Flag Day Matters

Lost Somewhere in France - 1968

Heat snakes like the charmed vipers of Morocco rise off the railroad tracks beneath my feet. We've been walking for miles in the blistering summer heat of France, trying to find a train station to catch a ride back to civilization.

Our Opel station wagon, in an untimely display of rebellion, broke down outside of Cavignac leaving me and my family stranded. There is some kind of national holiday today so finding somebody to help us seems to be above and beyond what anyone wants to do. So we walk. We make our way on foot trying to reach Chateauroux Air Force Base to enlist recruits to fix the car.

My brother, Randy, marches on ahead of everyone, while my sister, Sandi, and I lag way behind distracted by the weight of our own feet. A nearby dog detects strangers within his territory, and throws a canine fit to warn his master and all others within a quarter-mile radius of our advance. Suddenly a farmer appears with a shotgun and stands at his property line as we pass on the tracks below. Dad doesn't flinch. He stares straight ahead, and keeps walking. We all do likewise. The farmer yells in French, but we walk on ignoring his tirade.

Randy keeps his eye on the farmer and his dog while Dad continues to "mush" us along the tracks toward Chateauroux. I hate it when he tells me to "Mush." It makes me feel like a dog.

Mom says to keep our eyes open for an American flag and we'll know we've reached the base. She also plays tour guide to keep our minds off our fatigue by pointing out all the places of interest along the way. "Look, there's a trestle bridge, a herd of cows, some crops." Next thing you know she'll be passing out Farm Bingo cards.

We have only a few days left of our last vacation in Europe. When we get back to Seville, our new orders should arrive and we will have to leave San Pablo Air Force Base.

"Dad?" I ask, hopping from one railroad tie to the next.

"Hmm," he grunts.

"Will you be going to Vietnam?" I probe, hoping he laughs and tells me how silly I am for asking. But he doesn't laugh. He doesn't smile. He doesn't say anything for a long, long, long time.

"Don't know," he finally says, but it gives me no relief.

"Could you be going to Vietnam?"

"Anything's possible."

"War is stupid." I retort in the most adult-sounding, highly educated, well-informed voice I could find hiding out in my eight year-old body.

"Don't ever say a soldier giving his life for freedom is stupid!" he fires back with an emotion not exactly anger, but very close to rage. I've never heard the tone before, and hope I never hear it again.

"There are worse things than war," my father says, but I don't believe him.

I've seen war. Being raised the daughter of an Air Force officer, means watching a lot of war movies. Catching the latest big screen version of some far away conflict at the base theater is as much an integral part of my childhood as counting to ten, learning to read, or going to church. Movies such as Bridge On the River Kwai, The Battle of the Bulge, and The Longest Day are a consistent part of my Air Force diet. I know war is horrible, but don't believe there's anything worse.

"I hate war."

"You're supposed to hate it," he says before his head and his heart disappear into the heat waves of the waning afternoon sun.

The day passes slowly mile after endless mile. Finally, we make our way to the train station and reach the Air Force base by nightfall. Sleep is quick and deep for all of us pressed neatly between the perfectly starched sheets of the beds in the BOQ (Base Officer's Quarters). Morning comes, and with it a couple of raindrops - nothing monsoonish, just a few sprinkles. We decide to go to a movie on base just in case the rain decides to get serious. Mom gives Sandi plenty of money for the afternoon and dismisses us so we're not late for the opening cartoons.

On our way to the theater, the sky suddenly opens up and all of heaven's storehouse dumps directly down on us. Rain falls in gargantuan sections, like panes of glass. Sandi runs for cover, Randy finds a tree, but I see two airmen march out of a nearby building toward the flag pole. Their posture is impeccable and their cadence flawless despite the fact that they are being pummeled by the rain. They salute the flag in silence before untying the cords that have held it in place. I immediately halt. I respond by covering my heart with my right hand.

Sandi yells at me. "What are you doing? Get out of the rain!" Randy chimes in, "Don't be so dumb, it's pouring!" Rain drenches my hair and my clothes as the wind now becomes intentional and whips the water sideways. There in a rainstorm, on a summer day in France with no parent watching, no authority commanding, I stop what I'm doing. I stand at attention and wait. The honor guard lowers the flag without any indication the torrential rain is affecting them. Water streams from their faces, but they make no move to wipe it away.

"Get up here!" Sandi calls. I stay. The guard carefully folds the flag starting at the striped end working their way up to the field of blue in triangle after triangle of perfect alignment and precise timing. Water begins to fill the gutter I'm standing in, but I don't move. The rain creeps up the sides of my tennis shoes and soaks my feet. I still don't move. It rains harder, and my shirt sticks to my back. I wait.

I wait in silence, in reverence, and respect as the guard tucks the last bit of the flag into the end of the field and turns to reenter the building from where they came. It matters that someone left their dry building in a rainstorm to protect that flag from the rain. It matters that they sacrificed their own comfort. It matters that they didn't flinch. It matters that they care. Then comes a feeling I've never felt before - ownership. That flag is MY flag; the only consistent expression of "home" I've ever known.

It matters to me.

Copyright © Donna A. Tallman, 2009.