The Rockets’ Red Glare

I march along slowly trying to keep up with the US Army Marching Band. I follow in their steps as they blow and drum their way through memorable patriotic tunes. They remind me of the Rockettes with instruments. Impressive. Their dress uniforms are perfectly pressed, every short hair in place, and every shoe polished to reflective perfection. I always loved marching bands, even as a child. I never dreamed I would be in one. But here I am, waving to the crowd.

I watch the spectators with interest. Some boy scouts and girl scouts are on the sidelines, some waving, some saluting. I spot some older vets in their tight uniforms. Some lean on their canes, others sit in wheelchairs. Most salute as I walk by. I return the salute for each and every one of them. Small children cling to parents, eat ice cream cones, wave tiny flags or perch on top of their father’s shoulders. Some did all of that at once- quite a trick.

The white dome of the Capitol Building and the inspiring Washington Monument stand out against the deep blue, crystal clear sky. In spite of the perfection of the scene a feeling of unease hits me. The crowd seems threatening in some odd way in spite of the clapping and smiling. I begin searching for a safety exit as a woman suddenly breaks through the crowd and runs towards me. I stop for a second as she approaches. She leans forward. Her look was quite serious and not at all joyous. She said, with a tear rolling down her cheek, “Thank you for your service. I lost a son”. I look into her pained eyes. Should I feel lucky? “I’m so sorry” I stammered, with a matching drop of water rolling down my cheek. There’s nothing more to say.

I straighten my back and give her my best salute and proceed along to the grandstand with the platoon of musicians. I am in a trance of some sort. Time is gone. Place is gone. Person is gone. The Star Spangled Banner intrudes. I begin to shiver a bit as I imagine the scene at that ancient time. It was a night long artillery attack. It was not far from this very sight. As we all arrive at “Our flag was still there!” a cheer arises from many in the crowd. I am suddenly jarred by a thought that never had crossed my mind. It hits me like a lightning bolt.

The marching, the stirring patriotic songs, the uniforms festooned with medals, the flags and me- are all a part of a bigger drama, a bigger plan. We are all selling. We are all marketing the next war.

The aides push our twenty or so wheelchairs making their way to the VA bus behind the crowd. “Thank you for your service” continued to ring out from many in the crowd. I don’t respond. My service was brief. It consisted of blowing up a few buildings and some ugly scenes around that in the first month or so and then my service was ended by driving over a land mine. Lights out. What exactly was my service?

Maybe they can eventually replace my legs. Maybe not. Can they replace my brain too? Can they replace the sudden panic in a crowd, the visions of body parts and crying-dying children or the terror as I cross an alley? I’m not going to march again.