| The following column appeared in The River Reporter on May 21, 1998. |
By Bert S. Feldman
The Recusant Reporter
Thursday, May 21, 1998
"The God who gave us life, gave us liberty at the same time" "— Thomas Jefferson
This coming weekend, we will observe Memorial Day. To many people it is a day to enjoy an outdoor barbeque "— the first of the season "— or enjoy some outdoor activity on a long weekend. But there is a bit more to it.
There are a vast number of men and women who will not be doing anything over the weekend, not doing anything at all.
These people, young fellows and girls, mainly, are the ones we will honor this weekend. At Minisink Ford, Missionary Ridge, Belleau Wood, Inchon, the Coral Sea, and Danang, and in numerous so-called "small" actions, they paid the highest price possible so that we can enjoy a day off in the sun. They paid the price not with money, but with their life's blood.
I think of my own friends, my classmates in junior high and high school. Two close friends spring to mind.
Mike was an Irish lad who beat me out for the position of class president in junior high. He was in college when the attack on Pearl Harbor came. Whether he enlisted or waited for his draft number to come up, as it did for all of us, I don't know. Mike was last seen in a burst of flame flying over Italy. There is no grave marker for Mike.
Nat was a Jewish kid with big flap ears. He was determined to become a physician. His sister and his widowed mother scrimped and saved to establish a bank account that would put him through medical school. Nat sleeps in a grave on some Pacific island that we never learned about in Mrs. Weber's geography class.
Sleep well, all of you, until the final bugle call to reveille. We haven't forgotten you.
In November 1942, The American Mercury magazine published a poem, a sonnet to be exact, by Elma Dean. Who she was, I have no idea, nor have I been able to find out. But in these 14 lines she managed to say it all.
A letter to St. Peter
Let them in, Peter, they are very tired;
Give them the couches where the angels sleep.
Let them wake whole again to new dawns fired
With sun not war. And may their peace be deep.
Remember where the broken bodies lie ...
And give them things they like. Let them make noise.
God knows how young they were to have to die!
Give swing bands, not gold harps, to these our boys,
Let them love, Peter "— they have had no time "—
Girls sweet as meadow wind, with flowing hair ....
They should have trees and bird song, hills to climb
The taste of summer in a ripened pear.
Tell them how they are missed. Say not to fear;
It's going to be all right with us down here.
Thank all of you whom we honor this Memorial Day. Thank you for the priceless gift you have bestowed upon us, paid for with your own blood.
Attention! Report to your Commanding Officer!
