It was an overcast day.
The sky couldn’t make up its mind whether to rain or not. I was in my car, going from one errand to the next, the radio blasting to keep my energy up.
A slower, quieter song started playing as I was heading toward my next stop. It reminded me of earlier times; times when our son was little. Because Memorial Day was fast approaching, I recalled when we would take him into a nearby cemetery on that day, and find the graves of those that had died while in the service of our country.
After explaining to him what Memorial Day was all about, we would search for the graves with flags, and our son would look down upon them and solemnly say, “Thank you for protecting us. I am sorry you died.”
As the light ahead turned red, and the traffic stopped, I sighed as I realized how many years it had been since then. My next stop was about a half-mile past this light. After that, I would turn back toward home, my errands completed.
The light turned green and I started to roll forward. At the last second, I put my blinker on for a right-hand turn. That last errand could wait; I had a detour to make.
I clicked off the radio as I entered the cemetery. Leaving the world of the living, and entering the world the dead, it just didn’t seem right to do otherwise.
Driving slowly in silence except for the occasional whir of the windshield wipers, I scanned the rolling hills for graves with flags. Finding some, I pulled over and, leaving the engine idling, strode across the wet grass while a light mist landed on my bare arms.
So began my search.
I found many who had served. World War II, Korea, and Vietnam were all well represented, as were most of the services. But each person had lived decades beyond the time that was likely a defining moment in their young lives. I gave each a silent “thank you” for their service, but they were not the people I was looking for. Not today.
Finding grave after grave of those that had served but had died after their allotted three-score and ten, I found myself in a seemingly never-ending cycle: driving slowly until I saw more flags, getting out and scanning each grave and, not finding who I was looking for, moving on again.
As I was doing this, I became more and more curious about the lives chronicled at my feet. Occasionally, a marker might list a rank held, a decoration earned, a unit joined. I wondered what their stories would have been, had I been privileged enough to have heard the tales of their time “in the service.” One marker held two veterans—husband and wife—both having served in the Navy during World War II. I smiled as I imagined their first meeting; maybe a handsome young sailor drawing his pay from a pretty young clerk, and noting she had that certain “something” that would eventually lead to a life together.
But as interesting as it might be to imagine these lives, I still hadn’t found a member of the Armed Forces that had died while serving. My search continued.
I was slowly getting farther and farther from the entrance, and the graves were becoming a bit more sparse. I crested a hill and, reaching the bottom on the other side, came to a lonely corner of the grounds, a fence marking the cemetery’s boundary. Here I saw many small grave markers, all packed closely together. There were no flags here, but I stopped anyway. How could I not?
Most of the markers had only one date on them; a couple had two, but never more than a few weeks apart. Some had small angels or teddy bears carved into them. As I stopped and read each name, I was sorry these young lives had been cut much too short, and I hoped their parents had been able to reach some sort of peace over such a terrible loss.
I continued searching.
I found the graves of a few more veterans, but still no luck. As I looked up to continue the search, I saw I was nearing the end of the cemetery’s grounds; from here, the drive led back toward the entrance.
It was then that I saw two separate markers, side-by-side. One with a flag. Walking over, I met him:
PAUL M WILLIAMS
AN US NAVY
OPERATION **** ****
AUGUST 18 1991 — AUGUST 8 2016
OUR TEAM IS THE ONLY TEAM THAT MATTERS
Damn. Ten days shy of his twenty-fifth birthday. I wasn’t sure what the rank “AN” was, but a quick check on my phone revealed that it stood for Airman.
And so that is how I will refer to him here—as Airman Williams.
Operation **** **** wasn’t one I’d seen in the news, so that provided no additional context. As for the motto, I can only assume it reflected the pride Airman Williams and his teammates felt regarding the part they played in this operation.
Then, as with the other graves I’d visited, my mind began to try to fill in the blanks. And from those blanks sprang so many questions.
Airman Williams, where did your ancestors come from? Because when we’re talking about this country, if you go back far enough, everyone came from somewhere else. Did your people cross a land bridge during the last ice age? Did they arrive in ships powered by oars, or driven by the wind, or coal, or oil? Had they rested in a private stateroom? Were they crowded into steerage? Or had they been chained in an airless cargo hold? Possibly they traveled in the air, pulled by propellers, or pushed by jets.
