In honor of Memorial Day, I have revised and slightly expanded the final story from my Song Fic Challenge. Apologies to those of you who have already read this, but I wanted to post something to commemorate the holiday.
IN MEMORIUM
It wasn't the heat, of course. It was the humidity. Even though summer was some three weeks away, the temperature had climbed and the humidity was, as always, high. It was, in a word, sweltering. But then Washington in the late spring was always sweltering. That's what they got for building a city on a swamp. But despite the heat, Colonel John Casey was in full dress uniform. It was a pity, really, that he so rarely had the opportunity to wear it. It was so much more distinguished then his Buy More uniform.
He scoffed at the thought of calling the green shirt and khaki pants a 'uniform.' The term was overused. This was a uniform. This stood for something. Something infinitely bigger and more important than a bunch of guys selling appliances and electronics. This uniform had a distinguished history stretching back over 200 years. The men and women who wore this uniform had dedicated themselves to something bigger than themselves - to the preservation of liberty and freedom for millions of people who rarely thought about the sacrifices that were made for that freedom.
Brand new eagles gleamed on Colonel Casey's shoulder boards. It felt a little odd to be in his new dress blues, since it had been 'dress greens' the last time he wore the uniform. It was one of the hazards of detached service - this lack of opportunity to wear the uniform of which he was justifiably proud.
The soldier at the gate snapped to attention as he passed. He returned the salute and silently berated himself for how sloppy it was. He was out of practice. He'd have to remember to work on that. But not today.
A group of tourists wandered past, going out the gate. They walked silently, solemnly. This place had that effect on people. Even the children were subdued. That was as it should be.
His highly polished shoes made a little 'clip, clip. clip,' as he walked the familiar path. His back was ramrod straight and his pace was a perfect, measured stride. His drill instructor would have been proud. At least that was one skill he hadn't forgotten.
He looked out over the rows and rows of identical white granite markers in perfect rows. In front of each, a small American flag hung limp. If only there was a breeze. It not only would make the day more bearable, but it would have given life to the flags. But perhaps the limp flags were a more fitting symbol.
As he walked, his head stayed perfect perfectly straight, but his eyes darted restlessly from side to side. Even here, in this hallowed place, he could not get away from his current profession. He scanned the grounds and the people for threats automatically. It was busy today, of course. Preparations were being made for the traditional wreath-laying ceremony tomorrow on Memorial Day itself. That was why he was here today, to avoid the bustle and crowds that accompanied the formal ceremony.
Another group of tourists were coming toward him on the path. He started to slow, but they respectfully stepped to the side. One young boy, he couldn't have been more than five, stood up straight and lifted a hand to his brow as the Colonel passed. Colonel Casey stopped, came to attention, and returned the salute. The man standing next to the boy, the father no doubt, smiled and nodded. The colonel gave a quick nod in return. "That's a good boy you've got there," he said. "You're training him right."
"Thank you, Colonel," the man said. "Bill Peters. Hundred and First Airborne, 'Screaming Eagles.'" He held out a hand and the Colonel was glad to grasp it. "John Casey," he said. He didn't have to mention his own unit. The Ranger Tab on his sleeve and the jump wings on his chest told his story for him, as did the rows of ribbons on his left breast.
Colonel Casey nodded to the boy and then executed a precision turn and continued on his way. It was a long walk. He was sweating a little when he reached the marker. 'David Epstein, SGT, Afghanistan', it said. Underneath were the dates of birth and death. Dates much, much too close together.
He stood for a moment, looking at the marker, his mind half a world and many years away. Afghanistan. Memories of that terrible day filled his thoughts. Memories of a patrol ambushed high on a mountain pass - caught in the open by a determined and ruthless Taliban foe. Memories of a young sergeant who had saved the ass of the young lieutenant leading the patrol. A young lieutenant too stupid to realize just how much trouble he was in and too full of his West Point credentials to listen to a sergeant only a few years older, but infinitely more experienced.
A sound behind him startled Colonel Casey back to the here and now. It was almost a shock to be in the warm sun of the Washington spring and not the cold winter of the mountains north of Jalalabad. He silently cursed himself for his self-absorption. That was the sort of thing that got you killed.
He turned around. A young couple walked toward him, hand in hand. He started to frown. This was a private moment. What right did they have...
The man spoke. "I hope you don't mind, Casey. General Beckman told us where you were going and, well, we just wanted to say 'thank you'."
"Thank you?" Colonel Casey asked, confused.
Chuck Bartowski nodded to the headstone. "Thank you to the man who saved the life of the man who has saved our lives more times than I can count."
Casey swallowed the lump in his throat, hoping Bartowski didn't notice. "It's fine," he said.
Sarah Walker stepped forward and laid a single poppy on top of the marker. All three were silent for a moment as they contemplated the stone. Finally, it was Sarah who spoke. "We'll see you back at the hotel," she said.
Chuck and Sarah turned to go. Casey gave one last, long look at the grave and gave Sergeant Epstein a nod. "They're good people," he said softly. "Pains in the asses, but then I guess I was, too, wasn't I?"
He turned and watched the retreating forms of Chuck and Sarah for a moment. They might not wear the uniform, but they, too, were committed to something bigger then themselves. He took a moment to screw his face into a scowl. After all, he had a reputation to maintain. Then he called to Chuck and Sarah, "Hey! Bartowski! Walker! Wait up! I'll walk you out."
***
Author's Note: A Happy Memorial to one and all. Please make sure that you take a moment to remember the true reason for this very special holiday and salute the brave men and women who gave their all for the freedoms which we enjoy.