Some Photos in Honor of Memorial Day
As most everyone who follows this blog knows, we recently traveled across the country by rail. While we were in San Francisco, we stayed on an old Army post named The Presidio where I felt more at home than I have since retiring (more on that later in another blog entry). There were many interesting sites to see on this old post including many spectacular and scenic views. On our last day residing on this beautiful, scenic, historic and memorable property, we spent a good portion of the day visiting the National Cemetery which is located within The Presidio grounds.
As anyone would imagine, anytime we visit a veteran's cemetery or National Cemetery, I'm vividly reminded of my Air Force Honor Guard days. As a team chief, I managed and conducted more than 300 funerals during my three year tour. I could write a book solely on my experiences with this outstanding team of men and women and many of these colorful yet somber memories flashed through my mind while strolling through this hillside cemetery on this day.
These memories are not only of my team but also of the families of the fallen servicemen and women we were honoring in each of these military funerals. The memories are of some of those airmen who were personal friends. The memories were mostly somber but sometimes hilarious.
How can something be hilarious at a military funeral? Well when, in the middle of Taps, the bugler loses his footing on the icy hillside and then slides down the hill to the bottom on his own bottom. He then gets up on his feet again as gracefully as one possibly could under these circumstances and continues to play 'Taps' from right where it was surprisingly interrupted. Or, when one of the pallbearers loses his footing on the green carpeted draped plank over the open grave and has to grab ahold of something (the flag-draped casket) to keep from disappearing into the open grave under the casket. Or, when that plank suddenly stops springing under our feet and unexpectedly snaps in two. Or, when sitting at attention in the church during the funeral and you have to hold back a sneeze... for two hours... while remaining perfectly silent and still. Or, on a frigid wintry day when the wind chill is -20° and you must remain steady, perfectly still and at attention without showing any signs of shivering while you stand in calf deep snow in your dress shoes and only your dress uniform as the wind cuts through your uniform and your feet feel like solid blocks of ice. Or, on a hot and humid day when you have a cloud of mosquitoes swarming around your head and you still must remain perfectly silent, still and at attention. Of course, we were always professional and maintained our composure in front of the family. The laughing about these situations only happened, afterward, the moment we got back into the privacy of our van. And, the much needed laughter continues today whenever I recall these and many other incidents.
On this day in San Francisco, we slowly made our way, uphill, to the top end of the National Cemetery overlooking San Francisco Bay...
As I stood there in this cemetery at The Presidio, surrounded by perfectly uniform and meticulously aligned white gravestones, flashes of all these funerals from my past replayed in my memory as though I were there again. I could hear echoes of bagpipes playing 'Amazing Grace'... I could hear bugles playing 'Taps'... I could hear the clicks of heels on pavement... I could hear commands being barked out in a language only a close knit team would understand... I could hear sharp volleys from rifles echoing across the hillside... and I could hear and feel the grief of family members and friends of those who have passed.
I'm relentlessly bombarded with flashes of entire grieving family after grieving family in cemeteries just like this one. I hear the click of perfectly timed heels kissing the pavement in unison as the pallbearers approach the hearse. I see myself steadily and purposefully approach the hearse, splitting my pallbearers, three on each side, as my own clicking heels break the silence.
I remember the feel of the flag-draped casket as my gloved hand purposefully reaches down and firmly grasps the handle on the end of the casket... I step backward, one step at a time, the only thing audible is my heels clicking on the pavement below my dress shoes. One deliberate step at a time, I pull our fallen brother or sister out of the hearse. On the first step backward, I am even with the first pair of pallbearers... I step backward again, click, click, and now even with the second pair of pallbearers... I step backward again, click, click, and now I am even with the third pair of pallbearers... I step back one more time, click, click, and now the six pallbearers can secure the casket in their own grip at the exact same moment in time.
It is now time for me to physically release my grip of this casket one last time. My right hand slowly comes back to my side in a tight fist. My motion is slow and deliberate. I take one more step backward, click, bring my heels together, click... I slowly raise my right hand to the visor of my cover (hat) in a fluid slow motion salute... my hand and forearm perfectly straight as though I had no wrist, palm facing toward my chin, honorably saluting our fallen brother or sister one last time.
