TOUR OF DUTY: CONCLUSION

War drew us from our homeland
In the sunlit springtime of our youth.
Those who did not come back alive remain
in perpetual springtime -- forever young --
And a part of them is with us always."

-- Author Unknown

Myron Goldman licked his lips.

His heavy spirit softened by a small degree when he noticed his lovely wife watching him. Myron knew that, had they been anywhere else on any other day, she might have teased him about the endearing habit that only she seemed to ever notice. Instead Ri An Goldman offered a sad but assuring nod and returned her attention to their baby, who released the cry that Mryon himself struggled so hard to keep inside.

"Shh, my darling," the soldier heard his truelove whisper softly into the child's tiny ear. "Your Daddy is going to talk now about a special friend. Listen." Ri An's body swayed almost imperceptibly forth and back, lulling Ezekial Martin Goldman into a peaceful, newborn slumber. Almost instantly, Myron's memory winked back to the jungles of Vietnam and Sergeant Anderson standing in the rain, rocking his M-16 in much the same manner.

"Sir?"

The sound of Alberto Ruiz's voice startled the major back into the bitter present. Goldman held up a gloved hand to the captain and nodded, hoping to convince the other that he would be able to continue if given his own time. Myron listened with contempt to the lingering silence, but made no move to break it.

Unable to allow his eye to fall upon the flag-covered casket that lay before him, Goldman instead looked beyond the six black horses and the abandoned caisson that he had followed to this solemn place. He gazed at the flowing hills of Arlington National Cemetery, where row upon identical row of modest white headstones spackled the lush green fields as far as his eye could see. As he contemplated the thousands of men and women lying beneath the sod of these placid grounds, Myron wondered how many of the names on those markers he knew--who among his fallen comrades would lay beside his friend--his brother--for the balance of eternity.

As he surveyed the perimeter of this city of the dead, Goldman's attention gradually returned to the eight men who had carried the gallant warrior to this grievous service. All of them attired in their sharply pressed dress-greens, the pallbearers held themselves at attention facing the coffin, looking as much like sentries as they did escorts of the dead.

Captain Ruiz was closest to the major, facing Danny Percell who stood on the opposite side of the long, metal box. Both men were watching Goldman, concerned that the anguished man would be incapable of fulfilling his sad duty of delivering the eulogy. They had once seen a much younger first-lieutenant fall silent at another memorial service over twenty years before, and wondered if Major Goldman would be able to withstand this even more bitter loss. Unwilling to intervene, they instead turned to face each other and recommenced their patient vigil.

Beside them were Scott Baker and Marvin Johnson, their faces void of outward expression as they stared over the long red and white stripes that covered the simple black coffin. Their eyes seemed blank, as if they were looking through, rather than at, one another. A sightless William Griner, who had insisted on participating in the casket team, stood beside Roger Horn who in turn watched a single tear stream down Johnny McKay's suntanned cheek.

Marcus Taylor alone bowed his head and tried to control the trembling of his white-gloved hands.

Beyond the casket team, was a small gathering of mourners. Many wore military green, some wore black, but some seemingly chose to defy the death by wearing bright colors that enhanced the crisp autumn afternoon. Among these was a beautiful woman dressed in a suit of the same color as her strawberry blonde hair. Myron thought he recognized her from somewhere in the past, but he could not pinpoint her in time or place. Nevertheless, in her eyes, Goldman could see that her sorrow was real and he knew that she, along with the others, waited for him alone to give solace to her grief.

Finally, Goldman's attention fell upon Specialist Katie Anderson, who stood so strong and brave beside her father's final resting place that Myron's heart brimmed with pride. For her, he would find his own courage to give the girl's father his final farewell.

"I first met Zeke Anderson in 1967 in a place called Vietnam," Major Myron Goldman began, his voice cracking on his words. "To say we hit it off right away would not only be a gross misinterpretation of the facts, it would be a downright lie." The men who served in Bravo Company smiled as they thought back on those first tumultuous weeks of Second Lieutenant Goldman's first tour of duty. Each of them remembered the battle of wills as the young officer struggled with his leadership and the seasoned staff sergeant struggled to keep the "butterbar" alive.

Amused by his own memories, Goldman continued. "Fortunately for me, and for our men, Sergeant Anderson was more than our NCO. He was our guardian, our protector, our teacher. His own safety never came before that of his men...or of his LT. The veterans who stand before me all owe their lives to this man whom we lay here to rest today. They...we...were more than soldiers to Zeke...we were all his sons, for whom he would have gladly laid down his own life. It is because of him that we survived."