No matter how they got here, what was their story? What were their hopes? Their fears? What were their biggest successes? Their most abject failures? What was the dream that kept them going? By knowing them I feel I might know you better.
And then, after untold generations, you were born. What was your childhood like, Airman Williams? What was your favorite food? Did you have a bike? A best friend you could share secrets with? Was yours a family founded on love, or was home a place without solace for you?
But more importantly than that, what was in your mind? In your heart? Was faith a part of your life? Did you look up at the stars and marvel at it all? Did you find joy in learning? In working with your hands? Was there someone you loved that loved you back? Did a little one call you Daddy? Or Papa? Or just smiled and gurgled when you held them close?
Excuse me if I’ve gotten too personal, Airman Williams; it’s just that I have so many questions, and your grave marker shares so little.
What I do know is that you joined the United States Navy. Airman Williams, why did you join? Did you, as an American, feel it was your honor-bound duty? In joining, were you embracing a future? Or were you running from a past? No matter the reason, I deeply respect your decision. It takes guts to leave the familiar behind for something new and unknown. I’m not sure I could’ve made the same choice, were it put before me.
I also know you were an Airman, and that you served as part of an operation. From this, I’m guessing you served on a ship carrying aircraft, and that you and your shipmates were sent into harm’s way. What part did you play in this operation? Did you prepare aircraft for launching, and assist with their landing? Did you ensure aircraft were fueled and properly armed? Did you maintain and repair them? All are vital tasks; you may not have been “the hand that wielded the sword” but you certainly made sure that “sword” was sharp and ready to use against an enemy.
But, in the end, it all boiled down to August 8, 2016. Isn’t that so, Airman Williams? Did that day start like any other? Had you settled into shipboard life, knowing your responsibilities so well that the day held no challenges you hadn’t met before? Were you and your team a well-oiled machine, engaging in friendly banter as you went about your duties? These things I cannot know.
Whatever the circumstances that day, it happened.
Airman Williams, standing here, looking down upon your grave, I cannot know how the end of your life played out. Was your ship fired upon? Did the enemy take your life? Or was it a mishap of some sort—a damaged aircraft that, in landing, struck you on the always-too-small flight deck? Did winds and choppy seas (or jet blast) cast you overboard, or did untethered bombs crush you? Did a shipmate’s (or your own) attention waver at just the wrong instant, with disastrous results?
Whatever the cause, when it came, was the end quick and merciful? Or did your ship’s corpsmen labor to bind your wounds, and your shipmates to give their blood, only to find those wounds were incompatible with life? I would know these things, if I could, if only to better know the man you were, right up to the end.
I know what I would wish for you, Airman Williams, if I could. I would wish that, for you, August 8, 2016 became August 9, 2016, with day following day until you saw your homeport off the ship’s bow, and were happily reunited with those you held dear. But as much as I wish, that cannot be. Failing that, I would wish that your ending took no more than an instant with a minimum of pain, and fear, and sorrow. But I cannot have that wish granted for you, either.
How you died is how you died.
Airman Williams, as I look at your final resting place, with a stranger next to you as your only companion, and a grand mausoleum across the drive from your modest marker, I think of everybody and everything that made you the man you were. I wonder about your life, and about your death, and I wonder what meaning there is to glean from it all.
I cannot say what impact the operation you were part of will have on the country you swore to defend; such things can easily take decades to become clear, if ever. I cannot say how those you left behind fared when the Casualty Assistance Calls Officer came to their door, chaplain in tow. I can only hope they were able to find solace in whatever manner they felt appropriate, and that they have been able to carry on while you, Airman Williams, must remain here.
Standing here, I realize all these things I want to know will never be answered; in fact, these are things I have no right to know, just as I have no right to write about you here. So that I do not disturb your rest, nor the lives of your loved ones, I have changed the details that are on your marker, though the truth written there remains. Standing here, it becomes clear that the best I can do is to echo my young son those many years ago, and say:
Thank you for protecting us, Airman Williams. I am sorry you died.