MEMORIAL DAY

It seems that each year we grow further away
from the true meaning of Memorial Day. It is the
one day of the year that is set aside to remember
and be thankful for all of the men and women who
have fought and died to preserve our freedom.
My memory always returns to 1942 when Camp
Chaffee was in full operation outside my hometown
of Fort Smith, Arkansas. Camp Chaffee was the
home of the 5th Armored Division. Later to be the
main tank division of the famous Battle of the Bulge,
on the drive to Berlin.

That was a time when every Sunday morning after
church, almost everybody in town would drive down
Garrison Avenue in the heart of Fort Smith and stop
at any street corner and ask two or three soldiers to
join them at their home for Sunday Dinner.
For many soldiers this was their first time to be
away from home. For us, in addition to 25 cent stamps
we saved up, to buy $25 War Bonds, gas stamps, gas
rationing, and weekly alarm drills, this was about all
we could do for the war effort. Naturally at 12 years old I hoped the war would last
long enough for me to join up. Until then, we practiced
marching in Kelly Draper's backyard. After all his dad
had graduated from the Naval Academy.

As we got to know some of the soldiers from Camp
Chaffee, they became part of the family. Mom and Dad
set up six canvas cots in the upstairs hallway with plenty
of sheets and blankets, so that when they got a weekend
off they had a place to go. And then slowly they left for
the war in Europe and the house became very empty.
Mother stayed in contact with all of them by v-mail,
but as the fighting got heavier and causalities multiplied
their letters became further and further apart.
Then one day a beat up package arrived for me from
Staff Sgt. Stanley LeLauren, from an APO address with
all kinds of postage all over it. Inside was a shining, brand
new, Bowie Knife, just like the one he carried that I had
so admired. There was no note but I didn't need one. This knife
was part of the special bond that existed between a
12 year old boy and a tall Texan Army Sergeant who
commanded a tank.

Every Memorial Day I take out that knife and make sure
it shines. Then I close my eyes and I see Stanley, Billy, Phil, Bobby, Dan, and Frank. And I remember what Memorial Day really means and I remember those special weekends, oh, so long ago.