, by talking with them and listening to them. Some families don't have that liberty. Because of the hearts buried under those white crosses, those pale stones and in those tombs we have our own liberty. Celebrate those who gave their liberty for so you can have yours. It isn't too much to ask. And as Lincoln said in his famous Gettysburg Address, given during the war that would give rise to Memorial Day, "They may little note nor longer remember what we say here. But they can never forget what they did here."
Never forget, America, never forget.
