Entry 24.13

This week is one of the most patriotic weeks we have here in the United States of America. Veterans Day has changed from being a one-day celebration to being a whole week. Just here on our campus we have had a wreath laying ceremony, free cups of coffee to all veterans, a special breakfast with President Wearden and a Military Appreciation Cookout. The campus has been decorated with extra flags and Missing Man Tables. I have mixed feelings on Veterans Day. A lot of veterans love the holiday. An extra day off and tons of deals for the 15.8 million veterans from a slew of different vendors covering everything from food to car sales. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy those things too. But for me, the holiday just hits differently.

Where did Veterans Day come from? Its origins date back to World War I. The end of World War I to be exact. On 11 November 1918, Germany signed an armistice with the Allied Nations in the eleventh hour on the eleventh day in the eleventh month. And so, 11 November became known as Armistice Day became officially that day in 1926. It wasn’t until 1938, that Congress passed a resolution making Armistice Day a national holiday. It wasn’t until 1947 in Birmingham, Alabama that the term “Veterans Day” was used. In 1954, Congress passed a bill that proclaimed 11 November as Veterans Day.

We need to step back here and make a clear distinction between two national holidays: Memorial Day and Veterans Day. Memorial Day takes place on the last Monday of May. It is observed to honor the men and women who died wile serving in the United States Armed Forces. Veterans Day commemorates the service of all U.S. veterans. On Veterans Day, I have a much different sentiment. I feel embarrassed. I am a quiet shy person who likes to live my life in my bubble in a dark corner and I don’t like the limelight shining on me. I stood side by side with men that I consider heroes and giants. Here is a read that describes my brothers by one of my brothers, Marty Skovlund, Jr.

The Ranger

You can’t put your finger on it, and you can’t quite identify what it is. It is a certain presence that resides permanently around him. He stands straight, the type of posture that is rarely seen in men today. The posture silently screams self-confidence. It is the kind of confidence that comes from going out night after night to hunt other men. Men that hunt back. His back is rounded, shoulders wide. The arms are like leather. The neck is thick. A man doesn’t get this way by accident. It comes from hours under a ruck, climbing ropes, lifting heavy things, climbing walls, and carrying other full-grown men. Running for miles, endless miles. Miles that make the feet bleed, soaking the white socks red. Miles over road, on gravel, on sand, on dirt, up hills, down hills, up stairs, down stairs… Miles that crush a man’s soul at the mere thought.

He wears a watch on one wrist, a simple Timex. It is well-worn from the hundreds of missions it has been on. The other wrist has a black metal bracelet. It is scratched up, beat up, but never leaves the wrist. It bears the name of a fallen brother. The name of a man who left behind a daughter, a wife, parents… The name of a man with who he shared a room, played Halo with after the mission, drank beer with… The name of a man who received nothing but silence in response to the Sergeant Major beckoning him during that final roll call.

His arms are tattooed. They bear the images of skulls, Spartans, a tattered American flag, and flames. There is a weird way in which the ink compliments the blank stare on his face. Almost a slight frown, yet a look of deep thought. His hair is longer than the average soldier, but not too long. He’s particular when he explains what he wants at the barber. But then again he is particular about everything in his life.

He pulls his kit out from its cubby in the ready room. It falls over his shoulders in a familiar way. It’s weird how the distinctive sound of the Velcro on the cummerbund can be so easily associated with the looming prospect of combat.

The Peltors go on, plugged into the radio on his side. He turns them on and turns them up. It just got real loud. The MICH goes on; the NODs are flipped down and tested. He’s paranoid and knows he put fresh batteries in last night, but changes them out again anyway.

The amber lenses are dusty, so he takes a red rag and rubs them clear. The helmet is heavy and weighs on a man’s neck, but he is used to it. Hours have been spent under the weight of Kevlar, night vision, strobes, Velcro, flashlights… He snaps the safety line around his waist, pulls his gloves on, and slips his Oakleys over his ears. You hear a sigh, and then see him do a few squats to make sure everything is on just right. Finally, he grabs his wrist Garmin and his quarterback forearm pad. One goes on each forearm.

He turns the knob on his MBITR and asks for a radio check. He gets a response and is satisfied. Someone yells out that “FMC” will be in five minutes. The others start shuffling away from their cubbies. He grabs his rifle, pulls the charging handle back checking to make sure it is clear, and then releases the bolt. He slides a plastic magazine in and routes the adjustable sling over his shoulder and starts walking for the door. As he walks away you notice that all that heavy gear looks kind of small on his V-shaped torso. He walks with a gait that is swift but quiet.

He floats into the dark, his playground. The air is thin, the moon barely visible. All you hear is the crunch of pea rock under his hiking boots as he walks away toward the flight line. It dawns on you that you just witnessed something few will ever set eyes on. Half the world away, men of a similar age are drinking, playing beer pong, and setting new high scores on games. But he is boarding a rotary-wing aircraft in the hopes of taking a few more souls off his planet during this period of darkness. Few have seen or done what he has, and fewer still do it with the ferocity that he does.

He is a Ranger. He is the hammer some nights, the scalpel others. His work is carried out with unprecedented speed, surprise, and violence of action. He does not seek glory, nor recognition of any kind. He lives by a Creed, but for his brothers. He is satisfied knowing that he is doing exactly what needs to be done.

The men described above are my brothers. So, when I say I stood among heroes and giants, I hope you can see why. They are men who do things in the quiet of the night so that you don’t have to. They carry burdens, physical, mental and emotional, so you don’t have to. And they wouldn’t have it any other way. They do it for love of country, their families, each other and for you. I have been encouraged to come up with a new way to reply to the phrase “Thank you for your Service” this year. Instead of my normal hushed “thank you” or a quiet nod, this year I will be replying with the answer “You were worth it.”

Let’s talk about the Missing Man Table. For many people they see the table and chair, but don’t understand how sobering a fact it really is. I don’t think Each item on the Missing Man Table represents the emotions and feelings reserved for those who did not come home. The ceremony symbolizes that they are with us, here in spirit. All Americans should never forget the brave men and women who answered our nation’s call to serve and fought for our freedom with honor.

The symbolism of the Missing Man Table:

The table is round, to show our everlasting concern for our missing men.

The cloth is white, symbolizing the purity of their motives when answering the call to serve.

The single red rose; displayed in a vase, reminds us of the lives of these Americans and their loved ones and friends who keep the faith while seeking answers.

The red ribbon symbolizes our continued determination to account for our missing.

A slice of lemon reminds us of their bitter fate; captured and missing in a foreign land.

A pinch of salt symbolizes the tears of our missing and their families who long for answers after decades of uncertainty.

The lighted candle reflects our hope for their return, alive or dead.

The Bible represents the strength gained through faith to sustain us and those lost from our country, founded as one nation under God.

The glass is inverted, symbolizing their inability to share a toast.

The chair is empty, the seat that remains unclaimed at the table.