Unknown.
The word is simple. Complex. Empty. Full. Nondescript. Meaningful. Casual. Weighty.
I look down at the white cross and think that it too could be identified by these adjectives. How could Joe, the brother I grew up with, be unknown. How could he be missing? How could a vibrant human being disappear with no trace left behind?
We have a letter. And a folded flag. And the rich words of the military chaplain. And the memories shared by his buddies. But we don’t have him. He lies somewhere. But the place is unknown too. It might be a field or a beach or trench somewhere in the jungle. We don’t even know the exact location where he struggled bravely to the end.
We scan every old news photo we see to catch a glimpse of some man in uniform that might be him, caught unawares in the past by a reporter’s lens. We listen to other veterans talk to see if we might figure out where he was on that day. We look up every time a military convoy passes by and watch it down the road as if honoring them honors him. We’ll watch them lumber by for all the mothers and sisters and daughters and sweethearts who can’t.
Memorial Day is decked in red, white, and blue. Just like his coffin would have been if he’d made it back to American soil. But he didn’t. And so, we will not be able to ward off the unwanted thoughts today of his final resting place. Did he say our names? Was he cold? What would he want to tell us?
I’d do it again. That’s what he’d say. All of the lively, brave, cheerful, responsible fibers of his being would be in those unwavering eyes that would lock onto ours and in the firm young fingers that would grip our hands and in the passion that would rise in his voice as he breathed deeply and placed his final and best offering on the altar of freedom.
Unknown. Yes, the shallow earth which holds his precious bits of bone. But he is known. In every parade streamer and every band bugle. In every marching foot and every waving flag. In every crisp salute and every pressed uniform. In every shiny shoe and every shiny dog tag. In every mother’s prayer and every patriot’s dream. He is known. And that is the comfort that walks with me past the white crosses. America remembers today. He is in good company.
– a vignette for Memorial Day
“They were American boys who by mere chance of fate had wound up with guns in their hands, sneaking up a death-laden street in a strange and shattered city in a faraway country in a driving rain. They were afraid, but it was beyond their power to quit. … And even though they weren’t warriors born to the kill, they won their battles. That’s the point.”
– Ernie Pyle
