Some Gave All.......

This is so
sad

My
friend Kevin and I are volunteers at a National Cemetery
in
Oklahoma and put in a few days a month in
a 'slightly larger' uniform.

Today had been a long, long day and I
just wanted to get the day over with and go down to Smokey's and have a cold
one. Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time, 16:55. Five minutes to go
before the cemetery gates are closed for the day. Full dress was hot in the
August sun
Oklahoma summer time was as bad as
ever--the heat and humidity at the same level--both too high.



I
saw the car pull into the drive, '69 or '70 model Cadillac Deville, looked
factory-new. It pulled into the parking lot at a snail's pace. An old woman
got out so slow I thought she was paralyzed; she had a cane and a sheaf of
flowers--about four or five bunches as best I could tell.

I
couldn't help myself. The thought came unwanted, and left a slightly bitter
taste: 'She's going to spend an hour, and for this old soldier, my hip hurts
like hell and I'm ready to get out of here right now!' But for this day, my
duty was to assist anyone coming in.

Kevin would lock the 'In' gate
and if I could hurry the old biddy along, we might make it to Smokey's in
time.

I broke post attention. My hip made gritty noises when I took
the first step and the pain went up a notch. I must have made a real
military sight: middle-aged man with a small pot gut and half a limp, in
marine full-dress uniform, which had lost its razor crease about thirty
minutes after I began the watch at the cemetery.

I stopped in front
of her, halfway up the walk. She looked up at me with an old woman's squint.


'Ma'am, may I assist you in any way?'

She took long enough
to answer.

'Yes, son. Can you carry these flowers? I seem to be
moving a tad slow these days.'


'My pleasure, ma'am.’
(Well,
it wasn't too much of a lie.)

She looked again
'Marine,
where were you stationed?'


‘
Vietnam ,
ma'am. Ground-pounder. '69 to '71.'


She looked at me closer. 'Wounded
in action, I see. Well done, Marine. I'll be as quick as I
can.'


I lied a little bigger: 'No hurry, ma'am.'


She smiled and winked at me. 'Son,
I'm 85-years-old and I can tell a lie from a long way off. Let's get this
done. Might be the last time I can do this. My name's Joanne Wieserman, and
I've a few Marines I'd like to see one more time.’


'Yes,
mam. At your service.'


She headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone. She
picked one of the flower bunches out of my arm and laid it on top of the
stone. She murmured something I couldn't quite make out. The name on the
marble was
Donald S. Davidson, USMC:
France
1918.


She turned away and made a straight line for the World War II
section, stopping at one stone. I saw a tear slowly tracking its way down
her cheek. She put a bunch on a stone; the name was
Stephen
X. Davidson, USMC, 1943.


She went up the
row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone,
Stanley
J. Wieserman, USMC, 1944.


She
paused for a second and more tears flowed.
'Two
more, son, and we'll be done'


I almost didn't say anything, but, 'Yes,
ma'am. Take your time.'


She looked confused. 'Where's
the
Vietnam section, son? I seem to
have lost my way.'


I pointed with my chin. 'That
way, ma'am.'


'Oh!' she chuckled quietly. 'Son,
me and old age isn’t too friendly.'


She headed down the walk I'd pointed at. She stopped at a couple of
stones before she found the ones she wanted. She placed a bunch on
Larry
Wieserman, USMC, 1968,
and the last on Darrel
Wieserman, USMC, 1970.
She stood there and murmured a few words I still couldn't make out and more
tears flowe d.

'OK,
son, I'm finished. Get me back to my car and you can go
home.'


Yes,
ma'am. If I may ask, were those your kinfolk?'


She paused. 'Yes,
Donald
Davidson was
my father,
Stephen
was my uncle,
Stanley
was my husband, Larry
and Darrel
were our sons. All killed in action, all Marines.'


She stopped talking. Whether she had finished, or couldn't finish, I
don't know. She made her way to her car, slowly and painfully.

I
waited for a polite distance to come between us and then double-timed it
over to Kevin, waiting by the car.

'Get
to the 'Out' gate quick. I have something I've got to
do.'

Kevin
started to say some thing but saw the look I gave him. He broke the rules to
get us there down the service road fast. We beat her She hadn't made it
around the rotunda yet.

'Kevin,
stand at attention next to the gatepost. Follow my lead.' I humped it across
the drive to the other post

When
the Cadillac came puttering around from the hedges and began the short
straight traverse to the gate, I called in my best gunny's voice:
'Ten-Hut!
Present Haaaarms!'


I have to hand it to Kevin; he never blinked an eye--full dre ss
attention and a salute that would make his DI proud.

She drove
through that gate with two old worn-out soldiers giving her a send-off she
deserved, for service rendered to her country, and for knowing duty, honor
and sacrifice far beyond the realm of most.

I am not sure, but I
think I saw a salute returned from that Cadillac.

Instead of
'The
End,'
just think of 'Taps.'

As
a final thought on my part, let me share a favorite prayer:
'Lord,
keep our servicemen and women safe, whether they serve at home or overseas.
Hold them in your loving hands and protect them as they protect
us.'


Let's all keep those currently serving and those who have gone
before in our thoughts. They are the reason for the many freedoms we enjoy


'In
God We Trust.'

Sorry
about your monitor; it made mine blurry too!

If we ever forget that
we're one nation under God, then we will be a nation gone
under!