I close this salute with a quick snap of my white-gloved right hand to my side into a tight fist. I sharply face right 90°, bringing my heels together with a sharp click... then another right face 90° with another sharp click of my heels as I bring my feet together. We never do an 'about-face' to a fallen brother or sister... always two right turns instead... an 'about-face' is too much like turning your back on the fallen.
In unison, we then methodically make our way toward the grave... one step at a time... seven heels hitting the pavement, one step at a time... almost unbearably slowly, one step at a time... until we reach the grass and the steel plates on our heels can no longer be heard. We still travel one step at a time but now there is unbearable silence... the only things breaking the silence are the muffled sniffling and sobs of the family. Even in the silence, there is still a rhythm to our footsteps but the rhythm has turned from audible to visible only.
As I stand here at The Presidio looking across this hilly National Cemetery overlooking the San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge, I see ghostly visions of my Honor Guard team making our way toward an open grave. Then I see my pallbearers holding the flag level and tight above the casket as the wind attempts to ruffle it out of their slippery white silk gloved hands.
I can hear the echoing words of sorrow and even enlightenment administered by Chaplain after Chaplain in this quiet solitary place among the stones. I then remember that while the Chaplain is consoling the family with his service, this is the time when I would discreetly make my way back to my firing party away from the family. My team and I would stoically remain perfectly still until the Chaplain closed his or her comforting words to the family.
I'm physically separated from the family now which is a rarity for the Team Chief. From this vantage point, I can see my entire team including a lone bugler standing off in the distance on an opposing hillside of the cemetery. Although only a ghost haunting my memory, I can see him standing at attention, perfectly straight in a sharp uniform with his bugle neatly tucked under his arm.
I imagine what it would be like to once again bark out, "Firing Party... Ah-tenn... HUH". I hear the snap of the M1 Garand rifles as the firing party snaps their bodies and weapons to attention. As I bark more commands, the Firing Party methodically and rhythmically readies their weapons to fire in synchronized, almost robotic steps... there is a distinct rhythm to this that my entire team can feel even without verbal commands.
I order the first volley... "FIRE!" A loud volley of seven rifles rings out across the cemetery sharply breaking the silence and echoing off each distant hill. Even though the family and friends gathered are expecting this volley of rifles, they are still suddenly startled out of what little bit of composure they had managed to grasp up until this point. They visibly jump as a result of this shockingly loud volley of seven rifles. This deafening surprise always evokes even more grief as though the firing party had begun to break through that wall that was barely holding the grief back... each subsequent volley breaks through more of that wall and the grief flows from the family as though a dam burst.
Whenever I even think of those rifle volleys, I can still smell the gunpowder and hear the empty shells discharging from the rifles in unison. It is a distinctive smell and a distinctive sound. I can also hear and see visions of families stricken with unbearable grief.
At this point, I would bark out a command for all the military members on that hillside... "Present... ARMS!"
Even though, on this day, this large cemetery at The Presidio is quiet with only the chirping of birds heard and devoid of all humans other than myself, Sheila, Will and Sue, in my head, I hear the haunting echo of Taps in my head... my memories envision a bugler standing off in the distance... the distance is what helps provide this haunting echo. I see a flash of my team in my memory... as a whole as well as one by one... I can envision each member... I can envision the face of every friend who has passed... I even remember their names with unusual clarity after all these decades as a result of all this cognitive stimuli I'm now experiencing even though I had difficulty remembering the same yesterday without this stimuli.
As 'Taps' echoes through my recurring memories as I stand on this hillside, I look toward San Francisco Bay and I swear I can see aircraft approaching. Their silent approach is timed perfectly with and almost overshadowed by the playing of 'Taps'. As they roar over our heads, we can feel these beautiful, graceful birds roar and vibrate deep within our chests, touching our souls, connecting our souls. As they roar past us, one aircraft representing our deceased brother or sister peels away from the rest and gracefully ascends upward, quickly becoming a tiny dot in the expansive sky until it disappears somewhere up in the heavens.
I remember that this is when I would discreetly pick up three empty rifle shells... still hot empty rifle shells... one representing each volley but also representing "Duty, Honor, and Country". I would wrap my fist firmly around these three shells as I would make my way back to the family and my pallbearers. The palm of my white gloves would now be stained with gunpowder residue.
