More Than a Number

 

   

On this Veteran’s Day, let us think about all who have served in our nation’s military and those who do so today, along with the many who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. 

The men and women in our armed forces are not numbers in a newspaper article. Each one that deploys leaves behind parents, sisters and brothers, spouses and children, as well as myriad friends. They are not numbers; they are people. They laugh, they cry, they love, they endure hardships, they work hard. They are human beings with all the emotions you and I experience. They sweat, they like to eat three times a day or more, they enjoy fellowship with others, they pray, they shake with fear more often than we’ll ever know. They are warm, living beings—not numbers in a newspaper account. 

How often do we read that another brigade has deployed? Numbers? No, not numbers, that brigade is made up of people who smile, cry, tell jokes, treasure the photos they carry of loved ones. They have headaches and stomachaches like you and me. They get slivers in their fingers and bruises on arms and legs. They’re no less vulnerable to physical ailments than you or I, but they face dangers we have never dreamed of. 

I live near an army post, so I see uniformed soldiers everywhere I go. They stop at the grocery store on their way home from work just like teachers and attorneys and librarians do. They pick up their children at soccer fields as a civilian mom or dad does. We are all very much alike, except for one thing. These soldiers, male and female, have volunteered to serve, to protect our country at home and in foreign lands, to perhaps put their life in danger while doing so. 

Have you ever thanked a soldier or marine or sailor? Maybe you’d feel uncomfortable walking up to a total stranger and saying, “Thanks for all you do for me and the rest of America every day.” What a great gift it would be if you could say that or something like it to a member of the armed forces. Think about it the next time you see an American in uniform. 

Several years ago, my husband and I were returning from a European trip. We were tired and anxious to get through customs when we landed in the USA. As we approached the passport checkpoint, a door opened and an entire unit of uniformed soldiers filed through. They were returning from Iraq, an even longer flight than we’d had. We stopped and watched these fatigued young men and women as they walked by us. Some nodded and smiled, others stared straight ahead. Some I could barely see for the tears that had filled my eyes. I wanted so badly to say Welcome Home to them, but the lump in my throat didn’t allow it. The pride that encompassed me at that moment cannot be described. I was every soldier’s mother for just an instant. 

And what about the ones who didn’t return to walk through that airport door? The ones who came home in a body bag or a wooden coffin. My pride in them is every bit as strong along with a deep and abiding gratitude in what they gave for the rest of us. They sacrificed so that we can keep living in a free country. Yes, we Americans have many disagreements, but, even so, we are blessed in numerous ways. The military cemeteries where the headstones are lined up are a reminder of those who gave their lives so that you and I can enjoy the life we have today. 

Don’t wait for Veterans Day or Memorial Day, take time to say thank you to a military person. Say it in person or say it in your heart, but please say it. 

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A Day Late

My mother, father and me in 1942. I was almost three years old.

Yesterday was Veteran's Day, but it wasn't until last evening that I had a chance to sit down and write something about it that I posted at Our Echo. It began as a Veteran's Day thoughts and suddenly veered off into my WWII memories. I was only a little girl during those war years, but I have memories of the way things were then, memories perceived from a child's view.

Maybe reading them will trigger memories of your own from those years, or the Korean Conflict, Vietnam or the present day wars. Write about them, save them in your family memories book. You do have one, don't you? If not, there's no time like the present to begin.

You can read  my Veteran's Day and WWII memories which might help trigger some of your own.

Veteran’s Day 2010 and WWII Memories

By Nancy Julien Kopp

It’s nearly the end of another Veteran’s Day. Newspapers, TV, local radio stations—all have given space to commemorating this special day.

In the troubled times we live in, I’m pleased to see the recognition of our veterans, whether they be octogenarians of WWII, the Korean conflict, the Vietnam situation, Desert Storm, the present Iraqi War or Afghanistan. Old vets or young  enlisted men and women, all are worthy of celebration and appreciation.

In my community (Manhattan, Kansas), the day began with a special breakfast with sausage and gravy on biscuits, a Midwestern specialty. The parade down our main street followed with veterans, soldiers from Ft. Riley, and 1200 school children marching proudly. Flags flapped in the strong Kansas wind this morning, and the sun spread its rays over those in the bands. More than a thousand people lined the streets, bundled in jackets to ward off the morning chill. Hearts swelled with pride and thanksgiving.

At our house today, the American flag fluttered in the strong breeze all day. It was our statement that we believe in our country. We believe in our military personnel of today and we honor those who served in the past.

I was only six years old when WWII ended, but I remember hearing the president on the radio telling the American people that the war was over. A long war which brought shortages of sugar, meat and gasoline to the American shores, while it brought loss of life to many in the European theater and in the Pacific. I remember my mother taking our ration books to the meat market and the grocery store, Dad handing his ration book over at the service station when we needed gas. He drove as little as possible to conserve on the tires. No possibility of getting new tires during wartime.

Even as a little girl, I remember another sign of shortage in WWII. A young woman who lived in the basement apartment of our section of a large apartment building provided great entertainment for me. I stood in the basement doorway as she hiked her leg over the laundry tub and painted her legs to look like she was wearing hose. She even managed to make a straight vertical line up the back of her leg to indicate a seam. When she’d finished one leg, she started on the other one. Satisfied with her artwork, she smoothed down her skirt and skipped back to her apartment.

Another WWII memory was a trip my mother, grandmother, little brother and I took. We boarded a troop train and traveled from Chicago to Phoenix to visit my mother’s brother and family. I would celebrate my fifth birthday in sunny Phoenix, Arizona. It was 1944, and perhaps some strings had to be pulled for us to be allowed to travel on that train. We had a small compartment, but during the day, I wandered up and down the aisles making friends with the soldiers, sailors and marines. I should have had a knapsack to store all the candy and gum they gave me along with the smiles and chatter. It made a big impression on me as I remember it well.

My parents were movie buffs, and they took me with them to watch the double features during the war years. Besides two full length movies, we had a cartoon and the world news shown in black and white. Battles of weeks earlier were shown while we munched on our popcorn. It seemed surreal, like it was part of the make-believe movies we also watched. Surreal until the news of a wartime death hit the family of one of our neighbors or friends.

It was all so very long ago, and yet, here we are, living through yet another war. Are the people of the world slow learners? Did they not figure out the cost of war is far higher than the benefit of the winner? Have we not learned to love one another as Jesus taught?

Perhaps not.

Meanwhile, all we can do is to tell those who have fought in the past and now that we love them and thank them and will continue to support them.

Veteran's Day Essay

I was raised to embrace patriotism, both by my parents and my teachers. Perhaps it was because my early years were during WWII, followed by school years during the Korean Conflict. It was a period when the vast majority of  Americans supported their military. With that in mind, I wrote an essay for Veteran's Day that has been published in a Johnson County, Kansas newspaper for seniors. The essay is in the current November issue. You can read "Any Soldeier, Any War--Maybe You Know Him" below.

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 daytimes and in 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.