He was slender and handsome, in just that particular handsomeness of a little boy trying hard to be a big boy. In his faultless uniform—neckerchief symmetrical, neckerchief slide perfect, patches sewn on properly—he stood with adults at the airport in Washington, D.C., and offered his hand to every red-clad veteran he encountered. “Thank you for your service,” he said.

He thanked me for my service. I wanted to thank him for his service, but I reckoned he would have no idea how the two related—the here-and-now earnestness of an eleven-year-old boy paying honor, versus the martial exploits, now barely recalled, of a seventy-nine-year-old man.

Never mind. It’s the thought that counts. My eyes welled.

#

I was a Boy Scout myself. 

One night Troop 27 camped at Lily Lake Public Hunting and Fishing Grounds, a favored site. Billy Harff and I had been sent out to gather firewood for a troop campfire. We had found few promising branches on the ground.

In the dark, Billy took a swing at a thick tree trunk with his hand axe. The axe-head glanced off the tough bark and bit Billy’s leg, just below the knee. “I think I’m hurt,” he said.

I helped him sit down. “Lean against the tree trunk. You don’t want to go into shock.”

I ran back to the main campsite. Dave Schmelling, an assistant scoutmaster, came out with a big first-aid kit. I led Dave to Billy and held the flashlight while he wound a long gauze strip around the wound. The cut was deep but clean, and Dave wrapped it tight. With one arm on my shoulder, Billy hobbled back to the campsite. The scoutmaster, Ralph Kirkpatrick, drove him into town, to the hospital, to have the wound stitched and dressed. 

To this day I don’t know what possessed Billy to take that wild swing at a large tree he couldn’t possibly cut down. 

It hardly matters now. I found Billy’s name on the Wall, when we visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial today. He was killed when a mortar shell burst above his head at Landing Zone Swinger in Kontum Province on April 28, 1968. 

Billy was my friend—a good friend, even if he did something goofy like take a wild swing at a big old tree in the dark. Now all that’s left of him is the name on this Wall. He ought to be here with me, in a red shirt, jacket, and cap, receiving the nation’s thanks for his service. 

#

It’s been an emotional day, Dear Reader.

Eighty-seven of us, veterans of all military branches, each with an appointed “guardian,” flew to Washington on the 57th mission of Badger Honor Flight. My guardian was my daughter, Katie.  We veterans were given red polo shirts, windbreaker jackets, and baseball caps blazoned with the Badger Honor Flight logo. The guardians wore blue, to prevent confusion.

A host of volunteers in-processed us at Dane County Regional Airport at 0430 hours. That’s 4:30 a.m. to you civilians. They checked our IDs and photographed each of us with a big blowup of the logo. Red Cross volunteers served coffee and donuts as if we had just given blood. 

After a brief sending-off ceremony, we boarded. For the first time in over twenty-five years, I got on an airplane without being closely inspected. They just looked at our IDs and checked us off against the Badger Honor Flight roster. The Catholic nun who said the invocation at the ceremony was handing out small coins with a cross in the middle and the words of John 3:16 around the edge. A volunteer at the head of the jetway gave each of us a sack breakfast.

Ninety minutes later, we landed at Reagan National Airport. As we walked in the arrival gate, a crowd of Washingtonians greeted us with signs reading “Welcome to Washington D.C.” and “Thank You, Veterans!” They stepped into our path to shake our hands. That’s where the young Boy Scout shook my hand.

I knew what this mission was about. Why did this reception take me by surprise?

Tears sprang forth. I tried to say “Thank you” back to each well-wisher, but words could not get past my throat.

Five buses took us to view the nation’s major military memorials. We visited the Marine Corps War Memorial, where we ate a bag lunch on the grounds; then the Tomb of the Unknowns at Arlington National Cemetery, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the Korean War Veterans Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial, the World War II Memorial, and the Air Force Memorial.  

At the Vietnam Wall, which I had never visited before, I found my friend Billy’s name in one of the panels on the eastern wall. Katie and I both photographed it as best we could in the reflecting surface on a sunny day.

We climbed the Lincoln Memorial’s many steep steps . . . past the spot where Martin Luther King stood to deliver his “I Have a Dream” speech . . . and entered the exalted, high-ceilinged chamber with its huge marble rendering of the seated Lincoln. I had been there once, long ago, but Katie had not. She read the whole Second Inaugural Address, which is incised in the right-hand wall. She knows the Gettysburg Address, but this was the first time she had read through the Second Inaugural, which happens to be among the half-dozen best bits of rhetoric in the English language. This, in itself, justified the whole trip.