As I would approach the pallbearers and the family again, the silence of each beautiful garden of stone would slowly fade and sounds other than my Honor Guard team would grow again. This time, as I would draw closer to the family, these growing sounds were the sounds of the family's grief escaping their souls in sobs and wretches as they would try to regain their composure. I would slip into the middle of the family, next to the casket and my pallbearers as the pallbearers were folding the flag. Before the last fold of the flag was tucked in, I would approach and insert the three empty shells into the mostly folded flag ensuring they will not ever fall out of the folded flag. Two pallbearers would finish folding the flag into a tight triangle before the head pallbearer would present the flag to me.
With the folded flag cradled securely in my arms, the head pall bearer would salute this flag, smoothly, in slow motion yet with crisp starts and stops. I would then approach the next of kin who was usually a spouse, sometimes a parent and, on rare occasions, a child.
I've done this so many times... approaching grieving spouses, grieving mothers, grieving fathers, grieving children, grieving grandparents, grieving brothers and sisters... then slowly crouching down onto my right knee... trying to keep my right knee and my dress uniform out of the mud below but appearing as though I am fully down on that knee. Being down on that knee is the deepest and most sincere sign of respect. I would look the next of kin in the eyes and respectfully tell them, "On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Air Force and a grateful nation, I present this flag as a symbol of..." As I would recite my gratitude and respect while presenting this flag, the next of kin would oftentimes fall apart to pieces. I would continue on and then slowly, steadily stand at attention and render a salute in slow motion.
I've been an active part of more than 300 of these military funerals and they are in the forefront of my thoughts on most days but definitely so throughout Memorial Day weekend. Naturally, this is especially so whenever we visit a national cemetery or veteran's cemetery such as this beautiful one overlooking the San Francisco Bay at The Presidio. During visits such as this one, I see ghosts of funerals past... I can hear ghosts of funerals past... I again smell gunpowder, pungent flowers and the clean smell of our starched dress uniforms... I can feel every part of these funerals seemingly with all of my senses as though they are happening right now.
Most importantly, with the utmost of respect and honor, I will always remember these military funerals and all those brothers and sisters to whom I've had to say goodbye.
As anyone would imagine, anytime we visit a veteran's cemetery or National Cemetery, I'm vividly reminded of my Air Force Honor Guard days. As a team chief, I managed and conducted more than 300 funerals during my three year tour. I could write a book solely on my experiences with this outstanding team of men and women and many of these colorful yet somber memories flashed through my mind while strolling through this hillside cemetery on this day.
These memories are not only of my team but also of the families of the fallen servicemen and women we were honoring in each of these military funerals. The memories are of some of those airmen who were personal friends. The memories were mostly somber but sometimes hilarious.
How can something be hilarious at a military funeral? Well when, in the middle of Taps, the bugler loses his footing on the icy hillside and then slides down the hill to the bottom on his own bottom. He then gets up on his feet again as gracefully as one possibly could under these circumstances and continues to play 'Taps' from right where it was surprisingly interrupted. Or, when one of the pallbearers loses his footing on the green carpeted draped plank over the open grave and has to grab ahold of something (the flag-draped casket) to keep from disappearing into the open grave under the casket. Or, when that plank suddenly stops springing under our feet and unexpectedly snaps in two. Or, when sitting at attention in the church during the funeral and you have to hold back a sneeze... for two hours... while remaining perfectly silent and still. Or, on a frigid wintry day when the wind chill is -20° and you must remain steady, perfectly still and at attention without showing any signs of shivering while you stand in calf deep snow in your dress shoes and only your dress uniform as the wind cuts through your uniform and your feet feel like solid blocks of ice. Or, on a hot and humid day when you have a cloud of mosquitoes swarming around your head and you still must remain perfectly silent, still and at attention. Of course, we were always professional and maintained our composure in front of the family. The laughing about these situations only happened, afterward, the moment we got back into the privacy of our van. And, the much needed laughter continues today whenever I recall these and many other incidents.
On this day in San Francisco, we slowly made our way, uphill, to the top end of the National Cemetery overlooking San Francisco Bay...
