We march down the long sloping street, lined with people, all rising in honor of the American flags our Legion Color Guard carries. The flags catch the wind as we come out from the tree-lined street, and the flag carriers struggle to control the whipping cloth. We are growing older now, and the flags and rifles are heavy, but we march proudly, shoulders back, striding in step to the "Hup, twoup, threeup, fooe", of the caller's cadence. Ahead of us, across the highway, between the Veterans' Memorial and the gray gravestones of the cemetery, we see the crowd, waiting. Latecomers stream from cars lining the roadsides, joining the crowd, filling the small parking lot and spilling out onto the green lawn.
We make the turn into the cemetery drive, pressed close by the crowd, as they part to give us room to march through. We turn again and halt, facing the five polished, black stones of the Veterans' Memorial, surrounding the flagpole, guarding the big American flag rippling in the breeze. Small flowers bloom in carefully tended beds near the black stones. Service flags ripple near the podium, where the Legion Commander sits ramrod straight, wearing his best suit and his Legion cap. With him are the minister, the speaker, and the Post Adjutant.
The crowd gathers, visiting, waiting, but staying at a distance. It grows quiet as the Legion Commander steps up to the microphone. The program is brief. A few words from the Commander, a short speech, the minister offers a prayer. Sometimes there is a solo. The band plays. I hear little of it. I see the kids in the crowd, moving about, not paying attention. I think of the soldiers only a few years older than the kids, who fought and died, barely yet men, with a whole lifetime of living and loving ahead of them. I look away from the kids, look again at the flowers.
The speeches are over soon, and the Commander leads the way from the podium to the American flags spaced across the front of the memorial. Each year, I have the same thought. There are too many. Each flag represents a member of our Legion Post who has died during the past year. As the Adjutant reads the final roll call, the Commander and his entourage salute each flag in turn. I remember each man, and how he was. Most of them, I knew well. It will not be the same without them. They ate with us, drank with us, marched with us. We disagreed, sometimes argued, but we were comrades, veterans, Legionnaires.
Solemnly, the group returns to the speakers' stand. The minister prays. The first grade class places wreathes on the graves. The band plays. After so many years of participating in this ceremony, I cannot tell you the order of the program. For me, the people evoke such emotion that the structure is lost.
"Ten - hut!" The color guard snaps to attention. I wonder if the crowd sees us as a group of middle aged, graying farmers and carpenters and retired businessmen, or do they see us as we feel, soldiers again, standing straight, ready to do our duty. "Firing squad, fall out!" Those of us who carry rifles leave the formation. We line up, away from the crowd, facing west. "Firing squad, ten - hut! Prepare to fire!" We step back, raise our rifles. "Aim! Fire!" Three times, the seven of us fire. The first volley is ragged, the second better. The last volley is crisp, perfect. "Present arms!" Once again, we snap to attention, holding rifles vertically in front of us. After the crashing reports of the rifles, the silence is deafening. The crowd is silent; the kids are still, waiting, frozen in place.
From the cemetery, out of our sight, the first notes of Taps ripple across the grass. Little shivers run up and down my spine. I blink back tears, not looking to see if anyone else does the same. How many times have we heard these melancholy notes as one of our comrades was laid to rest?
"Fall out!" The Memorial Day program is over for another year. Little boys swarm around us, looking for empty shell casings. I watch them, and hope they never have to fight as did those we honor today.
We mingle with the crowd, visiting, greeting friends. Buses are waiting to take us back uptown. Slowly, we filter through the crowd and climb aboard. Every year, someone says, "Can you believe all the people that were here today? It seems like there are more every year. All the things they could be doing on this nice Memorial Day, and they chose to come here this morning. We can be mighty proud of the people in our community."
We talk, and sometimes laugh, on the trip uptown. But sometimes an old soldier stares off into the distance, thinking, remembering.
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