Moving through the crowd with my parents, I search for the best vantage spot. Crowds are already gathered, but most of them are in lawn chairs. We will stand. We find a place, nice and clear, and stand in anticipation. I watch the group of men near us; they're chatting, smiling, shaking hands, calling each other "brother" and "man" and last names. There's still an air of anxiousness that hangs over them. An older, yet still spry man comes by, carrying the familiar walking stick. He stops, speaks to the group of men right in front of us, then moves farther down the road, past where I can see.
Dammit.
"Mom, Mom," I say, batting at her arm like a child. "They're down there; the line starts down there."
"Where, where?" she answers, nearly as excited. I point, totally unmannered, and we hurry down the sidewalk, excusing ourselves to the mothers with strollers and the retirees holding dogs' leashes. We find another spot, and feel the heat of the sun after our short rush. I glance around, checking to be sure we're at the front of the line. I think we are.
In a few minutes, a man climbs into the open-sided jeep in front of us. A young man, too young actually, climbs in beside him, and I suspect he's some sort of medical attendant. He looks uncomfortable, like he doesn't think he deserves this place and the attention. The jeep driver starts the engine, and Dad grins.
"That jeep, she purrs," he chuckles. I smile at him, but I'm already feeling my throat tightening.
Then, I hear music from our left, down the street. All of us, sitting or standing, crane our necks, swiveling for the best view. A line of five comes down the street, followed by a line of three. Two of them, on the ends, carry rifles; the rest carry flags. My eyes blur, but just for a minute. There's a lull, and the crowd stirs with restlessness and expectation. The spry older man steps into the middle of the street and gazes down, waiting for a signal. He turns and says something to the others, and they shift almost as one. A group files out from the side of the street, to our right, then the man in the middle of the street nods, and waves his hand.
And it begins. The jeep pulls out, hauling the trailer with the old familiar bell and the sign.
At the end of the war in 1945, bells rang all over Maine.
Beside me, my father takes off his hat and starts the applause with a loud steady clap, and my mother and I join him. Around us, I hear others clapping, too, and I barely see the people in the lawn chairs around us rising to their feet. Mostly what I see is the men on the road.
And I cry as I watch them.
They're older men, the same ages my grandfathers would be. Many of them wear baseball hats with words emblazoned across the front; some of them wear the hats of their military branches. Each of them carries the smooth light-colored wooden walking stick with the flags and design. Though they're stooped with age and pain, wearing suspenders to keep their pants at their waists, their steps are measured and sure. They've done longer marches than this; they've walked harder roads than this. I can imagine them, as young men, younger than I am now, full of life and vigor and recklessness, marching out onto the new ground.
We'll send 'em back where they belong. I can see them, terrified out of their minds, face first in a muddy hole, clutching photos or letters or medallions. There's a woman marching in the front row, clutching hands with a man next to her, and I wonder if I could ever be so strong as she, white-haired and wrinkled as she is. I think of the terror of an entire world at war, a war that was concentrated on the shoulders of men young enough to be college students, yet old enough to leave wives and children at home. I wonder about their families, their stories. I watch the men they are today walk by, as straight as their old bones will let them stand, and I cry harder as the last one passes.
Right behind them is another banner, another group of men. They're a little younger, the ages of my uncles, though some of them are stooped with pains other than age. They walk just as proudly, just as strong, as the men before them. They're waving more then the others, smiling a little more, but their eyes are still haunted. Their walking sticks are the same size and shape, but the flag pattern is a little different. Over half of these men wear the black shirts with the white words and outlined silhouette.
You are not forgotten. I wonder how many of them are still waiting for a partner, a brother, a buddy to come home from the prisons. Though their fight was shorter, less global, I know it was just as horrible. I think of the new and terrible weapons these men used and experienced, the fear and confusion of smoke-filled jungles, and I shiver for them. I ache when I think of the confusion, the reproachful near-betrayal they felt when their government acted embarrassed of the effort they'd made. My tears flow just as freely for them, too.
There's another group coming, the largest so far. These men are the strongest, outwardly, and the youngest, but many of them walk with limps or lean too hard on their walking sticks. Some of them walk straight and proud, but many of them look nearly embarrassed to be there. I know why, and I feel angry at a world, a country, that spat on them when they were weakest. Like the others, these men did what they were told to do, fought and bled and watched their comrades die. They left wives and babies, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters and cousins, and
home. I imagine them, young, strong, confident in their victory . . . and I see their shock when it never came. I see their joy when they were told the war was won, they were told they could go home. And I cringe at the shock and confusion when they came home to neighbors who screamed the ugly words at them--
baby-killer!--and strangers who burnt the flag that'd been so precious to the men over the sea.
Make love, not war. It's been within my memory that they've been allowed, requested, to march, and I remember many faces from that first year, when we spilt out onto the sidewalks and clapped until our hands hurt, trying to make right the wrongs done to them those many years ago. I weep, knowing that, really, nothing will ever erase that burning betrayal of the past.
Now a small group marches past, only a handful, really. Only a few of them are in civilian dress; the rest are still in their ACUs and combat boots. There is a noticeable number of women in their group. They're wearing sunglasses, mostly, and have their sleeves rolled up. I know that their wives, husbands, and little children are probably watching from sidewalks somewhere close by.
Always ready, always there. I know that they have no time to bask in the applause and salutes and cheers. In the next few months, weeks, even days maybe, most of them will be redeployed, sent out to arid shining lands where any beauty is erased by the blazing sun. I imagine the sunburns, the cracked lips, the constant thirst. They're engaging with the crowd the most, and I meet their eyes with my own tear-filled ones.
The buses are here, and I raise my head, tipping my face to squint up into the windows. They've started putting a sign on the sides--
Veterans--because people used to ignore the buses, stop clapping, sit down. This year, there's a man standing on the steps of each vehicle, waving at us. Their eyes are still sharp, mostly, and each one of them clutches the walking stick in his hand. These are men and women whose bodies no longer have the capability to walk the relatively-short route, the ones who have physically suffered the most. And yet here they are, waving little flags and wearing the hats and smiling down at us. One man is so hunched from age and pain that he can barely peep over the edge of the window, but his crumpled little hand still feebly waves the flag he fought for.
God bless America, boys. I wave back, doing my best to smile through my tears.
And then, the buses are gone, taking the last of these soldiers with them. I wipe away my tears, get a drink, look around shyly at the people around me. Most of the others have gone back to their chairs, are chatting with the people beside them. My father puts his hat back on, and the parade flows past us like nothing happened.
I look at the ground. A few last tears trickle down my face as I swallow the lump still in my throat, my heart still somewhere on a battlefield. I think I can hear the soldiers whispering.
Ora pro nóbis peccatóribus, nunc et in hóra mórtis nóstrae; Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our deaths . . . Shema, Israel, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai echad; Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One . . . Bismillāhi r-rahmāni r-rahīm; In the name of God, the most beneficent, the most merciful . . . Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name . . . Oh, God, don't let me die here!
I see the smoke, hear the screams, smell the gunpowder, feel the explosions, taste the the bitter terror as if it were my own. It roars and roars until everything seems black.
I blink and glance up. The sun is still shining, and I am standing next to my parents. The children behind and in front of me are squealing and laughing at the floats passing by, and I feel the day rolling on, too.
But I know that next year, I will stand, and I will applaud, and I will cry for these soldiers again. And, I find, I am glad for the tears, because they mean I have not forgotten. I don't think I could forget, even if I wanted to.
And I know I will never stop crying when, once more, the soldiers march on by.
