Memorial Day in a Time of Pandemic

By Dave Berry

(Written on Memorial Day 2020 in the first year of the Covid-19 Pandemic)

It was raining hard this morning when I ducked out into the weather to put up my flag. When I think of what was endured by those it honors, it seemed like the very least I could do.

I thought a lot about those veterans who sacrificed everything for vague notions of freedom and liberty, and I wondered what they would think of us today. They wore the uniform for many different reasons… patriotism, honor, tradition, pride, because it was expected of them, or simply because they didn’t want to disappoint anyone. They fought for their country, their buddies, their families back home and for persecuted strangers they never knew. They looked out for each other, for those next to them in the foxholes or dodging flak in the sky, those stoking the boilers or loading the bombs, those manning the deck guns or driving the supply trucks. 

My sacrifice today was to wear my mask, be courteous to the store clerks, stay out of crowds and keep my distance in the checkout lane. Their sacrifice, I think we would agree, was much greater.  

I have written so many columns and stories about veterans. There are a lot of us, and we have our days to feel good about ourselves. But Memorial Day is not about us. It’s to salute those who did not come home, those whose stories ended when conflict and duty collided somewhere beyond their comfortable and unthreatened hometowns. 

I think of Hugh, my wife’s uncle, who went down with so many on the USS Indianapolis; Flash, who helped my grandparents through the winter of 1943 and died with his B-29 crew on a mountainside in China; and Bill, a young marine from home who was killed in a rocket attack just days after arriving in Vietnam.

I think of Harty, Albert and Corydon, who died assaulting the trenches outside of Petersburg; Gordon, my father’s best friend, killed as the tanks advanced across France; Vincent, a brave Texan who survived D-Day but not the war; and Lori Ann, a simple soldier on convoy duty, remembered forever by those who climb Piestewa Peak.

I remember Mike, the helicopter pilot I never knew, who reminded us all with his poetry that war is a lonely, dirty business; Doyle, the B-17 ball turret gunner lost for too long beneath the waters off the German coast; and Eric, the Navy SEAL whose grave I visited at Arlington and whose son means so much to us.  I think of Stephen and Wiley, who went out armed with cameras and notepads and died alongside those whose stories they tried to tell. 

I also salute the former soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen who made it home, got on with their lives, but are no longer with us. I’ll forever remember Jim, the mild-mannered submariner I got to know so well in Washington DC., and George, the engineer who teared up as his granddaughter read him thank you cards from children he didn’t even know. 

My dad, my uncles, and nearly all the veterans from that generation are gone now… and we are starting to lose more and more from my era. I was with a few of them when they rose from their wheelchairs to salute at the Tomb of the Unknowns, and now flags fly over so many of their resting places. And, sadly, Section 60 at Arlington continues to welcome new tenants from the ranks of those who served in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Today, Memorial Day 2020, a new enemy stalks the ranks of veterans, and for that reason there are no parades, community gatherings and bands playing to crowds on village greens. That’s fine, I want those still with us to live and to continue telling their stories. I will go to the cemetery another day, thanking those beneath the long rows of white stone for their sacrifice.   

As long as I can tell their stories, I will. In that small way, they will always be remembered.