A Memorial Day Telling

Once upon a time, I was an Army servicewoman. I had enlisted shortly before Persian Gulf Conflict #1, but as a female, it was a certainty that I would never see “action”. During the midst of the troubles, I had managed to score some leave time and flew home to see my parents.

I packed very light. The only formal wear I had were my dress greens, which I wore on the flight. They were very glad to see me, and whisked me straight from the airport to dinner at a (then) upscale restaurant. I begged for time to change into different clothes, but they were insistent I wear the uniform. My veteran father was proud to see me in them, so I did my filial duty and wore them proudly for him.

The restaurant was packed that day, with wait times up to 2 hours. Of course, my parents did not make reservations. Perfect time to go home and change, right? I noticed the crowd eying my uniform, and was a bit uneasy about it. I remember my father’s stories of how uniformed servicemen were publicly treated in the 70’s. I heard whispers all around me. “Army”, “woman”, “active”, “one of them”, “do you think”.

My father returned to where my mother and I were sitting, asking if we wanted to catch a quick movie or do some sightseeing before dinner. Our wait time was easily two and a half hours. They really wanted to treat me to a formal dinner, I really wanted to wear real clothes. As they discussed the options, an elderly man stepped out of the crowd towards me.

“Excuse me, Private.” The demeanor and tone of voice spoke to my training. I stood up. “Sir, yes Sir.”

He smiled. “Have you been waiting long, Private?” “Sir, we just arrived, Sir.”

“Fresh on leave?” “Sir, yes Sir.”

He smiled again. “I have a table for you and your family, Private. Please, escort them this way.” I stared dumbly at him for a moment. Then turned to my parents, who wore surprised and amused looks. My mother whispered that he had been here waiting also, it wasn’t fair to take his table.

I turned back to him to politely decline. But as I opened my mouth to speak… “Private, you’re not about to disobey a direct order from an officer, are you?” My mouth snapped shut. I blinked in furious thought. “Sir, with all respect sir, my parents express concern that they are taking your reservation, Sir. They do not wish to deprive you of your wait in line, Sir.”

The elderly man smiled. He had a tear in his eye, fighting to remain upright. “I was supposed to take my son to dinner today. He is active duty, same as you. My wife…” He gestured to a bravely smiling elderly woman standing a few steps behind him. “My wife insisted we come to dinner as planned.” He sighed, deeply. “But just going through the motions won’t bring him home. Do you understand?”

As the meaning of his words rippled through the crowd around us, I saw people turning away with tears. A few put hands on his wife’s shoulder, in sympathy. I hear my mother sighing as well. I understood.

I saluted him, despite no appearance of rank on his civilian clothes. “Sir, it would be an honor for me to honor your son in this manner.” The words sounded so damn hollow, but it was all I could think of. He returned the salute.

Silently, he led my family and me to the reservation podium. The manager of the restaurant was waiting for us. The manager told the retired officer, that his table for ready for him and his wife. When the retired officer attempted to tell the manager that we would be taking the table instead, the manager said loudly, “And the table for the Private and her parents are prepared as well.” The crowd began clapping. I heard a few say “This is worth waiting extra for.” My mother asked the retired officer and his wife to join us. Military family and all. But they declined. So, we went to our table. My mother’s damp face between my and my father’s stoic desert.

Gossip runs through a packed restaurant very fast. Throughout our dinner, random people would walk by our table, and place roses or carnations beside my and my mother’s plate. Discreet envelopes and folded papers would find their way into my father’s coat pocket. A young girl came up to me, and asked was it hard being a soldier. I told her it was, but it was worth it to me. She said, “When I grow up, I want to be a strong lady like you are!”

But I’m not a strong lady. I wanted to say. I’m scared, and barely out of high school, and I know that while not in a combat position, my specialty was in high demand in the conflict areas. I was barely E-3, I didn’t deserve the recognition and roses and accolades and admiration of little children and fleeting hugs of surviving retirees. I was a kid myself, playing war. What the hell was I doing?!

