Veteran's Day

In a Warrior

In Flander's Fields
The poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row- Lt. Col. John McCrae

"The Patriot's Dream"- Gordon Lightfoot

The songs of the wars are as old as the hills
They cling like the rust on the cold steel that kills
They tell of the boys who went down to the tracks
In a patriotic manner with the cold steel on their backs

The patriot's dream is as old as the sky
It lives in the lust of a cold callous lie
Let's drink to the men who got caught by the chill
Of the patriotic fever and the cold steel that kills

The train pulled away on that glorious night
The drummer got drunk and the bugler got tight
While the boys in the back sang a song of good cheer
While riding off to glory in the spring of their years

The patriot's dream still lives on today
It makes mothers weep and it makes lovers pray
Let's drink to the men who got caught by the chill
Of the patriotic fever and the cold steel that kills

Well there was a sad, sad lady
Weeping all night long
She received a sad, sad message
From a voice on the telephone
Her children were all sleeping
As she waited out the dawn
How could she tell those children
That their father was shot down
So she took them to her side that day
And she told them one by one
Your father was a good man ten thousand miles from home
He tried to do his duty and it took him straight to hell
He might be in some prison, I hope he's treated well

Well there was a young girl watching in the early afternoon
When she heard the name of someone who said he'd be home soon
And she wondered how they got him, but the papers did not tell
There would be no sweet reunion, there would be no wedding bells
So she took herself into her room and she turned the bed sheets down
And she cried into the silken folds of her new wedding gown
He tried to do his duty and it took him straight to hell
He might be in some prison, I hope he's treated well

Well there was an old man sitting in his mansion on the hill
And he thought of his good fortune and the time he'd yet o kill
Well he called to his wife one day, "Come sit with me awhile"
Then turning toward the sunset, he smiled a wicked smile
"Well I'd like to say I'm sorry for the sinful deeds I've done
But let me first remind you, I'm a patriotic son"
They tried to do their duty and it took 'em straight to hell
They might be in some prison, I hope they're treated well

The songs of the wars are as old as the hills
They cling like the rust on the cold steel that kills
They tell of the boys who went down to the tracks
In a patriotic manner with the cold steel on their backs

The train pulled away on that glorious night
The drummer got drunk and the bugler got tight
While the boys in the back sang a song of good cheer
While riding off to glory in the spring of their years

The patriot's dream still lives on today
It makes mothers weep and it makes lovers pray
Let's drink to the men who got caught by the chill
Of the patriotic fever and the cold steel that kills

The sun was going down now, over the West Virginia Capital Building. The old joke is the capital building with it's neo-classical design, reminiscent of the US capital, was the best little whore house in West Virginia. I walked between the old oaks and took my place where I told the counselors we would meet.

I had never been a real patriot, not that flag waving type of patriotism, that Lee Greenwood "I'm Proud to be an American" sort of patriot. I never had much use for that Fourth of July, Veteran's Day sort of patriotism that some folks trot out with Old Glory a couple of times a year. No, my sort of patriotism was more in the social activist type. I had worked for many years, many of them my teen years, in the roll of agent for change. I worked for some years as a veteran's advocate, fighting for benefits in the intricate red tape world of the VA system, often for troubled men, often for dying men. That is how I had met my late husband. He was a client and then my first lover and I was his til the day he died almost 12 years ago. Then I went to work for the Veteran's Memorial Foundation and was involved in the building of the archives and the memorial itself, the edifice in front of which I was standing, awaiting two of the most unusual veterans I had ever met.

As the sun was behind the black West Virginia mountains, I saw the head lights of a red corvette splash over the road and the sidewalk, illuminating me in their glare. I put my hand out, shielding my eyes. I looked back at the monument that my family and I had overseen being built. I remember....but I digress. I walked down the gentle slope of the lawn. My counselor came and took my hands and leaned forward and kissed my cheek briefly, his lips light and cool. The lead counselor did the same, he stooping from his considerable height to kiss my cheek with a touch as light as a butterfly.

