Thanks, Bobby
Although his death was a shock to me, his funeral was to be much more difficult for me. I was devastated when I found out that my father would be cremated, something forbidden in my culture. It had been his last wish to be buried in the Military Cemetery, next to many of his friends who had served in Viet Nam. My brother had tried very hard to prepare me for my father's funeral, telling me that it was what my father wanted, that being buried near his brothers was his dying wish.
However hard he had tried, nothing could have spared me from the devastation I felt as I stared down at the Urn that held what had once been my father. With tears in my eyes, I leaned over and kissed my father's flag. The next day at his burial, they formally presented my brother and I with his flag. As they played taps for my father, my eyes again filled with tears. I held my hand over my heart and did everything I could not to look at his Urn. I stared into the clouds through my tears and wondered if my father's soul would be there with G-d.
Growing up my father had always been my hero. He had been a Ranger in the Army, and I, as his little girl, was so proud of him. In his Soldier's Uniform, with his colorful patches and shiny Brass, with his dark hair, deep blue eyes, and his intimidating 6'4" height, he was the most stunningly handsome man that any five-year-old little girl had ever seen. I remember tilting my neck back as far as it would go so I could gaze into my "Poppy's" eyes and give him "The Salute" as I beamed with pride.
At the end of the day, my Dad would come home and I would beg him to tell me all he had done that day. I would sit at his feet and hang on his every word as he recounted tales of jumping out of airplanes and driving tanks.
Besides telling me about all of his wonderful adventures in the Army, my father would try to explain why he was a soldier and what it meant. He would speak of G-d, Honor and Country, all the while reminding me of how lucky we were to be Americans and live in a free country. My father was so proud to be a soldier, and an American. He always tried to instill this sense of pride and patriotism in me as well.
When the Viet Nam War started, my father was stationed in the States. Later, the Army decided to station him in Germany. He did not serve in Viet Nam, as all his friends did, and I believe this hit him very hard. When news would arrive that one of his friends was killed or missing, my father was hurt very deeply. It was not until I was older that I came to understand his sense of honor and duty extended to his fellow soldiers, whom he had always referred to as his brothers. I guess it should not have come as a surprise that he should want to be buried next to them, no matter what.
So, as a final tribute to his brothers, whom he couldn't be with when he felt they needed him most, he was laid to rest next to them. For his brothers that fought in the war and never came back, and for those that fought and never came home, he paid his final tribute: to be buried next to them so that they should always be together. I no longer wonder whether my father's soul is with G-d. I know that it is, along with all of his brothers, for there is no other place more suitable for such loving selfless, and honorable individuals.
After working and chatting with a number of Viet Nam Vets, I have come to fully appreciate why my father wanted it this way. I am no longer bitter or hurt, and I have come to understand the meaning of "G-d, Honor, and Country". After speaking with these people, I have come to the realization of just what kind of sacrifice they have all made. I have also come to understand just how much that they are haunted by the souls of their brothers who have not yet returned.
They went to a foreign country, in unfamiliar territory to fight for the principles of Freedom and Democracy. They did not hesitate. They did not question. They simply went. Many paid with their lives in the name of freedom, and still others came home injured or emotionally scarred. But there are still others, of whom we seldom hear. To this day, American Servicemen remain in foreign soil. Whether they are alive or dead, these men deserve the honor and dignity of being on their own soil. They fought for it: they deserve it. So why should we not fight to bring them home?
Growing up the way I did, as an Army Brat, I guess it seems reasonable for me to become involved in issues pertaining to soldiers or the military. Most of my life, however, I stayed away from such issues. I was proud to be an American, and I assumed that was enough. Since my father's death, and burial, I guess I have reached a sort of "moral maturity". I know now that it is not acceptable for me to say "Thanks for my freedom." and then simply forget about "my brothers", as the government has done.
Whether they are alive, or whether they are dead, we cannot question. This is their country. This is their soil. They fought for it. They belong here.