As I stood there in this cemetery at The Presidio, surrounded by perfectly uniform and meticulously aligned white gravestones, flashes of all these funerals from my past replayed in my memory as though I were there again. I could hear echoes of bagpipes playing 'Amazing Grace'... I could hear bugles playing 'Taps'... I could hear the clicks of heels on pavement... I could hear commands being barked out in a language only a close knit team would understand... I could hear sharp volleys from rifles echoing across the hillside... and I could hear and feel the grief of family members and friends of those who have passed.
I'm relentlessly bombarded with flashes of entire grieving family after grieving family in cemeteries just like this one. I hear the click of perfectly timed heels kissing the pavement in unison as the pallbearers approach the hearse. I see myself steadily and purposefully approach the hearse, splitting my pallbearers, three on each side, as my own clicking heels break the silence.
I remember the feel of the flag-draped casket as my gloved hand purposefully reaches down and firmly grasps the handle on the end of the casket... I step backward, one step at a time, the only thing audible is my heels clicking on the pavement below my dress shoes. One deliberate step at a time, I pull our fallen brother or sister out of the hearse. On the first step backward, I am even with the first pair of pallbearers... I step backward again, click, click, and now even with the second pair of pallbearers... I step backward again, click, click, and now I am even with the third pair of pallbearers... I step back one more time, click, click, and now the six pallbearers can secure the casket in their own grip at the exact same moment in time.
It is now time for me to physically release my grip of this casket one last time. My right hand slowly comes back to my side in a tight fist. My motion is slow and deliberate. I take one more step backward, click, bring my heels together, click... I slowly raise my right hand to the visor of my cover (hat) in a fluid slow motion salute... my hand and forearm perfectly straight as though I had no wrist, palm facing toward my chin, honorably saluting our fallen brother or sister one last time.
I close this salute with a quick snap of my white-gloved right hand to my side into a tight fist. I sharply face right 90°, bringing my heels together with a sharp click... then another right face 90° with another sharp click of my heels as I bring my feet together. We never do an 'about-face' to a fallen brother or sister... always two right turns instead... an 'about-face' is too much like turning your back on the fallen.
In unison, we then methodically make our way toward the grave... one step at a time... seven heels hitting the pavement, one step at a time... almost unbearably slowly, one step at a time... until we reach the grass and the steel plates on our heels can no longer be heard. We still travel one step at a time but now there is unbearable silence... the only things breaking the silence are the muffled sniffling and sobs of the family. Even in the silence, there is still a rhythm to our footsteps but the rhythm has turned from audible to visible only.
As I stand here at The Presidio looking across this hilly National Cemetery overlooking the San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge, I see ghostly visions of my Honor Guard team making our way toward an open grave. Then I see my pallbearers holding the flag level and tight above the casket as the wind attempts to ruffle it out of their slippery white silk gloved hands.
I can hear the echoing words of sorrow and even enlightenment administered by Chaplain after Chaplain in this quiet solitary place among the stones. I then remember that while the Chaplain is consoling the family with his service, this is the time when I would discreetly make my way back to my firing party away from the family. My team and I would stoically remain perfectly still until the Chaplain closed his or her comforting words to the family.
I'm physically separated from the family now which is a rarity for the Team Chief. From this vantage point, I can see my entire team including a lone bugler standing off in the distance on an opposing hillside of the cemetery. Although only a ghost haunting my memory, I can see him standing at attention, perfectly straight in a sharp uniform with his bugle neatly tucked under his arm.
I imagine what it would be like to once again bark out, "Firing Party... Ah-tenn... HUH". I hear the snap of the M1 Garand rifles as the firing party snaps their bodies and weapons to attention. As I bark more commands, the Firing Party methodically and rhythmically readies their weapons to fire in synchronized, almost robotic steps... there is a distinct rhythm to this that my entire team can feel even without verbal commands.
I order the first volley... "FIRE!" A loud volley of seven rifles rings out across the cemetery sharply breaking the silence and echoing off each distant hill. Even though the family and friends gathered are expecting this volley of rifles, they are still suddenly startled out of what little bit of composure they had managed to grasp up until this point. They visibly jump as a result of this shockingly loud volley of seven rifles. This deafening surprise always evokes even more grief as though the firing party had begun to break through that wall that was barely holding the grief back... each subsequent volley breaks through more of that wall and the grief flows from the family as though a dam burst.
