Tuesday, June 11, 2024
I’ve been thinking about honor.
I hope you were able to watch and enjoy some of the celebrations and commemorations of the 80th anniversary of D-Day last week. I’ll admit to feeling an extra tug this year, as we look back at what was, what it meant, what was sacrificed and what we could soon face again. I’ve watched the planes carrying those D-Day veterans load up at major U.S. airports, and the incredible welcome those old guys and their families received upon reaching Europe. I wondered what making this journey now means to them. I’ve reflected on lessons learned, the meaning of true honor and sacrifice, and everything our flag stands for, no matter the passions of a moment.
Over the Memorial Day weekend, we also made our annual pilgrimage to Indianapolis to watch the running of the Indy 500. If you’ve never been, I hope you can go one day. One lovely surprise is how throughout the entire day, members of our U.S. Armed Forces are honored, reverently and consistently.
At the race this year, seated next to me was an Air Force veteran. It wasn’t his first race, and he wasn’t going to miss the experience this year. He didn’t look at all well, but his sheer determination to take in the day was unmissable. He was a comparatively young vet, 58. It turns out that he is battling cancer, and by the looks of things, the cancer is putting up one hell of a fight. I watched closely yet tried to avoid watching intrusively.
I saw the sheer force of will it took to navigate the kind of physical activity that even a perfectly healthy person can find challenging at a large outdoor event: long walks, large crowds, a long day outside, small seats crammed together for maximum capacity.
I watched him take in the sights and sounds of the morning, enjoying the people-watching that the day is known for (and seriously, the people watching is epic!). The day’s souvenirs (he had a specific list) were scouted and bagged. While visiting during the pre-race activities, I saw his wife of 39 years look at him as if he not only hung the moon, but that he invented it first, single-handedly. That woman’s eyes beamed with sparkly love as he talked of one thing or another.
As many of you know, this year’s race was delayed by rain. Due to significant threats of lightning, everyone had to evacuate the stands. Hiding underneath the grandstand, we huddled closer and closer as the puddles of rain began accumulating into pools, then ponds, then eventually small rivers with currents. Kids played while parents chatted. The veteran found a place to sit on a stairway, only getting slightly wet at his perch, and talked with another man for nearly an hour. Later we learned that the other man was also a veteran. That man’s time was served in Vietnam, his hat made clear.
During their visit that I can only imagine covered a wide range of topics, a third man approached the gentlemen, stuck out his hand and said, “I know this is horribly late, and I’m sorry about that … but I just wanted to say Welcome Home.” Both veterans were visibly moved.
Honestly, I’ve lost track of how long we were under the grandstands, waiting out the weather. But the hours clearly wore our veteran down.
By the time we could safely reemerge, and the pre-race festivities could resume, the length of the day and the effects of chemo were obviously conspiring against him. He was fighting to keep going.
I watched as he made use of the empty stretch of concrete just in front of our seats and laid down to rest a few minutes.
I watched as the lovely speedway attendants kept a careful eye on him, but didn’t interfere. Occasionally their eyes would silently lift from checking on him, up to our faces. We just nodded quietly in a communication that said, “We’ve got this – we’re OK.”
I watched as chills overtook his body so violently, it appeared he was having a seizure.
He didn’t complain, he didn’t throw in the towel. He kept fighting to keep going.
A blanket and extra layers were fetched, and he fought on.
Each year, the track announcer asks members of each branch of service to stand, group by group, to be recognized, honored and thanked. As they called each branch one by one, the Air Force veteran was unable to stand and be recognized. His body was still violently shaking from the inside-out chills – the effects of chemo.
I whispered to his wife, “Does he need to go?” She simply shook her head. She knew that the day was too important to him; he wasn’t about to tolerate being whisked away just when things were about to get rolling.
He didn’t see the driver introductions, but he heard them.
He couldn’t stand for God Bless America, either. He was still lying on the ground, trying hard to muster.
Looking straight up from the spot where he lay, he did catch a glimpse of the Army Golden Knights Parachute Team swooping into the infield, giant American flag unfurled.
Down on the track, the Honor Guard presented the colors and then it was time for the national anthem. As everyone rose and removed their caps, our veteran started slowly climbing to his feet. He was unsteady and still shivering wildly. Layers were still all around him despite the near 80-degree weather, and his skinny frame was nearly lost underneath it all. Honestly, he looked as if he would topple over at any moment.
Then as the opening notes played and as the crowd in unison began to sing, “Oh Say, Can You See?” the most glorious thing happened In the empty row just in front of our seats, our veteran pulled himself up into the closest thing to Standing At Attention he could manage, steadied himself (slightly bent and definitely trembling) and then positioned himself in full salute. He didn’t move a muscle, at least not voluntarily, through the entirety of the song.
The will, the strength, the determination and the character that man showed in those minutes was simply overwhelming. It was also the unmissable epitome of what service, strength, honor, and oath truly mean. It was clear that from his perspective he wasn’t worried about being honored that day. Rather, he was going to use what bit of strength he still had to honor the others. Steadfastly.
It made me honor and respect him even more.
In front of him stood a throng of photographers, all their lenses trained and snapping wildly at what was happening down below on the track, during the official proceedings. I’m sure they caught a thousand moments of patriotism and honor and splendor going on down there. As it should be.
But as my heart swelled and my eyes filled, I was silently screaming for even just one of them to just “Please! Turn around!” Because if they had, I know they would have captured one of the most meaningful photos they would ever take.
But they missed it. Nearly everyone did. Yet I’ll never forget it as long as I live.
I could barely see the flyovers of the U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds during their two chill-inducing pass overs in formation. I was too overcome by the smaller majesty standing right in front of me, broken, battered, and yet deeply committed. That veteran, my veteran, everyone’s veteran.
I’m confident he was saluting the service of his father-in-law who is buried in Arlington. I expect he also saluted all his brethren, their valor and their sacrifice. I don’t know for sure. I didn’t ask. It seemed this was his private mission and it should be left uninterrogated.
That particular veteran is my youngest older brother. I hope you’ll think of him sometimes, and the millions more like him, as you reflect this Flag Day, this Fourth of July, this Veterans Day. And if you ever are fortunate enough to find your way to the Indy 500 – I hope you’ll think of him then, too.
Until Next Time,
Mary Schuster
Chief Knowledge Officer
October Research, LLC