Myron hesitated as he again focused on Katie Anderson. Katrina. Zeke loved his daughter's given name, saying it rolled across the tongue like an ocean wave across a sandy beach. A ray of sunlight twinkled in Katie's eye, suggesting a truth to the forgiving smile that she offered to her commanding officer and her father's dearest friend. Goldman found his strength in her as he had so often before found in her father.

"However," the major asserted, again swiping his tongue across his lips, "for as much as he loved his sons, Zeke Anderson adored his little girl. Katie was his life, his soul, his very reason for living. After her mother's passing, Zeke became more than her father, he became her friend and her greatest supporter. It was no mistake that his fishing cabin was just a two hour drive from Fort Bragg. Where Katie went, her Dad was sure to follow. Even if it meant traveling halfway across the globe to the desert world of Kuwait."

The major paused and closed his eyes for a long moment. When he finally opened them, he could no longer see clearly, for the tears clouded his vision and his emotions muddied his mind. Myron Goldman was almost to his breaking point, but he pushed himself to finish.

"It is there," Mryon testified, barely audible to the gathering before him, "that this selfless leader of men and women offered the supreme sacrifice in a way that grieves us all, but surprises none."

The words threatened to overwhelm him, but Myron Goldman was determined to articulate the complexity of emotion that he had garnered for over twenty years. The officer lowered his eyes to finally look upon the symbol of patriotism and honor displayed before him, and with a quiver in his voice, confided, "Zeke Anderson will always be my hero."

Swallowing hard, Major Goldman steadied his voice and prepared himself for the slain man's final roll call. As was tradition, one by one, he summoned among those gathered, the peers of the fallen NCO. "Sergeant First-Class Terence Stephens."

"Present."

"Staff Sergeant Ronald Schledorn "

"Present"

"Master-Sergeant Joseph Chajkowski."

"Present."

"First-Sergeant Marcus Taylor."

Taylor could not reply. He looked helplessly to the major who nodded his encouragement. After a long, agonized moment, the first-sergeant found his voice and complied. "Present."

"Sergeant-Major Anderson." Major Goldman paused. He received no answer. He did not expect one. "Sergeant-Major Clayton Anderson." Again no reply. Goldman allowed the silence to linger, mindful of the sorrow in the eyes of the otherwise stoic faces before him. Finally, and for the last time, Major Goldman called the name of their fallen comrade. "Sergeant-Major Clayton Ezekial Anderson."

With his neglected order still hovering in the air, Goldman's tortured thoughts were calmly interrupted by the mournful sound of Roger Horn's harmonica as it delivered its unconventional interpretation of Taps.

The major raised his hand to his forehead and waited for the sharp order to be delivered to the waiting firing party. Goldman winced as seven weapons were discharged into the heavens, followed seconds later by another deafening volley. He continued to hold his posture while the last of the twenty-one rounds blazed its unanswerable salute over the final notes of Roger Horn's sad farewell.

The whole world seemed to fall silent save for the echo of the tribute dancing across the hillside. As the rest of the casket team ceremoniously lifted the brightly colored flag, Roger Horn stepped forward and placed his chrome instrument on top of the polished black coffin. Resuming his place with the rest of the squad, the reluctant war-hero claimed a corner of the flag and with great care and precision, helped to transform it into a perfect blue and white triangle. Captain Ruiz completed the ritual and stepped forward to hand the flag to Major Goldman.

With his shoulders squared and his head held high, Myron walked the few paces it took to come face to face with Zeke Anderson's only child. "On behalf of a grateful nation," he offered his well-rehearsed statement, "please accept this flag as a token of our gratitude for your father's supreme sacrifice."

Delivering the keepsake to its rightful heir, Goldman moved back a pace and once again raised his arm in a perfect military salute. Without returning the gesture, Katie fell into the officer's paternal embrace and allowed her tears to flow.

Comfortable in this unsolicited role for which Katie now seemed to need him, Myron wrapped his arm around her waist and slowly led her away from the grave site. Ri An Goldman moved alongside her husband, saying nothing as he enveloped her delicate hand with his trembling fingers. Together, the three of them made their way across the hillside to the waiting caravan of vehicles, and one by one the other mourners began to follow. No one spoke, but a songbird filled the air with a melancholy aria.

Soon, all that remained at the small plot of land that would one day blend seamlessly into the crowded hillside, was a lone sentry to watch over the casket until its final internment into the earth. First-Sergeant Marcus Taylor allowed a tear to spill from his eye as he snapped to attention, raising his rifle to his shoulder, and watched the sun expire beyond the horizon.