Listening to the Taps
Sunlight was just beginning to peek over the horizon when America made it over the crest of the hill. Green blades of grass bent toward him, greeting him in his absence from the fertile soil. The bomber jacket Alfred so proudly wore seemed as gray as he felt, and the sun's rays didn't shine light on the hole burning in his chest where his heart was. It was at times like this that Alfred's normally boisterous attitude simmered down and the reality of what he really was pressed down on his young shoulders.
He carried a whole nation on his back.
A nation that was clearly turning on him. He could feel it burning in his heart, the black hole that represented the mass amount of people who wanted nothing more to do with his country, his politics, freedoms, and war. All the life drained from his beautiful blue eyes, the eyes of a once bright country. He no longer felt compelled to believe that he was number one or that all business was his business.
Because clearly it was not.
But when these times came, he would approach that same hill and stare down its incline, over the wire fence and to the tarmac on the other side. At these times the asphalt would be filled with people and normally it was dark and rainy and all Alfred could see was black and more black. But the sun was out this time and so all he saw was black.
Then the plane would dive in for its landing, buffeting his frame as its engines whined loudly over him. He would look up, feel that lifting feeling of flying as he watched it soar over him and come in. Then the feeling would leave as soon as the landing gear came down and the screeching noise filled the air as the wheels came in contact with the tarmac. And then slowly the procession began.
First came the commanding officers. Dark uniforms with gleaming medals shining in the sun, the very best for the heroes on the plane. They stepped down onto the tarmac, faces dark in the bathing sunlight. Alfred then would watch comrades-in-arms descend from the plane with flags folded precisely into a patriot's hat clutched in their hands. The family members would then begin to weep, it happened every time Alfred came to watch the sacred procession. The reality that their family member was home in body but not in spirit was strong enough for any man to be reduced to tears.
Alfred was no exception.
He was them. He was America. He knew these men and their families. He knew the pain they had gone through, and every time the tears welded up almost to the point he couldn't see the deep mahogany coffins draped with his beloved Stars and Stripes be lowered from the plane. But there they were, carried by officers and comrades to the hearses waiting to take them to their final resting place.
And then that mournful song would fill the still air.
Taps. Slow and earnest it rose then fell, rose and fell; filling Alfred with the feeling he sought for every time he came to this hill. It slowly filled his ears then his emotions: pride, fear, regret, joy, and finally peace. Peace that these heroes' journey was over. They had enlisted, knowing what their fate may lead them to, but despite their love for themselves and their families, they insisted because their love for their country was far greater.
And that filled Alfred F. Jones with so much pride for these fallen heroes that he couldn't prevent his sharp salute if he wanted.
Eyes wet and heart cleansed, America turned and descended from the hill.
The pilot wasn't surprised when he saw the nineteen year old standing on that same hill. In all of his eighteen years of carrying fallen soldiers home, he had seen that same boy every single time he came in for a landing. When he first spotted the stranger, the pilot had immediately radioed the control tower. But before anyone had left to investigate, the boy was gone.
So from then on he ignored him.
As he had expected, there he was again, still in that dark jacket, and those dark clothes. He never had a chance to come any closer to seeing what he looked like. He just knew that every time on those rare occasions when the sun was shining, the boy's blonde hair flashed like a neon sign. A few times after the processions were over, the pilot had left to see if maybe he could talk to this boy. But like every other time, he was gone.
The pilot knew it was disrespectful, but this time he stared over at the boy. He stood there for the longest time and it wasn't until Taps began to play that the boy moved. He saluted, so sharp and well-trained that it surprised the pilot. Then as the song ended and the last of the coffins were painstakingly placed in their hearses, the boy turned.
And the pilot watched him disappear over the crest of the hill.