Captain Arthur Grogan’s last living memory was of burning flames licking his face. Anti-aircraft artillery had hit his F4U-1D Corsair while he was strafing an airfield over the Japanese island stronghold of Rabaul. Fire. Smoke. Blood. Pain. Blackness and then light. His war, World War 2, was over.
Over 60 years later, he sat on the wet grass as the fog rolled through the tombstones of Arlington Cemetery. This was the one morning they all met. It was the biggest reunion of the year: Memorial Day. The orange sunrise peeked over the Washington D.C. horizon, turning the white buildings and monuments from black to purple to pink.
“Morning, Arthur.” said the Sargeant from Gettysburg. “Mornin’ Eli.” the pilot waved back. The Sargeant suddenly snapped to attention. Arthur looked to his right. Dwight D. Eisenhower and Abraham Lincoln were walked through the rows, inspecting the men and women. The pilot saluted proudly. A third man appeared next to the two former Presidents.
“At ease men.” It was General Douglas MacArthur. Old soldiers didn’t truly fade away.
“Let’s say our annual prayer so the people below us can hear us loud and clear.”
“Heavenly Father,” they all said in unison.” May those in power remember the sacrifices we gave in this great country’s name. May they honor those sacrifices and do their utmost to make sure those behind us aren’t sacrificed in vain. Please be with them and guide them to honor the freedoms we died to protect. Father, look over our families. Our losses put strains on them. Take that burden from their shoulders. And please, Father, remind people on this Memorial Day what the true meaning of this holiday is truly about. Amen.”
General MacArthur looked at the assorted spirits of sailors, soldiers, Marines, Coast Guardsmen and airmen and said, “May you enjoy the day with your families. They shall return.”
The pilot lifted his head, saluted and sat to patiently wait. As the sun unsuccessful battled the fog, he noticed a tow-headed little boy holding a model Corsair running toward his plot. Followed behind him was an older man, a grandfather, who looked just like he would have looked if he had lived that long.
The grandfather was the son he had never met. The son that had been born after he had been shipped off to the Pacific. The son he had watched over for so many days as the love of his life and some other man raised him.
“Granddaddy, is this your dad?!” the boy cried out.
“Yes, Artie, that’s him. He was an ace, a Navy Cross winner and a hero. I’m so proud he was my father. He’s why you can grow up in a land that’s free.”
The little boy put the Corsair on the grave stood straight and tall and saluted his great grandfather. “Thank you, sir.”
The pilot saluted back, smiled and faded into the fog.
