Veterans--A Common Bond

 Today is Veterans Day, when we celebrate all our military veterans. It began when the Armistice was signed ending WWI. At the eleventh hour, on the eleventh day, of the eleventh month of 1918. I had an experience a number of years ago that prompted me to write the following essay. I share it today in honor of all veterans. 

A Common Bond

Leaves rustled softly as a light breeze drifted through the cemetery chapel, open to the air on two sides. This was the final stop on our tour of a WWII American Cemetery in southern France.

Our guide asked if there were any veterans of wars the USA had fought. “We would like you to participate in a wreath laying ceremony,” she said.

Three men stepped forward while the rest of our group of forty-two senior citizens gathered closer to the altar. Balwinder, our guide, offered the large bouquet of fresh flowers adorned with red, white and blue ribbons to one of the men. The trio walked slowly to the altar. Their shoulders were rounded, their hair thin and gray, their faces creased with the lines of time gone by. 

The earlier breeze suddenly became a wind that brought fallen leaves to swirl around our feet and intensified the sound of ones fluttering on the trees that rimmed the chapel. Clouds blocked the sun as the three men stood shoulder to shoulder, the ribbons on the wreath dancing in the wind. One man stepped forward and gently placed the flowers in the center of the altar between a Christian cross and a tablet depicting a Star of David. 

After the flower bearer stepped back in line with his fellow vets, all three snapped to attention and saluted the dead American soldier depicted in the large blue mosaic mural behind the altar. For one magical moment, they were three young military men, the years dropping away. Each had given part of himself to his country decades earlier. 

Now, they were touring France and making a visit to the Rhone American Military Cemetery where nearly 900 American soldiers were buried after the invasion of southern France in 1944. The boats landed in Normandy in the north and, weeks later, in the Mediterranean Sea in the south. The cemetery, in Draguignan, near the Rhone River, is close to where these soldiers fought and fell. For various reasons, their families in America chose to have them buried in France instead of requesting that they be shipped home for burial.

Balwinder, a native of India and citizen of France, asked if we would sing our national anthem. Silence. Then a few people began slowly, others joined in. As our voices blended and grew stronger with the familiar words, the wind died and the clouds parted allowing the March sun to warm us once again. 

My heart swelled, and a lump rose to my throat. I had to wipe a stray tear from my cheek, and in the silence that followed our singing, I studied the towering mosaic mural. The central figure was an angel, robed in blue, seated on a chair. In her arms, she cradled the body of a dead American soldier with a tenderness that is easily felt by the viewer. There were other, smaller figures on either side, but my gaze riveted on the angel and the soldier—he who represented so many who had given their lives. Young men who had everything to live for died fighting to free the people of France, then occupied by Nazi Germany. My mind told me that the angel was a piece of art, but my heart knew otherwise. As I gazed at her, I felt a presence and a warmth that could not have come from art. I didn’t want to leave the chapel but followed the others as they silently returned to our bus. 

 As we ate dinner on our river cruise ship that evening, I spoke with one of the men who had participated in the wreath laying ceremony. “What went through your mind today as you laid the flowers on the altar at the cemetery?”

He replied with no hesitation, needed no time to ponder and search for an answer. “Veterans have a bond that is never broken, no matter how many years have passed. There’s nothing else like it.”  He smiled and added one more comment. “Only another vet fully understands.” 

That veteran sat across the table from me, a retired railroad man who laughed a lot and still enjoyed life, but when he spoke about the common bond of vets, his face turned serious, and only he knew the rest of the wartime memories that lay quietly within. 

By Nancy Julien Kopp (c)

A Memorial Day Story

The following personal essay was published a few years ago but I think of the place where it occurred every year on Memorial Day. Give thought to the true meaning of this holiday. Our military men and women are buried here in the USA but in many other places around the world, as well. This story is about one such place.

Soldiers and Angels

By Nancy Julien Kopp

On a two week visit to France, I didn’t expect to be moved to tears and left with a memory etched on my heart forever.

