My father-in-law spoke very little, was not a man for small talk. The sixteen years of Monday night dinners I came to call "The Longest Hour." But he would get going on the war–the big one–WWII. His face would light up and he’d tell of the cold, the finagling for food and cigarettes, the devastation of Europe’s cities, the landing at Normandy. He’d break into songs played by Glenn Miller, or sit in his car in the driveway listening until the CD stopped before he’d struggle out and shuffle in to visit.
As he lay in the flag-draped casket, the big bands played for him one last time. "Hold That Tiger" caused some giggling, but it was so very much him. At the cemetary, old men in uniform, stood straight and tall, though some amount of belly hung over their belts, as proud of their military service as he was. Shots were fired, piercing the morning with their short bursts of life. Solemn salutes to the man who was one of their own, a brother in service to the U.S. of A. The quiet folding of the flag which was given to my husband as the eldest son. "Amazing Grace" drifted over the hills from a bagpipe, and the bugle played Taps.
War is never a good thing, but when it becomes a necessity to defend and protect, and when there are men who proudly step up to offer their lives in answer, it is an example of caring and brotherhood that no amount of useless talk can replace.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology