My family is a military family. My grandfather fought in WWII and died in Korea. Dad was in the Air Force during Vietnam, and even if he’s a civilian now, he still taught me stuff, like what most of the badges and ribbons on Uncle Will’s dress uniform meant, the slang of the Air Force, and that military cemeteries are sacred ground.
Dad and I had come up to Arlington to visit Dad’s younger brother, Major William MacIntyre, and his family. The visit was partly to celebrate Cousin Rita’s second birthday and partly because Uncle Will would ship out to Afghanistan next week. Everyone had been dressed up some because the party was being held in a room at the Officer’s Club at Fort Myer. Uncle Will was wearing his dress uniform, which fascinated Alex, his six-year-old son. Especially the hat. Whenever Uncle Will took the hat off, Alex would grab it and run away with it.
I’d ended up eating lunch at the table with Aunt Miranda and a few of her friends, who talked about household/children/gossip while I strained to hear what Dad and Uncle Will and several others were talking about at the other table. I only caught snatches of conversation.
“Afghanistan is--”
“—beautiful country. Mountains--”
“—government’s not going to be stable unless we--”
“—speak Pashto, which means--”
Rita blew the candles out on the cake, which was duly sliced and served out. The topic of conversation at the other table had changed.
“—thinking about joining the Army.”
“Good for her.”
“I was thinking about--visit Al.”
“—She needs to see the cost of freedom.”
“—You think we should do it today?--”
“—tomorrow we’re hitting the Air and Space Museum.”
“She interested in that?”
“—should join the Air Force--”
Half an hour later, I wondered what Rita thought as Dad and Uncle Will took us to Arlington National Cemetery.
***
My first thought as I saw the headstones came from the part of my brain that was always on the prowl for new ideas for stories. It informed me that this would be a great setting for a chase scene for the spy story I was currently working on. I pushed it back. Cemeteries, especially Arlington, are sacred ground.
The second thought was that this place was so big. You could probably get lost in there if you weren’t careful. My third thought, as we got out of the car, was that it reminded me of the poem that the truly evil Mrs. Reynolds had made me do a project on two years ago.
‘In Flanders fields the poppies grow,’ I muttered under my breath, ‘Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place,’ As I picked my way through the headstones, I noticed that while most had a plain cross on the top, some had a Methodist flame-and-cross, and some had a Star of David. One marine’s tombstone even had a wheel on it, the symbol of Buddhism.
There was a roar of engines and I glanced up to see a jet flying low over the cemetery, but climbing. Arlington National Cemetery was on the flight path from National Airport. With a half-smile, I thought of the next lines of the poem, ‘And in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly, Scarce heard amid the guns below.’
As I struggled to remember the next lines of the poem, I kept walking. The headstones seemed to be organized in roughly chronological order. I walked past graves from WWII, graves from Vietnam, and the dead of Desert Storm. I picked my way around a pair of larger headstones. One of them listed three names, and stated that they’d died in Vietnam, in a helicopter crash. The other listed the names of two men and a woman and said that they’d died in an APC explosion during Desert Storm.
Ahead
of me, Uncle Will called out that he’d found the right time period, at least, and as I passed the two group headstones, I noticed that the graves were now an even mix of Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom. It was eerie, looking down at the names of the people and wondering who they were. A little mental math yielded the ages of the dead. 25 years old, 29, 21, 27, 19... I finally remembered the next lines of the poem. ‘We are the dead. Short days ago, We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.’
Many of the graves had obviously been visited recently, which made sense since Memorial Day was only two weeks ago. Wreaths were leaned against several tombstones and one grave had a framed picture of a woman in dress uniform, standing proudly and smiling at the camera, set beside it. Another headstone had a bottle of beer sitting beside it. Several others had red poppies laid across the top. ‘Loved and were loved, And now we lie, In Flanders fields.’
We finally found the grave we’d been looking for and formed a half-circle around the grave of Lieutenant Alexander Borden, US Army, recipient of the DSM, killed in the course of Operation Enduring Freedom on 11 October 2007. Borden, I later learned, had been Will’s roommate at the Academy, and, according to Will, a good friend ever since. Until 11 October 2007.
