Facing Home
"Not for fame or reward, not for place or for rank, not lured by ambition, or goaded by necessity, but in Simple Obedience to Duty as they understood it, these men suffered all, sacrificed all, dared all – and died." - Arlington National Cemetery
He's come a long way, across the sea and onto land that a half century ago men fought and died upon.
He was one of them, soldiers who'd landed on a single strip of sand, ordinary men who'd fought and finally won.
But so many had died. He can see the crosses and stars of David, stretching into the horizon like a field of stone, each cross a life, a man just like him. It humbles him to stand here, to remember, to realize how precious and fragile life truly is.
He stops, his shadow falling across the grave, the one he's been searching for all morning. His hand trembles as he trases the name, curls his fingers into the carved stone.
They had been so young that day, full of life, of the excitement felt only by those who have never tasted war. They had felt brave, and invincible.
A sound, the memory of a desperate cry, echoes down through the years, tied to the memory of his friend jerking with the impact of bullets tearing through his chest as he tumbled backwards off to the cliffs and to the sand below. He can still feel his throat bleeding as he screams himself hoarse, feel the hands dragging him back, holding him away from the edge, sparing him the sight of his best friend's body. He remembers the numbness that spread through him, the fog that shrouded him, softening enough of the pain to keep him going, keep him alive.
For weeks after he'd come back to life he'd kept his distance, afraid to make another friend, lose another friend. It had taken him so long to open up again, to dare to care about someone without the fear of having his heart ripped open.
You lose a lot of friends in this war.
He's lost many friends since that day on the beaches, but somehow this death is most vivid. Perhaps because it was the last day he was young, the day he became an old man. There are no boys in war, not after a while.
But there is humanity, even in the face of so much death. Even after all these years he can feel Kirby slap his helmet, encouraging him as he lines up the bazooka against the pillbox on that hill they lost so many men. He can remember the grenade in the German hospital exploding, and Sarge falling across him, shielding him with his own body against the shrapnel. And a hundred other moments, so small and yet so important.
He studies the name with a reverence, a memory of childhood days and a long-forgotten song. He'd sacrificed, they all had, but not as much as his friend, as the men who rested here, names facing toward home, to the country they'd left behind, and the lost future they might have had, the girls they never married, the wives they never kissed again, the babies they never saw, the children never born.
He wonders if anyone else will remember, a hundred years from now, remember a strip of sand and all those who had died. Would it even seem real so far in the future? Would they honor the memory, or brush it aside without a thought? He has no way of knowing, but he can hope with all his heart that they won't forget.
He touches the name one final time, a goodbye never said all those years before.
"I won't forget, Theo." the man says quietly, the French words slipping like a melody from his lips. "I won't forget."