The following is a short piece I wrote several years ago, painting a picture of a mythical soldier to represent all servicemen and women who have served their country as well as those who died doing so. Let us remeber them all today and give our thanks.
Any Soldier, Any War—Maybe You Know Him
By Nancy Julien Kopp
Some call it Veterans Day while others say Remembrance Day.
They are the same day commemorating the same wars, the same men who gave their
lives fighting for what they believed in. Some volunteered while the draft
nabbed others, but nearly all carried an unseen banner of the country they
loved right next to their heart.
Any soldier, any
war—maybe you know him.
He left mother and father, sweetheart and friends. Gone were
his carefree summer days, spent with boyhood chums. Schoolbooks lay forgotten,
dust settling over the covers. Baseball bats and marbles, toy cars and lead
soldiers tumbled into a box, saved for the next generation. A letter jacket in the
closet, placed there by a boy--would a man return to claim them?
The boy who braved the high school football field turned
into a young man whose hands trembled as they quickly wiped a tear from a cheek
the first time he went into combat. Knees quaked and his heart beat double-time
until training of both boot camp and a lifetime before that kicked in. The
little unseen banner of his country fluttered right over his heart bringing
calm and a determination to do all deemed necessary.
He fought in scorching heat and bitter cold, through fields
of flowers in spring and myriad fallen leaves in autumn. He battled through sunlit daytimes and on moonless nights.
In the quiet moments, thoughts spiraled backward to home, to
Mom and Dad, and Christmas trees, and baseball games, and to turkey dinners and
ice cream sundaes. He fingered a treasured photo of Carol, the girl he loved,
and swallowed the lump in his throat that rose whenever he studied her face.
He’d taken the picture on one of the last days before he left for the army
camp. A wisp of her dark hair had blown across her forehead, and her hand
looked poised to sweep it back into place. She’d posed with her free hand on a
hip and a quirky smile on her face, as though she might make a wisecrack at any
moment. He slipped the picture into his pocket when the thunder of guns drew
closer.
He adjusted his helmet, gripped his rifle in both hands, and
scanned the line of trees ahead. Was there some soldier from the other side
creeping closer? Did he, too, think of home during a lull in the fighting? Did
he have a photo of the girl he loved? Wasn’t he fighting for his country, too?
The insanity of it all sometimes swept over him like a wave crashing on the
beach.
Countries disagreed and made war, but only the men who
fought were lost. Some soldiers died, while others lived to carry the horrors
of war forever, to hide them deep within, letting them surface only
occasionally. Despite the human loss, countries rose again from the ashes like
a phoenix to grow strong, to wait for a new generation, to wage war yet again.
He promised himself to never forget his fallen comrades, the
towns and families they’d liberated, the good that evolved from the scathing
waste of war. He’d march in every Veterans Day parade until his legs would
carry him no more. And he’d wipe a tear from his cheek when other boys left
childhood things to cross the sea and fight the next enemy.
He’d wear the poppy in his buttonhole right over the unseen
banner that still fluttered across his heart.
For God and country, he would remember, with pride and
regret, those who did not return.
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