Friday, November 13, 2009
A group of people, including myself, had gathered at our local elementary school on Tuesday. We had been invited by our children, wives, etc. to help celebrate Veterans Day.
We milled about in the hallway outside the ‘multi-purpose’ room, some squeezed in uniform; others still looking as dapper as when they put them on afresh years before.
Some, like me, couldn’t have fit into our uniforms even had we been encouraged with promises of money, movie contracts and tubs of warm butter to help grease our khakis. . Nope. It just wasn’t going to happen.
So we put on our civvies and let it all hang out.
There were guys my age, eyes still a-sparkle with memories of military high-jinx and comradeship still fresh in their minds. Others a bit older, a bit quieter with DAV hats on and somber expressions. Their memories edged with sadness and loss.
There were others a bit younger who had recently retired, or were ready to retire who wore their uniforms with a bit more ease.
I noticed three young fellows with close cropped hair and camouflaged fatigues. They were in the reserves and had received the news that they were soon to be deployed to Afghanistan. They looked a bit nervous, but proud. They were about to enter a phase of their lives that would burn memories deep within.
I stood beside a young woman dressed in a smart business suit.
“Are you a veteran?” I inquired with some hesitation.
“Yes, sir.” she replied, the “sir” spoken in a clipped tone, with professionalism and military courtesy.
“What branch?”
“Airforce, sir.” She hesitated and then smiled. “I was in the First Gulf War.” There was a large river of unspoken pride in her answer. She pointed to a line of children going into the ‘multi-purpose room’. “My kids invited me.” She looked very young.
There were other women, I noticed. Something I never saw in such numbers years ago.
There were “hellos” and slaps on the back from some of the men, many I recognized from yearly parades and the local American Legion. At times it resembled the scene in the movie “White Christmas” when Bing Crosby greeted the men at the surprise party for General Waverly (‘What do you do with a General When He Stops Being A General?’) just before they sing “We’ll Follow The Old Man Wherever He Wants To Go”.
Then the school music director came through, thanking us all for being there and asking us to go into the hall in a line of two.
And then it happened. A piper named Campbell squeezed life into the pipes and out came music.
I was absolutely frozen with emotion. It was like a metal bolt had been driven through me.
We marched in silence, two by two, the piper in front. The skirling of the chanter floated through the hall and I was suddenly transported through time and saw Wallace at Bannockburn, blue faced Scots and long swords. The steady drone was there at the Battle of the Somme in World War 1 as one piper led a charge toward a German machine gun nest.
I was in North Africa during the big WW2 when the “Ladies From Hell” came out of the smoke and sand with the bagpipes leading them. And I suddenly felt as though I was with Lord Lovat at Normandy.
What is it about the sound of the bagpipe that electrifies some folks? It is, to some, in the same category as the banjo. There is no middle ground. You either love it or hate it.
I love it. It is the only instrument considered a weapon of war.
We peeled off and sat down and the ceremony began. Old soldiers, sailors, Airforce veterans, Marines and members of the Coast Guard were all honored by the children that morning. They sang “God Bless American”, “You’re A Grand Old Flag” and all the other songs.
They sang Lee Greenwoods, “Proud To Be An American” and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. When they came to the line..”From the lakes of Minnesota”…it was changed to the “mountains of New Hampshire”.
We all applauded and tissues were brought forth.
It was a wonderful morning of recognition for so many men and women who put their life on the line for this country.
But it was the lone piper I will remember most of all. I cannot hear the sound of the pipes and remain unmoved. It worms it’s way deep inside me and moves me in a way I cannot explain.
Maybe you can.
© 2009 George Locke
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