“… that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion: that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain …”
The noble words of Abraham Lincoln should not be considered only for the dead at Gettysburg, but for all our veterans of all our wars.
The men and women of the Armed Forces of the United States of America, who so generously gave their lives for causes they believed in, will be honored this Thursday, as we celebrate Veterans Day.
Veterans cemeteries will be decorated with small American flags, tirelessly placed on each grave of that man or woman who lost their life in the fight for our freedom.
Across this nation words will be spoken in remembrance of our departed comrades.
At the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month, Taps will sound, played by many a bugler yet to taste the fear of battle.
Silence will befall those hallowed grounds and, except for the occasional sound of flags fluttering in a breeze, tears will fall.
The silence will be interrupted by a volley of 21 guns, and with each shot fired – man, woman and child alike, for reasons unknown – will grasp the hand of the person standing beside them.
The silence will momentarily return, only to be interrupted once more.
Not by cannons or guns this time, but by the faint sound of water striking the toes of our shoes.
Names cross our minds as we remember our daily battles won and lost. We struggle with those questions which have no answers.
What is war?
Why did he die?
John Bailey, Alabama; Jack Berry, Texas; and Robert Godsey, Indiana; were friends of mine who died in Vietnam in 1967.
They were Marines, who like myself, were attached to Mike Company, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division.
Their names are engraved on the black-granite wall in Washington, D.C., where they will remain for all eternity.
These are not the only names I remember – just the ones I choose to remember.
While it has been 37 years since I served in Vietnam, 85 years have elapsed since my father returned from France and World War I.
He shared some memories of the war, but not many. He was a company messenger and a bugler, who faithfully served with the 33rd Division of the Illinois National Guard.
Like so many other veterans of World War I, he experienced the horrors of mustard gas.
World War I.
The War to End All Wars.
The war that ended at the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month.
Thursday I will remember not only my father, but all those who died for the cause of freedom.
My father, at his request, was buried in a veterans cemetery in southeast Arkansas, where he lived for half a century.
He died in 1988 at the age of 88.
Oddly enough though, and as I mentioned before, my father’s editorial obituary was written by the Pulitzer Prize winner and noted journalist, Paul Greenberg.
Written some 16 years ago, I have never been able to read his obituary in its entirety.
Today, I wish to share with the readers of this newspaper that obituary:
Taps
Larry French was a bugler and songleader, a veteran and patriot, a good fellow and good fellowshipper, a source of good cheer however severe the ravages of his 88 years, a long-time Railway Express employee and even longer railroad buff, a living repository of his country’s history and a determined preserver of his town’s past, a joiner and stayer, a Kiwanian and jolly good fellow, a lover of good times and ardent volunteer, a giver and receiver of nicknames (his was ‘So Help Me’), a colorful character and good citizen, a Mason and a defender of Armistice Day as opposed to that new-fangled tag, Veterans Day, and always a picture of completely, absorbed humanness.
He was, so help us, one of those people who make a town different, even unique.
A piece of Americana – by way of Missouri, Oklahoma, Arkansas and the Argonne – he could have stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting, a conjecture he would have recognized as high praise.
Larry French died amidst family Saturday in Richmond, Virginia, while visiting a daughter. He was buried yesterday here at home, amidst many friends. He didn’t die so much as fade away, like the bugle call, the way the ballad says old soldiers do.
Paul Greenberg, 1989
All Rights Reserved
… and that government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
Larry French, The Cannon Corner