“And once again to our honor roll . . .” says Jim Lehrer. So, take a deep breath, brace for the blows. How many this time? Five or six or seven are the norms this bloody month, it seems. This time, Lehrer puts the count at 23, a fist in the belly.
The silent screen tolls off 23 names, ranks, ages, hometowns under the photos of young men. All men this day, all gone. Twenty-three more despairing families left to dispose of ruined dreams, left to wonder what light their sons might have brought to the dim and cloudy days to come.
The generals and admirals will retire to Hilton Head and Tucson and Colorado Springs to play golf, sail and consult for handsome fees. The Pentagon suits who once happily showered billions on the Threat Industry will pass through the revolving door to spend a few rewarding years on the receiving end of the money pipeline.
Sitting in a darkened family room somewhere in rural Illinois, a father will stare at the image of the young man in the frame over the fireplace. He'll wonder if a granddaughter might have had green eyes, strawberry blonde hair and a bright smile like her daddy. He supposes that a grandson might have been a southpaw, like his dad and his grandpa. He'll wonder if those grandkids would have liked the little bedtime stories he would have told them. What would have been their names?
As this father sits in the gloom at the end of another day, behind his sad eyes is one more question. It took up permanent residence there, crouching in the blackness, the moment they handed his weeping wife the folded flag on that awful day. The question was etched there by the glint of the rosewood casket, fixed by the smell of burning gunpowder from the rifles.
It is now, as it will always be, the awful question a dead soldier's parent dares not ask.