“I’m sure you will!” I told her with my biggest fake smile. She grinned back, gave me a hug, and ran back to her parents, skipping on air. I looked at her parents. Her mother mouthed “thank you”, her father just nodded at me.

I turned back to my now empty plate, which was being exchanged for a slice of cheesecake with strawberries and chocolate drizzle. I looked up in askance, I had not ordered dessert. The manager himself was serving us, with 2 servers assisting him. He quietly told my father, “You will not be receiving a check for tonight’s dinner, Sir. Your family’s dinner and dessert has been paid in full already. The cash balance of the receipt is in the envelope under your plate. Walk with pride, Sir, it has been a pleasure and an honor to host you, your wife, and one of America’s Daughters.”

My father looked up at the manager, who seemed to have blinded by the glare off the plates. They nodded at each other. I didn’t deserve this treatment. I was ashamed of it. I couldn’t touch the cheesecake. My father leaned over and whispered in my ear.

“Tonight, you are not my daughter. You are the daughter of every soldier’s parent. You are the embodiment of their hope that their son will return alive. You are the keeper of their son’s oath to protect this country. Eat it. Eat it and as you do, think of your fellow servicemen. Because if they were here, they would think of you.”

I dug into the cheesecake with delicious abandon. Despite feeling quite stuffed, I made sure the plate was clean. I thought of those that I personally knew had gone into active combat zones. I thought of those that had not returned. I thought of the retired officer and his homage to his son. I thought of all the near miss stories my own father had told me during his service in the Navy. I didn’t deserve this treatment. So in the name of my fellow servicemen and servicewomen that had gone before me, I relished this treatment.

Dinner was finally over. My mother and I gathered up the several dozen flowers that had accumulated. A server brought us a wicker bread basket to carry them in. In the bottom of the basket was a gift card for the restaurant. The server whispered, “You’ll probably never meet my brother, but if you do, punch him for me.” She smiled as she said it. But it was a sad smile.

When we rose to our feet. The manager loudly exclaimed to all present, “Show honor!” People were suddenly on their feet. Everyone was clapping. I looked at my father, who just nodded. Knowing that I was about to break the rules, I smiled to myself. These people need something given back.

I came to attention. And saluted the crowd. “It is a pleasure and an honor to serve in the Army of the United States of America! I thank you for this privilege!”

Whistles, whoops, hollers, and more than a few salutes were returned to me. But I knew, they didn’t see me. They saw their son, husband, father, aunt, niece, cousin, best friend, fellow rider, next door neighbor. Some saw the past, some saw the future. Only a few saw the present.

The manager led us out of the restaurant. Outside, he asked for my name and my father’s name. Next time we come, would we call in advance. We would always have a table. We both declined, and went home, surrounded with flowers and notes of well wishes.

That was almost twenty years ago. I have since left the military, and am 100% civilian. We don’t talk about the incident at my parent’s house. They have most likely forgotten it.

I can’t forget.

I almost wound up attending Persian Gulf Conflict #1 first hand. Ten volunteers were needed from my unit, male or female. I was the only female to volunteer. I was told I was #11 on the list. Every time I hear of which servicemen have died recently, I think of that little girl that asked me if being a soldier was hard.

It’s Memorial Day. My father is not present for me to fuss on, he and my mother are off enjoying their retirement. My daughter knows not to ask why her mother is crying today. She knows the words of it, but doesn’t understand the impact of it.

It’s Memorial Day. There are soldiers that need to be given the recognition I didn’t deserve. Instead the media and the political parties are playing verbal ping pong. That day in the restaurant, it didn’t matter what race I am, what political party I belong to, who I was related to, or even what gender I am. All they saw was a soldier. Someone that stepped up.

It’s Memorial Day. For my brethren that still serve, in this world and the next. For those that step up and kept a-stepping. For my brothers, for my sisters, for my aunts and uncles and fathers and daughters. For those that care for the servicemen. For the doctors and surgeons and nurses that tend their wounds. For the counselors and pastors and priests that tend their hearts and souls. For the nameless guy that helped top off the veteran’s gas tank. For those that ~understand~.

I have not forgotten you. May you all receive the treasures that buoy the soul.

I salute you.


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