As if he’d been reading my mind, Uncle Will murmured the last stanza of the poem. “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,” I whispered in unison with Uncle Will, “We shall not sleep, though poppies grow, In Flanders fields.” Dad said nothing, but nodded in agreement.
Dad and I had come up to Arlington to visit Dad’s younger brother, Major William MacIntyre, and his family. The visit was partly to celebrate Cousin Rita’s second birthday and partly because Uncle Will would ship out to Afghanistan next week. Everyone had been dressed up some because the party was being held in a room at the Officer’s Club at Fort Myer. Uncle Will was wearing his dress uniform, which fascinated Alex, his six-year-old son. Especially the hat. Whenever Uncle Will took the hat off, Alex would grab it and run away with it.
I’d ended up eating lunch at the table with Aunt Miranda and a few of her friends, who talked about household/children/gossip while I strained to hear what Dad and Uncle Will and several others were talking about at the other table. I only caught snatches of conversation.
“Afghanistan is--”
“—beautiful country. Mountains--”
“—government’s not going to be stable unless we--”
“—speak Pashto, which means--”
Rita blew the candles out on the cake, which was duly sliced and served out. The topic of conversation at the other table had changed.
“—thinking about joining the Army.”
“Good for her.”
“I was thinking about--visit Al.”
“—She needs to see the cost of freedom.”
“—You think we should do it today?--”
“—tomorrow we’re hitting the Air and Space Museum.”
“She interested in that?”
“—should join the Air Force--”
Half an hour later, I wondered what Rita thought as Dad and Uncle Will took us to Arlington National Cemetery.
***
My first thought as I saw the headstones came from the part of my brain that was always on the prowl for new ideas for stories. It informed me that this would be a great setting for a chase scene for the spy story I was currently working on. I pushed it back. Cemeteries, especially Arlington, are sacred ground.
The second thought was that this place was so big. You could probably get lost in there if you weren’t careful. My third thought, as we got out of the car, was that it reminded me of the poem that the truly evil Mrs. Reynolds had made me do a project on two years ago.
‘In Flanders fields the poppies grow,’ I muttered under my breath, ‘Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place,’ As I picked my way through the headstones, I noticed that while most had a plain cross on the top, some had a Methodist flame-and-cross, and some had a Star of David. One marine’s tombstone even had a wheel on it, the symbol of Buddhism.
There was a roar of engines and I glanced up to see a jet flying low over the cemetery, but climbing. Arlington National Cemetery was on the flight path from National Airport. With a half-smile, I thought of the next lines of the poem, ‘And in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly, Scarce heard amid the guns below.’
As I struggled to remember the next lines of the poem, I kept walking. The headstones seemed to be organized in roughly chronological order. I walked past graves from WWII, graves from Vietnam, and the dead of Desert Storm. I picked my way around a pair of larger headstones. One of them listed three names, and stated that they’d died in Vietnam, in a helicopter crash. The other listed the names of two men and a woman and said that they’d died in an APC explosion during Desert Storm.
Ahead
of me, Uncle Will called out that he’d found the right time period, at least, and as I passed the two group headstones, I noticed that the graves were now an even mix of Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom. It was eerie, looking down at the names of the people and wondering who they were. A little mental math yielded the ages of the dead. 25 years old, 29, 21, 27, 19... I finally remembered the next lines of the poem. ‘We are the dead. Short days ago, We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.’
Many of the graves had obviously been visited recently, which made sense since Memorial Day was only two weeks ago. Wreaths were leaned against several tombstones and one grave had a framed picture of a woman in dress uniform, standing proudly and smiling at the camera, set beside it. Another headstone had a bottle of beer sitting beside it. Several others had red poppies laid across the top. ‘Loved and were loved, And now we lie, In Flanders fields.’
We finally found the grave we’d been looking for and formed a half-circle around the grave of Lieutenant Alexander Borden, US Army, recipient of the DSM, killed in the course of Operation Enduring Freedom on 11 October 2007. Borden, I later learned, had been Will’s roommate at the Academy, and, according to Will, a good friend ever since. Until 11 October 2007.
As if he’d been reading my mind, Uncle Will murmured the last stanza of the poem. “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,” I whispered in unison with Uncle Will, “We shall not sleep, though poppies grow, In Flanders fields.” Dad said nothing, but nodded in agreement.
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