Taps

I am alone, standing on the crumbling back steps of the old church, my trumpet by my side in my right hand. The church cemetery, dotted with countless rows of neatly arranged headstones, descends gradually towards the slate grey sea. It is a raw blustery day in mid-April. The first buds have appeared on the wild roses that have overgrown the cemetery wall, and on the storm-blasted stand of oak trees beyond. A single white sail is visible offshore. The damp salt air carries a faint smell of decay, of seaweed and debris washed up on distant beaches. Far below, a small group of mourners is gathered by an open grave.

He and I were about the same age, from neighboring towns, but had never met. Still, I knew well the difficult choice he had been forced to make fifty years ago, as he graduated high school and began planning his life. It was the same choice I had faced, at about the same time. It was the same choice faced by the three others I had played for in the past year, dozens of others over past decades. All of them had chosen to serve. All except me.

Someone from VFW called me a few days ago. They know I play for Vietnam vets. This also is my choice. But, no matter how many times I play, it seems I can never make up for that other choice I made, so long ago.

The newspaper story had been respectful but short. He had been a good student and an athlete, a star wide receiver in high school. Wounded at Lang Vei. Bronze star. Purple Heart. Two weeks ago a road crew had found him under a bridge, most of his worldly possessions in a rusty shopping cart hidden in the brush nearby.

As always, I needed to know more. By now, after so many, I had a set routine. As soon as I received the call from VFW, I Google-searched the name. I tracked down family and friends. I learned as much as I could about where and when they had served, battles they had fought, what they had done after the war. But mostly, I tried to figure out why. Why had they chosen to serve? I felt like I had to know before I could play at the service, before I could even attempt to honor the sacrifice. The sacrifice I had avoided making.

From my investigations of the others, I learned that some had believed in the war, but that many thought it was a mistake. They hadn’t bought the bullshit about falling dominoes, about fighting for democracy in a godforsaken jungle on the other side of the world. They had gone anyhow, even though there had been other choices.

What about this one, the one under the bridge?