This weekend in the USA, we celebrate Memorial Day. While for many, this is an excuse for a “holiday sale,” or a vacation - for me it’s a time to remember the 18-year-old boys who I grew up with and who lost their lives at war. While they were drafted, their decision to join the Rangers was of their own accord. I wish they’d come home. I wish they’d had all the chances at life I’ve had. This won’t matter much to anyone but me, but I like to remember them just the same.

Neither Lanny or Chip ever kissed a girl. They’d be really angry with me for telling you this, but it’s important to remember how much Nam stole from them.

Tom never bought a car, although he always said if he made it home, it would be the first thing he would do.

My other friend Tom (we called him “Boston” because he was born in Boston, MA and we already had a Tom) never had a steak. His parents were vegetarians and he wanted to make his first real steak something special. He never got the chance.

Wayne never learned to drive.

When you’re celebrating your day off from work today, please consider taking just a moment for my friends who didn’t come home.

For me, I’ll remember them with a poem by James Richardson…

Fallen Warriors

What ghosts walk these hallowed hills,
Where once the cry of battle reigned?
Who are these smoky misty forms that
By their blood this ground was stained?

Their cry of pain floats on the wind.
Echoing from the ridge,
Calling for aid and comfort, but alas,
The spans too wide to bridge.

Only God can help these souls who have
Fallen at the line,
Build no monument to these men, this
Ground shall be their shrine.

Let angels hover above the trees and
Guard these men of yore,
Kiss their cheeks and soothe their brow,
For death shall be no more.