The Marine Corps War Memorial is a giant bronze replica of Joseph Rosenthal’s famous photo of marines raising the U.S. flag at Iwo Jima. Marine Corps veterans eagerly photographed one another with the statue in the background. At the Air Force Memorial, an abstract group of three steel swoops on the brow of a hill above the Pentagon, we zoomies did likewise.

#

I had expected to hear war stories, possibly exaggerated, from old vets. But I heard none. Instead, I heard the sounds of quiet camaraderie. We had all shared certain experiences and now, half a century later, the details faded to inconsequence.

Because we were a large group of veterans, mostly male, we faced what women routinely endure: long lines at the public toilets. It put some of us in mind of long lines in our military past—chow lines, or lines we stood in while waiting to be immunized by medics wielding high-pressure air gun injectors. Chuckles came forth. 

Our bus caravan had a police escort going from one memorial site to another in the midst of the Washington rush hour. A hapless, or ill-advised, driver in a red Tesla cut off our lead bus and incurred great wrath from the escorting police officer. We were duly impressed by our importance.

#

We got back to Reagan Airport, with its majestic passenger terminal, after a long, tiring day. Again, getting through security was simple. Volunteers handed us our supper in a bag as we boarded the plane. The meal was hot, from Chick-Fil-A, and most or all of us had eaten it before we taxied from the gate.

Once aloft, we were surprised by mail call. Badger Honor Flight program volunteers handed each of us, by name, a large envelope full of mail. Dozens of cards, letters, notes expressing appreciation for our military service. Personalized. 

I was overwhelmed. Tears once again came to my eyes and continued streaming as I opened one missive after another, reading each one with fixed, minute attention. Some were from close friends of mine, others from chance acquaintances or friends and co-workers of my daughter. Obviously Katie had been at work quietly drumming up a groundswell of correspondence to me on the occasion of the Badger Honor Flight. But there were many more. Lots were from perfect strangers—some obviously from children who wrote as a school project, but others just as obviously from adults who wanted to support old veterans. Many of these were personally addressed to me and called me by name. Others opened “Dear Veteran,” yet were hand written and seemed to express genuine care and concern. Two special ones were from my grandchildren, Elsie and Tristan. I was a blubbering baby all the way home.

#

And then we got home.

A color guard from one of the local police departments—sorry, I don’t remember which—stood at attention as we came off the plane. At the end of the gate concourse, perhaps fifty men and women of the Wisconsin Army National Guard greeted us with hearty handshakes and “Welcome Home!”

As we rode down the escalator to the main concourse of the airport, a band was playing. Fifteen or twenty Boy Scouts held American flags along the staircase paralleling our descent. At the bottom, pandemonium reigned. Hundreds of our friends and relatives and many unrelated citizens—maybe a thousand or more—thronged the concourse. We walked down a long avenue between rope lines, shaking all their hands. 

Over and over again, perfect strangers told me, “Thank you for your service.” Their faces were full of joy, friendship, sincerity. I tried to thank each one of them. Over and over I said, “Thank you for coming out.” 

I’m sure the experience was largely the same for the other eighty-six veterans of Badge Honor Flight Mission 57. It was like the world’s largest group hug. Maybe V-J Day in Times Square was similar, I really couldn’t say. 

All I know is, this was wonderful. 

It was wonderful not only because I was on the receiving end of a great deal of love. I’m happy to say that has been the story of my life.

It was wonderful not only because some of my best friends were there in person, by mail, or online to share the joy with me, although that was precious.

It was wonderful because all through this eventful day, culminating with the welcome home at Dane County Regional Airport, I learned there were hundreds, thousands of individuals, young and old, male and female, military and civilian, from all walks of life, extending themselves—going out of their way with great purpose and pride—to make sure due honor was rendered to us who in our past, maybe only for a few years in our youth, answered the nation’s call to service and did not reject that call.

It tells me that there are a great many of my fellow citizens who value our nation’s existence and nationhood, and who honor the meaning of its call on our lives. 

You need not be a bloodied hero to earn their thanks; you only have to show up.

Thank you, America, for giving me this opportunity, and thank you, fellow citizens, for giving me a splendid day.

Blessings,

Larry F. Sommers

Your New Favorite Writer