At the entrance to Cypress Hills National Cemetery, Brooklyn, a group of boy scouts were standing to attention and awaiting orders from their scoutmaster. Two of the boys, Thomas Gregson and William Rush, were starting to tire of the wait. Each held an armful of miniature American flags to be placed on the graves within. Today was the day when the nation honored all those who had fallen in the service of the U.S. Armed Forces – on the last Monday of May each year, a day of mourning was held to celebrate their memory. It was a federal holiday, and a day of celebration. Thomas Gregson was proud to enter the giant cemetery. He was eager to walk amidst the silence of the dead, to wander among the gravestones as he stuck an American flag into the dirt that lay above each soldier. William Rush felt otherwise. The vastness of the cemetery and its long rows of dead souls frightened him. It spoke to him of the brutality of war, and the suffering of the soldiers buried in Cypress Hills. The scoutmaster waited for the custodian to open the cemetery gates. Standing in a line, the scouts chatted amongst themselves.
“One day, I'll join the Marines. I’ll have a bunk on board a battleship that’s named after a president,” boasted Thomas Gregson. “Someday, I’ll carry a rifle or a machine gun. I'll defend my country, whatever the cause.”
“You’re all talk, Tommy!” retorted William Rush. “You gotta train for months to get into the Army. Years, even! They never let you rest. And you gotta take orders all the time. You trying to tell me you aren’t scared of dying?”
“Only thing I’m scared of is dying for some dumb reason, instead of serving my country. Give me the Army any day. That way, if I die I’ll be buried in a nice place like this.”
“You’re weird, you know that?” said William. “Death is scary. You can’t breathe when you’re underground. You’re just dust under all that dirt.”
“Man comes from dust, and unto dust he shall return,” replied Thomas Gregson defiantly. “You aren’t gonna live forever, Billy. Same as everyone.”
“Gregson, Rush, that’s enough! Keep it quiet, let’s have a little respect for the dead,” growled the scoutmaster.
The gravekeeper arrived, and the heavy gates scraped over the gravel. The scouts entered, led by the scoutmaster. Thomas Gregson and William Rush headed to the graves of the soldiers who had died during the Civil War, where the lines of white stone stretched as far as they could see. Their task was to plant an American flag on the grave of each man who’d died in combat. William Rush held the flags while his fellow scout planted them in the moist earth. Silence hung over the cemetery. A feeling of mingled joy and pain came over the two boys.
“I don’t see any girls’ names,” William observed.
“Girls don’t fight in wars, they start them!” insisted Thomas, planting a flag.
“These men died over a hundred years ago...”
“It was during the Civil War, when the Confederates fought the Union. The whole country got trashed, and thousands died on both sides.”
“See, I told you it was easy to get killed,” sighed William Rush.
“It’s not like that anymore! Now they got machine guns and all kinds of weapons in war. Like the guys who are fighting the Communists in Vietnam.”
The day had come to an end for the young scouts. Their hands were blackened by the soil, their minds swimming with emotion. William Rush planted his last flag, and the scoutmaster waved them back over to the gates. Thomas Gregson waited as his friend stood up, set his hand on his breast, and took off his cap. Thomas Gregson knelt. Humbly, William Rush murmured: “We remember you, we honor you, and we love you. We thank you humbly for your service. Our thanks is not enough for everything you went through. We pray that you will live on in the memories of your families and loved ones. We pray that your hurts and battle scars will be healed for eternity through God’s grace. We pray that you will finally find rest, and know that those you leave behind cherish your memory, honor your commitment, and will never forget your sacrifice.”
Alan Alfredo Geday
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