I see soldiers and war in a new way.
Respected North Dakota journalist Eric Sevareid has this to say. “War isn’t slogans and rhetoric and military strategy, and it isn’t scoops. War is people and what happens to them.”
A week ago Brad Feldman and I accompanied around 95 North Dakota World War II veterans to Washington D.C. to visit the memorial built in their honor. Sevareid is right. Even 65 years after combat, war is about people and what happens to them.
The veterans we met grew up all around you and me. They are our neighbors and our friends. They likely played pinochle with your grandparents, helped you change a tire on a country road, and stood tall at the local 4th of July parade.
Our veterans ran farms and built businesses. They married and had children. They helped redefine our nation when they came home, often without fanfare. I heard time and again of a returning soldier getting off the train late at night with a quick greeting from a relative only to be back at work on the farm the very next day. These men and women became the very fabric of America.
So often these heroic stories and efforts have gone unnoticed and unappreciated. Not May 8th and 9th, 2009.
I didn’t know what to expect from this trip. I wondered if seeing the memorial would revive long hidden memories of war and combat. It had the opposite affect.
The trip seemed to be a gentle rain on all souls. After visiting the Vietnam Memorial, the Korean Memorial, the World War II Memorial, Arlington National Cemetery, and Iwo Jima, the veterans I talked to were all overwhelmed with gratitude. One group visiting the memorial greeted the veterans with tears and thanks. Every now and then a teenager or a stranger would walk up to a veteran and thank him for his service. They were clapped for and cheered for.
Around 60-thousand North Dakotans served in World War II, both men and women. Close to 2-thousand died.
These soldiers are linked to foreign soil, to memories, and to each other. Shakespeare describes the bond in Henry V.
“But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother….”
The most telling, and in some ways haunting reminder of how these veterans continue to identify with the war, is the fact that many of them remember their serial numbers as if they are seared to their souls, even as they approach their 90’s. Much like the convict Jean Valjean in Les Miserables, labeled 24601 in prison and who was weighted down by the association, the veterans will be forever linked to their numbers. The link is a blessing and a curse. It’s a blessing in the camaraderie of serving one anther and a nation with no alternative of turning back. It’s a curse because of the truth of the number of memories they are forever linked to.
And there are lots of numbers. 31 months and seven days says one man. They all know exactly how long they served.
One veteran called me last week, following the trip. He said he’d been waiting 63 years to be welcomed home.
Another veteran told me upon arriving in D.C., “We don’t need a memorial, we came home alive. That is enough.”
He is right and wrong. I thought of the Gettysburg Address as I lived amongst these soldiers for parts of two days, walking in their footsteps, in the footsteps of our living and dying past.
Said Lincoln, “In a larger sense, we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.
The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.”
Whatever we build, say, or do will never be enough.
Sevareid says, “War happens inside a man. I happens to one man alone. It can never be communicated. That is the tragedy—and perhaps the blessing. A thousand ghastly wounds are really one. A million martyred lives leave an empty place at only one family table. That is why, at bottom, people let wars happen, and that is why nations survive them and carry on. And, I am sorry to say, that is also why in a certain sense, you and your sons from the war will be forever strangers.”
Sevareid was right about many things, but I discovered something different after the Roughrider Honor Flight. These veterans, these sons and daughters of the prairie, are no longer strangers, but forever friends.
Respected North Dakota journalist Eric Sevareid has this to say. “War isn’t slogans and rhetoric and military strategy, and it isn’t scoops. War is people and what happens to them.”
A week ago Brad Feldman and I accompanied around 95 North Dakota World War II veterans to Washington D.C. to visit the memorial built in their honor. Sevareid is right. Even 65 years after combat, war is about people and what happens to them.
The veterans we met grew up all around you and me. They are our neighbors and our friends. They likely played pinochle with your grandparents, helped you change a tire on a country road, and stood tall at the local 4th of July parade.
Our veterans ran farms and built businesses. They married and had children. They helped redefine our nation when they came home, often without fanfare. I heard time and again of a returning soldier getting off the train late at night with a quick greeting from a relative only to be back at work on the farm the very next day. These men and women became the very fabric of America.
So often these heroic stories and efforts have gone unnoticed and unappreciated. Not May 8th and 9th, 2009.
I didn’t know what to expect from this trip. I wondered if seeing the memorial would revive long hidden memories of war and combat. It had the opposite affect.
The trip seemed to be a gentle rain on all souls. After visiting the Vietnam Memorial, the Korean Memorial, the World War II Memorial, Arlington National Cemetery, and Iwo Jima, the veterans I talked to were all overwhelmed with gratitude. One group visiting the memorial greeted the veterans with tears and thanks. Every now and then a teenager or a stranger would walk up to a veteran and thank him for his service. They were clapped for and cheered for.
Around 60-thousand North Dakotans served in World War II, both men and women. Close to 2-thousand died.
These soldiers are linked to foreign soil, to memories, and to each other. Shakespeare describes the bond in Henry V.
“But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother….”
The most telling, and in some ways haunting reminder of how these veterans continue to identify with the war, is the fact that many of them remember their serial numbers as if they are seared to their souls, even as they approach their 90’s. Much like the convict Jean Valjean in Les Miserables, labeled 24601 in prison and who was weighted down by the association, the veterans will be forever linked to their numbers. The link is a blessing and a curse. It’s a blessing in the camaraderie of serving one anther and a nation with no alternative of turning back. It’s a curse because of the truth of the number of memories they are forever linked to.
And there are lots of numbers. 31 months and seven days says one man. They all know exactly how long they served.
One veteran called me last week, following the trip. He said he’d been waiting 63 years to be welcomed home.
Another veteran told me upon arriving in D.C., “We don’t need a memorial, we came home alive. That is enough.”
He is right and wrong. I thought of the Gettysburg Address as I lived amongst these soldiers for parts of two days, walking in their footsteps, in the footsteps of our living and dying past.
Said Lincoln, “In a larger sense, we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.
The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.”
Whatever we build, say, or do will never be enough.
Sevareid says, “War happens inside a man. I happens to one man alone. It can never be communicated. That is the tragedy—and perhaps the blessing. A thousand ghastly wounds are really one. A million martyred lives leave an empty place at only one family table. That is why, at bottom, people let wars happen, and that is why nations survive them and carry on. And, I am sorry to say, that is also why in a certain sense, you and your sons from the war will be forever strangers.”
Sevareid was right about many things, but I discovered something different after the Roughrider Honor Flight. These veterans, these sons and daughters of the prairie, are no longer strangers, but forever friends.
