Today I attended the Veterans Day ceremony at the National Cemetery in my town, Wilmington, North Carolina. Like all military cemeteries, it is beautiful--peaceful, plain, the orderly rows of matching headstones a reflection of the order which permeates military life. It is probably more beautiful than many such cemeteries, actually, because it is studded throughout with huge, old trees. The day was perfect, too--cool and sunny with enough breeze to keep the dozens of American flags flying.
A local middle school singing group performed, and during one song which I thought was an inappropriately perky and hip-shaking number for the occasion, I wandered away, down the road that runs down the middle of the cemetery. Two headstones, side by side, caught my eye because the last name was the same, although no alphabetical order existed. One of the men, born in 1899, had served as a private in WWI, and had died in February of 1953. The second, a veteran of the Korean war, was born in 1931 and had died in October of 1952, presumably in the midst of the conflict. Were they father and son, I wondered? Had the loss of a beloved 21-year-old son sent the older man to his own grave only months later? I'll likely never know.
But it reminded me vividly that the collective sacrifice of our armed forces is made up of thousands upon thousands of individual sacrifices, each story unique in some way. There's no paying back, no compensation for what is sometimes utterly crushing heartbreak. I thought, as I often do, about a man from Antioch, Illinois named John Peck.
Cpl. Peck was in Afghanistan in May of 2010, when he stepped on an IED as he acted as minesweeper for his men. He immediately lost both his legs and most of one arm, and yet, believe it or not, it actually got worse. He had picked up bacteria from the soil which invaded his body, and doctors had no choice but to amputate his only remaining limb. His home became Walter Reed Army Medical Center, where he underwent dozens of surgeries to fight the bacteria, along with grueling physical therapy. His young wife left him. Honestly, I couldn't believe anyone would be glad to be alive under those conditions, and I felt relief and a little lightening of heart (not to mention profound awe and respect) after watching a video of him in which a strong spirit and a determination to live showed strong and clear. (I'm not sure now
what his current status is, as I haven't been able to find any recent information.)
I guess my point is that when stories like this surface, we are all sad, but the immediate reaction in some quarters is condemnation of the war itself, and the conclusion that this tragedy and all those like it were "for nothing." I'm not saying those people are wrong about the advisability of this war. Perhaps they're right. But what a thing to say to people like John Peck! For myself, I wish not one more American soldier had to die or be injured in that godforsaken place. But I'm also aware that some--including some who fight there--know a lot more about what's at stake than I do, and they think it's a necessary fight. So maybe they're the ones who are right; I simply don't know.
But the one thing I do know, is that Veterans Day should be a reminder that our own opinions of what the government decides to do should not affect our gratitude, respect, and duty to those who have fought and continue to fight. A common perception among a certain part of the population is that soldiers are 'victims'--of propaganda, of economic hardship, of government malfeasance, etc. I wish those people could listen to John Peck talk, after all that happened to him, about his pride in being a Marine, about knowing ever since he was a kid that he wanted to be a military man, because he saw that they even "held themselves" a different way--you could just see the difference in them.
That's no victim talking.
(In honor of these heroes, if your means allow, please consider a donation to Hope for the Warriors or another charity of your choice that serves vets and their families.)
