Honor Flight

If you’d prefer to hear this letter read, head to YouTube, with host Sally Jensen and Abbey Algiers.

JLA hugging his wife, Dorothy, at General Mitchell Airport after the Honor Flight.

Dear Louie, 

I believe I wrote to you that I would be attending an Honor Flight to Washington D.C. as a guest of the program for veterans of WWII.  On November 3, I was privileged to be a guest and travel with my son, a Naval Veteran, to the Memorial of WWII.  The trip was remarkable in content, in organization, and most impressively in participation of, yes, thousands of interested men, women, and children, who stood in greeting to us at Mitchell Field and Dallas Airport in Washington D.C. The flight originated at Mitchell Field at 5 a.m. with registration, pictures, and I.D.s for the day.  

Think of 200 hundred old men in all states of health, each with an associate, a “Guardian” for the day; veterans in blue jackets and gray hair; guardians in red jackets, some young men or women, some middle-aged, but all most attentive to the very elderly veterans.  Simple arithmetic places those veterans in the mid-eighties to mid-nineties in age; not so simple an observation places the Veterans in a mode of attention and appreciation for a time to again recall and think of the years gone by, of the friends of yesteryear of the events associated with the years between 1941 and 1945; when “all were young,”  and to recall those who were never privileged to grow old and be able to recall.

WWII Veterans from Wisconsin in November of 2012.

After checking in, registration was painless; entertainment by singing groups in the concourse helped pass the time until the flight took off.  It was impressive to see alert men in their eighties and nineties, all aware of the opportunity of this late-life event.  There was no sleeping, confusion, or inattention; all were alert, oriented, and aware.  For that moment, all were young again and somewhat anxious and troubled to find the “hurry up and wait” still the order of the day, seventy-some years after the fact.

Finally, the flight took off for Washington, D.C. Two planes, each with 100 veterans and 100 guardians, flew to Washington in one hour and thirty minutes; many recalled railroad trips in the forties across the country, which were measured in days, sometimes weeks.

Introductions were made, and conversations began, revealing years of events, lives so varied, and memories again stimulated by mutual recall remarks.  All became aware that heroes were among us, but most were of a common trend, just guys who were caught up in the events of the forties, just lived out their lives fashioned by the “luck of the draw.” 

Again noted was the fact that Heroes were “not made” but just happened, again by the “luck of the draw.”  Mature judgment of the “old veterans” concluded that competition for stories could not compete with awareness of our present longevity, which is a God-given benefit. For all of us, this flight was a benefit organized by remarkable people. The day was designed as a Rewards Program for a group, all of whom were humbled by the experience.

The trip was fast, comfortable, and well-organized.  

We arrived at Dallas International on time; we were disembarked onto a people mover and transported to the receiving area.  There, amazingly, we were met with at least one thousand men, women, and children.  They lined the halls greeted us with smiles and extended handshakes, always thanking each Veteran for “your service.”  The greeting repetition was initially embarrassing until one realized the greeting was truly sincere.  

Small boys and bright little four and five-year-old girls smiled and greeted us individually, repetitiously, and with true sincerity. Boy Scouts, youth groups, fathers and mothers, widows and widowers all thanked us and wished us well.  We were initially embarrassed but soon maturely accepted the greeting and returned the thankful greeting.  A politician’s rush was experienced by the handshaking and recognition. The reception was unexpected but gratifying.

From there, we entered the buses, and our trip began. The weather was chilly, the day overcast.  All initial activities were on the Mall of Washington.  All were confined to the Mall between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial; the initial memorial was the Memorial of the 2nd World War, our connection to the past.  It is the newest and is recognized as the Jewel of the Mall. This memorial was long in making but finally was completed and is a fitting memorial to the 15 million servicemen and women of the era.

We spent some time walking about, looking and appreciating our private thoughts.  Group pictures were taken, and quiet private conversations with the Guardians revealed many unspoken thoughts of the past.  The Memorial will serve generations into the future and hopefully will be instrumental in future war prevention activities.

Following the World War II Memorial, we spent minutes to hours at the Korean Memorial, the hallowed memorial to the “police action” of the early fifties. This memorial was spiritually spooky-- the setting is on a downslope, about two acres, of low hedges, green in nature; and interspersed are gray, slate gray figures of soldiers walking through the bushes, with rifle, bazooka arms, each soldier is clothed in a slate gray pancho from head to ankles, each is attentive and sad, is observant, cautious and fearful.  

Alongside the field is an eight-foot granite wall with facial etchings of the faces and countenances of soldiers who had served in Korea; pictures had been recorded and are now etched in perpetuity on the wall.  Rumor has it that soldiers who had served in Korea had located their pictures in the etchings.  The atmosphere of this Memorial was haunting, and on that cold November day, shivers up and down the back were noted.  Haunting, chilling, somber, and sadly felt were the moments at the Korean site.

The sadness was prolonged this day when the Vietnam Memorial was revisited.  That hallowed walkway of 57,000 names etched in walls of shiny granite, serving as a walkway for women, children, and now what might have been grandchildren of all those victims of such foolish actions of our leaders, such a time of slaughter and degradation of fine young men; a time of death, a time of mashing and smashing of our youths with no reason for such violence and no hope of retrieval of lost bodies and souls in the deltas of Southeast Asia.  

I was reminded of one of my patients who had been a lost soul until one Saturday afternoon, he rid himself of his Vietnam horrors by reliving the bodybag details he had made into the jungles of torture.  I have written previously of his ablution of detail when he poured out his memories of soul losing detail.  And on this Saturday afternoon, I looked at the 57,00 names on the walls of the Memorial of Vietnam. 

We next visited the National Cemetery, where hundreds of thousands of servicemen now lie alongside Jack Kennedy’s Perpetual Flame.  There, we viewed the Changing of the Guard.

Then, a bus tour of the area, boarding of the return plane, somber thoughts and quiet talk, and finally takeoff, a flight of an hour and a half, interrupted by “Mail Call,”; an unexpected treat during which we received letters from our wife, children, friends and neighbors.

What a wonderful send-off from the memories of Washington.  The plane was quiet; the backs of the hands of the veterans were moist from tears, from thoughts of what had been, and from the recall of times when family might have been allowed a closer insight into past lives and experiences.

What a day, what a privilege to again be young of heart but old of lomb.  The older one gets the more appreciative of a “pat on the back.”  And to think that the best was yet to come on arrival at Mitchell Field, there to be met by four or five thousand folks, by family, friends, and just plain people who took time from a Saturday night to come down and see a cadre of old men who had by the “Luck of the Draw” served, survived, and been fortunate to live in this country, the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.

What an honor to have loved, to have served, and now to experience an honored Thank You.

JLA with family from DC - Rita Chucka, and son, Guardian for the Honor Flight, Tim Algiers