"I'm so glad you came," I said.
"Tell us about this place, dearest," said the lead counselor.
"It is our memorial to the over ten thousand who died in the wars of the last century from our state. Per capita, our state has more veterans than any state in the nation," I said, leading both men slowly to the large black marble blocks which precede the monument itself. I had my counselor by the hand. I could feel the hand of the lead counselor at the small of my back and he shortened his stride to match mine. I pointed to the names of my parents on the black marble. "These are my parents, my dad was the executive director and my mom was the head archivist."
"Where is your name sweetheart?" asked my counselor.
"Oh, I was just the office help, but I am proud of my parent's work, that is what I want you to see," I said, pulling his hand gently up the walk to the monument.

The monument itself looked something like stone henge. Four large monoliths in curved oval shape, surrounded by a reflecting pool lined in black Italian Terazzo marble, separated by four bridges. The center was illuminated by huge light with a magnifying lens cut by Bausch and Lomb created a pillar of light that went twenty stories into the dark sky.

"Earth, fire, water," said the lead counselor. The heavy wind from the river blew, blowing his silvery blond hair back away from his Viking's face added the final element. "Air." he said finally.
"Rather pagan, wouldn't you say?" I said, smiling at the Big Pagan himself. The large beacon light went out as we stepped into the Sanctuary proper. As it did, the little foot lights came on, illuminating the over 10,000 names carved into the curved black walls there. My counselor reached up and hesitated. I put my warm hands on his finger tips and gently pressed them onto the cold marble where you could feel the names of the men and women who died in the wars of the last century. He stroked the smooth stone and I saw his eyes widen. I didn't know what to say to this. You would think after his long history the representation of so much loss would not effect him, but there was a sad, shocked look on his face. The lead counselor was standing in front of the monolith dedicated to World War II.

"Ah, these are my boys," I said. "I spent an entire summer compiling the histories of these boys, writing to the records people in Washington, DC, getting their files." I pointed to a name I knew well. "This fellow was on the ship the Paul B. Hamilton. He and eleven other West Virginia sailors were bombed into the other world by the Japanese off the coast of Africa."
"Do you know them all Aslinn?" asked the lead counselor.
"No, not all, but enough to tell you that I loved them all," I said. I walked back to my counselor, who was looking at the plaque for the Congressional Medal of Honor Winners.
"I knew about this boy, he was from my hometown. He was pinned down when the Vietnamese started throwing hand grenades at his position. He saw a hand grenade fall on the ground near a group of his men and with a rebel yell, he threw himself on the grenade and shielded his friends from the blast," I said.
"A rebel yell?" he asked.
"Uh huh," I said. "We wanted to put out a special plaque to remember those who died of disease and mental illness after the wars but we were told that would be too controversial. But just as many died of those things as there were battlefield dead." I shrugged.
"Did you know anyone like that Aslinn?" asked the lead counselor, his tall shadow walking slowly over to me.
"Yeah, I knew a lot of them: Frank and Vernon and Homer and Norman and my husband, Jimmy, they died of mental illness, or suicide or cancer...war changed a whole lot from the times you served or fought in wars," I said. "I wonder, did war make more sense to you during your time?" I asked the lead counselor.
"War was more intimate, about simpler things, mostly about food or hunting grounds, I suppose it does make more sense than the war of isms your people of your time seem to fight about. Now I see war as a waste, in a different context of course, but you shouldn't be troubled about that," said the lead counselor.
"Well, you obviously know something about my war," said my counselor, "And as you well know, it was about isms as well, though we ordinary soldiers did not understand the details, it was just the cause."

"It is a beautiful monument, Aslinn," said the lead counselor. "Thank you for sharing it with us."
"Thank you for sharing it with me," I said. "I hope we don't have to build anymore like it."
"For your sake, I hope you get your wish sweet heart," said my counselor.

Happy Veterans Day to all who have served, who are serving or paid the ultimate price for freedom. Brightest Blessings Be.