You know, the thing about Memorial Day—when we’re meant
to pause and give thought to those who have served and sacrificed in our armed
services—is that you’re never going to run out of things to write about.
Because we’re never going to run out of wars.
We are right now engaged in the longest-running war in
our history. And it doesn’t really seem like “war”, unless you’re wearing
cammies, or are close to someone who does. Because we non-uniformed personnel almost
never cross its path. News outlets cover Kardashians more than they do events
in Afghanistan or Iraq.
One exception is the Washington
Post, which has, since the first boots hit the ground, periodically printed
photos of the men and women who have been killed in those foreign fields.
Whenever enough fallen have accrued to fill two broadsheet pages, the Post gives them to us, so we have names
and faces to go with whatever statistics might filter out to us from
governments that would rather we didn’t really know the cost.
And we have the names and faces even if we’d really
rather not think about the cost.
As of this writing, the butcher’s bill stands at 6,805.
But we have miles to go.
You can go to WaPo’s page—well, 96 of them—showing the serried ranks of men
and women from all services, who left home in uniform and returned in uniform
military coffins. The Post gives each
person’s name, branch, rank and home town, as well as date and circumstances of
his or her death.
It is Gratitude Monday, and it is Memorial Day. I am
grateful for our uniformed services, and I am grateful for the Post reminding us of the lives contained
within those uniforms.
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