Late today, in the twilight of early evening, the Most Beautiful Woman in the World and I will spend time in a cemetery. We don't know anyone who's buried there. It is, simply, Memorial Day.
This is not Arlington National Cemetery where dignitaries and media abound. This is Wilmington National Cemetery and many of those who lie here are forgotten. Even the office for the cemetery is not here. It is up the coast in New Bern.
The first graves in this cemetery were for soldiers and Marines whose bodies were moved here from Fort Fisher, shortly after the War Between the States. Wars did not end then. There are graves from the Spanish-American War, from World Wars I and II, from Korea and Viet Nam. There is room for more.
Hardly anyone visits these graves. And so the Most Beautiful Woman in the World and I will spend part of our day putting flowers on some of them. We do this not because we remember the people who lie buried here, or because we knew them, but because we did not and because there may not be anyone else who does.
We will be quiet. We will reach out to the spirit of the warrior who rests beneath the stone. The headstones will tell us the bare facts, but little else.
"Captain James Crocker, born September 12, 1937, Died July 8, 1969."
You look at the dates of birth and death. You can make some guesses. Probably Viet Nam.
"Gilbert McAllen, d. 03/12/1865, 85 NY"
"Gumorsindo Sanchez, d. 11/15/1918, Civilian Laborer, Porto Rican"
You start by wondering about them. Where were they from? What did they see in their life? How did they come to be here? These stones are the faintest, distant trace of what were lives like yours and mine, lives with flesh and blood and desires and passions and fears.
It isn't just the tombstones. Even when you find records beyond the tombstones, they are dry and lifeless and incomplete.
--- General / Personal ---
Last name: AYERS
First name: JAMES WESTLEY
Home of Record (official): MONCKS CORNER
State (official): SC
Date of Birth: Wednesday, October 31, 1934
Sex: Male
Race: Caucasian
Marital Status: Single
--- Military ---
Branch: Marine Corps
Rank: CPT
Serial Number: 074255
Component: Regular
Pay grade: O3
MOS: 2502
--- Action ---
Start of Tour: Unknown/Not reported
Date of Casualty: Friday, May 26, 1967
Age at time of loss: 32
Casualty type: (A1) Hostile, died
Reason: Artillery, rocket, mortar (Ground casualty)
Country: South Viet Nam
Province: Quang Tin
It has everything except what matters. It has everything except life.
From the record you cannot see the size or vitality of the man, running at lunch in sweltering heat. The records can't show you the odd jut of the chin, or the unique way of speaking that figured in so many stories.
The records can't tell you of the decency of the man. They leave out the part where he would visit the homes of his young married Marines. He'd have some extra food with him. He'd found it on sale, couldn't pass it up, but then had no place to store it. "I thought maybe you and your wife could use it."
The records leave out the humanity, but it is the humanity we remember.
It is a not an official record. It is your father, your husband, your uncle, your friend, your comrade. We remember the sound of a voice, a funny smile. Sometimes we remember the silly adventures of youth. Sometimes we remember how they died.
Tonight I drink the Warrior's Toast. It is the toast to "absent friends." I will remember them, though even now my memory dims on some names. The faces do not come screaming in the night as they once did, but they are there, standing off in the side of my heart, a quiet and a constant reminder.
There is Sario, with his head cocked to the side and a funny, lopsided grin that has been strangely recreated on the face of my son-in-law.
There is Mike, with his strong hands gently playing his guitar, a beer in easy reach.
There is Captain Ayers, who loved the Marines and his men until the day he was blown to bits.
Each day, my friends, I attack my work with a passion and joy that, I hope, is a monument to your memory. Each day I remember that you did not have this opportunity that I have and that while my name now rests on book covers and the lips of loved ones, your name remains frozen in time and in memory.
To you, my other friends, my readers, I offer this. Tonight, tell your children a tale of honor and glory and sacrifice. Then when you have put them to bed and it is quiet, offer a toast yourself.
This feature appeared on 5/28/01