Whenever I even think of those rifle volleys, I can still smell the gunpowder and hear the empty shells discharging from the rifles in unison. It is a distinctive smell and a distinctive sound. I can also hear and see visions of families stricken with unbearable grief.
At this point, I would bark out a command for all the military members on that hillside... "Present... ARMS!"
Even though, on this day, this large cemetery at The Presidio is quiet with only the chirping of birds heard and devoid of all humans other than myself, Sheila, Will and Sue, in my head, I hear the haunting echo of Taps in my head... my memories envision a bugler standing off in the distance... the distance is what helps provide this haunting echo. I see a flash of my team in my memory... as a whole as well as one by one... I can envision each member... I can envision the face of every friend who has passed... I even remember their names with unusual clarity after all these decades as a result of all this cognitive stimuli I'm now experiencing even though I had difficulty remembering the same yesterday without this stimuli.
As 'Taps' echoes through my recurring memories as I stand on this hillside, I look toward San Francisco Bay and I swear I can see aircraft approaching. Their silent approach is timed perfectly with and almost overshadowed by the playing of 'Taps'. As they roar over our heads, we can feel these beautiful, graceful birds roar and vibrate deep within our chests, touching our souls, connecting our souls. As they roar past us, one aircraft representing our deceased brother or sister peels away from the rest and gracefully ascends upward, quickly becoming a tiny dot in the expansive sky until it disappears somewhere up in the heavens.
 |
| There are more than a whole page of Mahers buried in this National Cemetery. |
I remember that this is when I would discreetly pick up three empty rifle shells... still hot empty rifle shells... one representing each volley but also representing "Duty, Honor, and Country". I would wrap my fist firmly around these three shells as I would make my way back to the family and my pallbearers. The palm of my white gloves would now be stained with gunpowder residue.
As I would approach the pallbearers and the family again, the silence of each beautiful garden of stone would slowly fade and sounds other than my Honor Guard team would grow again. This time, as I would draw closer to the family, these growing sounds were the sounds of the family's grief escaping their souls in sobs and wretches as they would try to regain their composure. I would slip into the middle of the family, next to the casket and my pallbearers as the pallbearers were folding the flag. Before the last fold of the flag was tucked in, I would approach and insert the three empty shells into the mostly folded flag ensuring they will not ever fall out of the folded flag. Two pallbearers would finish folding the flag into a tight triangle before the head pallbearer would present the flag to me.
With the folded flag cradled securely in my arms, the head pall bearer would salute this flag, smoothly, in slow motion yet with crisp starts and stops. I would then approach the next of kin who was usually a spouse, sometimes a parent and, on rare occasions, a child.
I've done this so many times... approaching grieving spouses, grieving mothers, grieving fathers, grieving children, grieving grandparents, grieving brothers and sisters... then slowly crouching down onto my right knee... trying to keep my right knee and my dress uniform out of the mud below but appearing as though I am fully down on that knee. Being down on that knee is the deepest and most sincere sign of respect. I would look the next of kin in the eyes and respectfully tell them, "On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Air Force and a grateful nation, I present this flag as a symbol of..." As I would recite my gratitude and respect while presenting this flag, the next of kin would oftentimes fall apart to pieces. I would continue on and then slowly, steadily stand at attention and render a salute in slow motion.
I've been an active part of more than 300 of these military funerals and they are in the forefront of my thoughts on most days but definitely so throughout Memorial Day weekend. Naturally, this is especially so whenever we visit a national cemetery or veteran's cemetery such as this beautiful one overlooking the San Francisco Bay at The Presidio. During visits such as this one, I see ghosts of funerals past... I can hear ghosts of funerals past... I again smell gunpowder, pungent flowers and the clean smell of our starched dress uniforms... I can feel every part of these funerals seemingly with all of my senses as though they are happening right now.
Most importantly, with the utmost of respect and honor, I will always remember these military funerals and all those brothers and sisters to whom I've had to say goodbye.
Comments
Post a Comment