 I did have one wish for some things that I held special, and I
didn't have to ask my brother and sisters for them: it was a given
by all of them that I would have the three flags that had draped the
caskets of the three Fak brothers, Michael, Edward and Kashmer.
The flags, neatly folded, are in triangular wooden cases, and they
represent 14 years that the three brothers gave to their country
during World War II.
They sit on a shelf in our living room, and although they might
not have much symbolism to some people, they do to me as a veteran.
Of course the most stinging memory of one of those flags is that
cold December day in 1983 when a funeral director handed me the flag
that had covered my father's casket. He said the words, "Please
accept this flag as a symbol of a grateful nation."
Those words were nothing new to me. I had to say them to five
different families back in 1970.
As an MP working for Army Materiel Command, I was assigned to the
secret weapons division on the country's eastern seaboard. Every
third month we were pulled off this assignment and placed on what
the U.S. Army called "escort service."
Sometimes during these monthlong assignments we had little if
anything to do. Sometimes we would be assigned a military funeral.
As a platoon leader I had the privilege five times to help a veteran
be escorted to his final resting place.
I remember all five of those services with great detail, but I
will never forget a moment of that first time when I and my squad
helped honor a fallen soldier.
It was January in the little town of Lackawanna in upstate New
York. The day was bitterly cold, and both the cold and heavy snows
controlled the cemetery where we were asked to be the honor guard.
We were all trained in the proper way to conduct ourselves, but
for all seven of us this was our first funeral of a young soldier
returning home from Vietnam.
I recall it was so cold that the bugle stuck to the lips of our
bugler as he played taps, and how by the third round only one of the
M-14s rechambered a round for the volley.
Most of all I remember folding the flag and carrying it over to
the young, fallen soldier's family. The soldier's young wife had her
head down, her arms wrapped tightly around a little bundle of
clothes; that was her son, the fallen soldier's son.
[to top of second column]
 |
The young soldier's father wore an old military overcoat. On his
head, pressed down firm against the wind, he wore a VFW garrison
cap. As I approached with the flag, the old soldier came to
attention and saluted his son's flag. My voice cracked as I handed
him the flag. I remember only the words "grateful nation" were
intelligible from my lips as the cold tears streamed down my face in
the frigid temperatures.
Taking the flag, the old vet pressed it hard to his chest. The
way he would have pressed his young son to himself over the years as
he watched him grow into manhood and become a soldier.
In that brief moment as the tears filled both of our faces,
although years apart in age we became brothers. In that moment we
both loved that flag. We both loved the young soldier now at rest in
his hometown's graveyard.
As the years have passed, I have found myself busy rushing
through my life. I have made many Veterans Day and Memorial Day
events, but I have missed many as well.
But whether on a special day of remembrance or just any other day
of the year, from time to time this memory comes back to me to
relive.
My mind has decided that cold day in New York will be a part of
me forever. I am grateful for that memory staying so vivid.
I find no need for a tombstone or grave site to mark my final
place on Earth. All I will need is to have my flag with that of the
other three Faks who served well and proudly. For me that will be
enough. It always is for a veteran.
[By
MIKE FAK]
 |
