REMEMBER
Fortune smiled upon him, it seemed. He got back to Da Nang a day early, his
thirty days of leave a pleasant memory. He met Jim at the transit barracks.
Jim was leaving in the morning, returning to his wife and daughters. The sirens
went off, the rockets came in, and then there was the burning, the pain in his
chest. Then he was standing, looking down at himself. Looking down at Jim.
Through the gaping hole in his chest, he watched the remnants of his heart
feebly attempting to continue beating, then stopping.
There was a hole in Jim’s forehead, and he could see Jim’s brains, or pieces of
them, behind him, above him, a piece of brain and skull sticking to the somehow
undamaged fluorescent light fixture in the ceiling.
Jim stood beside him, whole, undamaged, looking down at the carnage. “I don’t
understand”, he said, glancing at Jim. “You will”, Jim replied. “Let’s get
ready for our journey. But, before we go, I need to tell you one thing.
Remember.” “Remember what?” he asked. “You’ll know, when the time comes”, Jim
responded.
He found himself slipping back into the battered body below him. Time seemed to
become meaningless, a montage of events happening, transport to other bodies,
placed in a metal box, and then a ride in a C-5 Galaxy with others, to Dover
AFB in Delaware.
They dressed him there at Dover, in an Air Force uniform, with his ribbons
correctly placed, including his new Purple Heart. He was inside himself and
outside at the same time, watching events and being a part of them. He was sent
to New Jersey, met by his mother, his father, his sisters, shedding tears as he
was placed in the ground…
Then there were others around him. One stepped forward and spoke. “Time is
meaningless here. We were sent to tell you something. My name is Ned Wilson. I
was killed by a British musket ball at Breed’s Hill. Remember.”
Another stepped forward. “I’m Joshua Singleton. A British bayonet took my life
in New Orleans. Remember.”
A black man stepped forward. “I’m Moses Grimball. I was with the 54th
Massachusetts during the Civil War. They cut me down at Fort Wagner. Remember.”
The next said, “Me and my buddy here, we was on opposite sides. They got me
when Pickett sent us toward Cemetery Hill. Remember.”
“My name’s John Baker. The Germans got me at Belleau Wood, in an artillery
barrage. Remember.”
A sailor stepped forward and said, “I was on the Arizona, when the Japs sank
it. Remember.” "
A Japanese man said, “The Germans got me when the 442nd went in to rescue the
Lost Battalion. Remember.”
Next forward was an Indian. He said, “I am Navajo. I am one of 13 that died in
the Pacific. I am a Code Talker. Remember.”
Three men were left. The first stepped forward and told me “My name is Jack
Levenson. I froze to death at the Chosin Reservoir. Remember.” The second said,
“They shot me down over North Korea. Remember.” The last was Jim. “Remember,
and pass it on.”
He woke up sweating, trembling, remembering the dream. He dressed slowly and
had his morning coffee before going to his truck and starting the long drive
south.
A couple hours later, he was standing in front of the Wall, in front of the
panel holding Jim‘s name, touching stone at once cold and warm, so warm, and
hearing once again the voice saying “Remember”.
He was so much older now, nearly through his seventies, but he refused to
forget.
Larry, his next-door neighbor had invited him to a bar-b-que on Memorial Day
weekend. He’d refused.
He’d seen the papers this morning. Memorial Day sales, cars, mattresses,
push-up bras, furniture… Nothing, it seemed, was immune to the weekend.
He headed for his old pickup, ready for the drive back home. He saw a flag,
moving slowly with the breeze, and he stood a little straighter, raised his arm
slowly, and delivered a salute. He thought again of his ghostly visitors, and
silently made this promise: “As long as I’m alive, I’ll remember.”
© May 17, 2023, by Dave Hoffman (Free use granted to all who recognize author)
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