 After a day and a half exploring Nice, our group of forty-two Americans boarded a motor coach to travel to a river cruiser for the next leg of the trip. Our program director announced that we’d be making a stop at the WWII Rhone American Cemetery in Draguignan where 861 U.S. soldiers are buried. These soldiers were ones who died in this part of France during the August 1944 invasions.

The southern invasion of France is not so well-known as the D-Day invasion along the beaches of Normandy in northern France. The invasion from the Mediterranean Sea began in August of 1944 and holds its own important place in the history of the war and with the French people.

We were informed there would be a wreath-laying ceremony for our group of seniors, many of whom remembered those war years as either veterans or children of vets. I was a small child during those years, but I still remember many little things about our life at the time, and I have read a great deal about this period in history because it feels personal to me.

We filed silently through impressive iron gates. The brilliant blue sky was dotted with fluffy white clouds, and the sun warmed us. The rustle of leaves in the many stately trees that surrounded the cemetery proved to be the only sound as we gazed at the rows of white crosses and Stars of David. No one spoke as we moved between the graves on the pristine grounds, reading names until the cemetery director arrived.

He told us the soldiers’ families all had the option to have their loved one’s body repatriated or to have them buried near the place they had died in battle. How difficult, I thought, such a decision would be. Sometimes, there were no parents left at home, or a young wife had already moved on with her life and needed no reminders of an earlier marriage, and so the fallen soldier never went home, staying in France where he died.

Everyone strolled slowly along the path that led to a large stone memorial depicting an angel. It served as one outside wall of an open air chapel.

Inside the chapel, a stone altar was dwarfed by the huge mosaic picture that towered above it. The mural-like picture, done predominantly in shades of blue, featured an angel in the center. My eye was drawn to her first, and though I studied the other, smaller figures, my gaze kept returning to her. The angel was seated. She cradled the body of an American soldier. The artist managed to capture a pure love in this figure. He succeeded in drawing visitors’ eyes to this central theme. Gazing at the two figures, I felt a lump in my throat and my eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Yet, I could not stop looking.

I thought about my uncle who flew missions over Germany but came home. I thought about my friend’s uncle who spent half of the war in a prison camp. I thought about my dad’s cousin who died in a plane that exploded on a runway. I thought about the memorial plaque at my grade school that listed the names of graduates who had not come home. The angel and soldier in the mural spoke for all of them.

Our program director held a large bouquet of fresh flowers. She asked if there were veterans of any war present who could participate in the wreath laying. The red, white and blue ribbon tails on the floral piece fluttered in the soft breeze that swept into the chapel from the two open sides.

Three men stepped forward. I learned later that two were veterans of WWII, having been very young men in the final days when they were called up. The third appeared to be a bit younger, although all had gray hair. He had been a pilot in the Korean War. Their shoulders were a bit rounded, and wrinkles creased their faces. As they neared the altar, they stood side by side, the rest of us gathered behind. The trio marched forward and laid the floral tribute between the Christian cross and the Star of David.  The three men snapped to attention, standing taller than they had in years and saluted the soldier lying in the angel’s arms. For one magic moment, they were young soldiers again. Even these many years later, they shared a common bond.

The gentle breeze of only moments earlier turned stronger, and the now-frantic rustling of the leaves surrounded us on both sides of the open-air chapel as we were invited to sing our national anthem. One or two people began slowly, and soon others joined in.

I tried to sing, but the emotion of the moment rose up and blocked my throat so thoroughly, I could not have sung had my life depended on it. Instead, I listened to the strong words of the song that is the pride of our nation.

As we retraced our steps through the cemetery, passing row upon row of graves, I thought of what so many Americans had sacrificed during the war fought on foreign shores during my childhood years. Lives were lost and families grieved, but others lived freely because of it.

I thought of a well-known quote that seemed to fit this small cemetery. All gave some, some gave all.