SALUTE
TO A VETERAN
by
JD Wetterling
The Des Moines Register
It
was a raw November day. The leaden
sky matched the mood, the weathered barns and the flat, frozen farmland of
western Illinois. A naked elm
towered above an acre of tombstones enclosed by a rusty wrought iron fence
beside a gravel road. It was sad
irony that the old aviator was returning to dust on Veterans Day.
I
never knew him as a war hero--during WW II my priority was dry diapers.
When I knew him he was the town drunk, just getting by on day labor.
The hands that had once so smoothly put a Mustang’s gunsight on a
Messerschmitt, shooting down one of Germany's finest, shook as he lit his
cigarette. The right stuff of a
fighter pilot was no longer visible in his gaunt body, but the memories of those
days of death and adrenaline could be roused by a persistent, inquisitive
teenager.
He
sparked in me a yearning for the thrill of a hundred things that non-flyers have
not dreamed of. With hands in
motion he explained the moves of that aerial death dance, incomprehensible
things like the high-speed yo-yo. He
said it was the antidote to the dreaded overshoot, that sudden reversal of
fortune from shooter to shootee, from the thrill of expectant victory to the
terror of ultimate defeat.
Only
a handful of citizens showed up at the graveside service, counting the six-man
American Legion firing squad and me, the bugle player.
My
teeth chattered as I stood at the end of the firing line next to Tubby Stimpson.
I held the horn in my left hand and the mouthpiece in my right, shoved in
the pocket of my corduroys, trying to keep it warm.
Tubby
and five other farmers stood in a sway-backed version of parade rest with one
hand around the barrel of an Enfield rifle.
The dark blue neckties of the squad stood out like wind socks in the
bitter breeze as they shivered in white shirts--no one could still fit into a
uniform jacket. The shirts showed
severe stress at the buttonholes, revealing a sliver of well-fed flesh between
the lower buttons.
Reverend
Luther stood at the head of the casket reading from Ecclesiastes as Hattie, the
old hero's widowed sister and only surviving family member, sat primly in a
folding chair to his right. Her
blue-white hair accented an ancient black hat and a grapes of wrath cloth coat.
She'd
always declared that two years as a POW was the cause of her brother's problem,
but the VA would not pay for alcoholism treatment.
The
preacher said "Amen," and Skid Flynn called the squad to attention.
He stood perpendicular to the line of riflemen at the opposite end from
me, looking like Ichabod Crane, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he
barked commands. His garrison cap
was pulled down to his ears to keep it from blowing off.
At the command, "Aim," the motley squad put their left feet
forward and aimed heavenward. The
first volley was still ringing in my ears when Skid called, "Reload."
I heard the clank of heavy metal as rifle bolts jerked open and brass
shell casings spun through the air.
I
was just easing my mouthpiece out of my pocket when I noticed that Tubby was
having trouble reloading. The wind
had blown the end of his necktie into the chamber just as he was closing the
bolt on another round. His face got
beet red as he tried to open the bolt and couldn't, tried to close it and
couldn't, and tried to yank the tie out and couldn't.
Skid
must have been looking elsewhere because he didn't hesitate.
"Aim!" he barked.
Tubby
followed orders and aimed at the sky with his tie draped over the top of his
rifle. I had visions of that
ancient musket blowing up and killing us all, and the only foxhole available was
most unappealing, so I just turned my head, grit my teeth and closed my eyes, as
if that would do any good.
Good
soldier Tubby just faked it.
It
was my turn to perform, but the trauma of the foregoing had driven the saliva
from my mouth. My freeze dried
rendition of "Taps" was a disaster, but no one seemed to care that I
had mangled it so badly.
The
American Legion policed up their spent brass and hurried to the warmth of their
cars. I caught up with Hattie as she walked forlornly toward the undertaker's
black Cadillac. I told her I was
going to miss her brother, and someday, when I grew up, I wanted to be a fighter
pilot just like him.
She
lost all her prim then, and enveloped me in a big, smothering hug.
Pushing me back to arms’ length, she held me by the shoulders, looked
at me through puddled eyes, and opened her mouth to speak, but no words were
forthcoming. She turned and walked
on.
Ten
years later I mastered high-speed yo-yos and by Grace alone survived 268 combat
missions in Vietnam in a jet fighter. Some
of my best friends did not. Now I
know what Hattie was trying to say that sad November day.
In an age when the zealous pursuit of human rights of all kinds is high
fashion, consider for a moment your human obligations...and hug a vet.
It'll mean a whole lot more to him than a six gun salute, or flowers on
his grave on Veterans Day.