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Ave Atque Vale, Fratris
I wasn't going to say anything. For me this is a funny holiday, whom shall I remember?
Forget the war. Anyone who has been in the service as long as I have has dead friends. It comes with the territory. Some are quirks of life (the kid who was hit by a drunk driver after he washed out of Russian. If I wanted to take on guilt I don't deserve I can take some of that, because he was waffling on staying in, and I helped him make up his mind), some are training accidents, some; well some are just in the category we label as, "Shit Happens".
Or shall I recall those who fell in battle? Which battle? Antietam? The Bulge? A slow day in The Line during WW1?
What of those who survived their war, but are just as dead, from wounds, age, or accident after the fact?
What am I commemorating? Battle in general? Service? Death?
I don't know. In some ways I don't care. Being as close as I am to the Army every day has some moment of memory, some awareness of what the burdens and costs are (this goes hand in hand with the rewards and joys, but I'm a volunteer, and at this point, "a lifer," so my take on it isn't the same as a Fussell, or a Vonnegut, or my grandfather; who served in WW1). So how is today different from all other days?
Some years have been full of pomp and circumstance (I was duty driver for the weekend, and the Adjutant General was coming to town to take part in ceremonies at the Federal Cemetary in Westwood, Class A and up before dawn, firing parties and speeches)
Some years have been times to get away from it all, training holidays and need to forget the Army, so get in the car and drive.
Most years I do what I did this year, pour a drink, raise an old toast, sip a little, and toss the rest off; invert the glass and let the dribbles run out, a libation for absent friends.
Forget the war. Anyone who has been in the service as long as I have has dead friends. It comes with the territory. Some are quirks of life (the kid who was hit by a drunk driver after he washed out of Russian. If I wanted to take on guilt I don't deserve I can take some of that, because he was waffling on staying in, and I helped him make up his mind), some are training accidents, some; well some are just in the category we label as, "Shit Happens".
Or shall I recall those who fell in battle? Which battle? Antietam? The Bulge? A slow day in The Line during WW1?
What of those who survived their war, but are just as dead, from wounds, age, or accident after the fact?
What am I commemorating? Battle in general? Service? Death?
I don't know. In some ways I don't care. Being as close as I am to the Army every day has some moment of memory, some awareness of what the burdens and costs are (this goes hand in hand with the rewards and joys, but I'm a volunteer, and at this point, "a lifer," so my take on it isn't the same as a Fussell, or a Vonnegut, or my grandfather; who served in WW1). So how is today different from all other days?
Some years have been full of pomp and circumstance (I was duty driver for the weekend, and the Adjutant General was coming to town to take part in ceremonies at the Federal Cemetary in Westwood, Class A and up before dawn, firing parties and speeches)
Some years have been times to get away from it all, training holidays and need to forget the Army, so get in the car and drive.
Most years I do what I did this year, pour a drink, raise an old toast, sip a little, and toss the rest off; invert the glass and let the dribbles run out, a libation for absent friends.
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To absent friends.
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Thank you for this.
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Bryce Clark, my roommate at the 6993rd who committed suicide in March of 1991. The individual whose name I've forgotten, sadly, who was hit by a drunk driver in 1988 at DLI. Kelly Donovan, raped and murdered by Oliver Cruz in San Antonio a month or so before I got there. I'm sure there have been others that I'm not remembering at the moment.