Almost every year for over a decade I’ve been writing a piece of flash fiction for Memorial Day and Veterans Day. It dawned on me that I hadn’t written one for Monday and I’d better get to it. Filled the coffee cup and came into the office to write. Neil Diamond on the headphones and time to log in. I realized I hadn’t blogged much this past year. That one is simply explained: God has richly blessed me with so much audio book work that writing has fallen to the side for the time being. But today I write. Please share with others on your social media if you like this one.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

“LET’S GO FOR A SPIN”

“Close that friggin hatch!” The shout came from a choking Lt. Jg who had a lot more time in a Wildcat than an M113. He was more than mildly outraged that the exhaust from the diesel was flowing right into the crew compartment of the armored personnel carrier.

“Sorry, Sir, but if we close that hatch it will get worse. The smell, not the exhaust. You guys are a little ripe after this morning.”

That was probably true. The assembly of heroes had met up in the line to leave Heaven for a day and visit their former homes. Most of this mob had nobody to go back to, most of their children were all passed and none of their spouses had lived long after their respective wars. The grandkids and cousins had forgotten them, and they simply weren’t going to let that stop them. They wanted a brew and one day a year they could take leave and return to the land of the living for a cold one.

The day had started at midnight and they went to the storage depot in Arizona where they found aircraft they knew from their youth. Some were static displays, others waiting for cannibalizing for parts – Buffy was never going to retire at this rate. One of the guys had flown a B-57 for a while before transitioning, and there were a couple of them in the boneyard. 

The nice thing about being dead, if such a thing could be said, was that the usual rules of physics and time did not apply. You could fly a parts bird with no repairs and have your buddies riding on the wings. They all fit, and the only thing that was the same was the roar of the engines, the g-forces in a tight turn, and the smell of kerosene permeating their clothing. All 12 of them loved it, especially when they found a Thud (F-105) and took it for a spin around Phoenix at 0500. That must have been weird for the people on the ground: windows rattling and the roar of a jet as they passed at 15 feet above ground level down the streets of the oldest section of the city. No busted windows (God prevented that one) but lots of people up before the sun and wondering what maniac was flying that low. Lt. Colonel Byron Jenkins just laughed and hit the throttle as he saw lights triggered by the shockwave behind him. He felt more alive than when he was. The bozos sitting on the canopy were all whooping like Slim Pickens in Dr. Strangelove. 

They stopped for breakfast at a diner that had been closed for years, but was providentially staffed by a bunch of cute girls who had worked there during WWII. Eggs, toast, waffles (and of course beer) in quantity.

Next stop was at an armored vehicle museum, and that’s how they happened to be lumbering down I-10 at 1100 on this sunny Monday morning. Three of them had been tankers in various wars, but the kid driving had passed during Desert Storm when an Apache took them for enemy armor. He held no grudge, but he did enjoy being back in the driver’s seat and feeling the old rattle-and-bump of the tracked vehicle as it barged along. The drivers around them didn’t see them, but felt the air bubble as they passed into the zone around it. No living being could hear the laughter as the guys inside split a case of beer and traded stories. 

Just before noon, they stopped at the National Memorial Cemetery for the ceremony. The track was parked next to the simulated grave and they all lined up in formation to honor the dead, for that’s what Memorial Day is all about. An odd assortment of flight gear, tanker helmets, fatigues and dungarees in precision order. The way they looked at the moment of their death. But they stood quietly to honor the ones they knew had fallen with them, but were elsewhere that day. Too many had forgotten, the crowd was small, and they stood with bowed heads. Silent. Reverent. A little bit lost in the emotions of the day. 

When the ceremony was over, one of the sailors asked if they could visit his daughter. She was a baby when he died, but had heard the stories of her dad. The other linguist with him spoke up and asked if they could go visit his family in Texas. Nobody had a problem with that, those two had hopped in the orphan line by mistake. 

Off they went, again in an aircraft reinvigorated for the day by God for their personal use. A quick flight into the deep south to see a daughter and his widow. The daughter was now older than he was when he died and that was hard to take. He’d avoided this moment for decades and realized he should have kept it that way. Heaven would ease that memory, but for now it stung.

The other linguist decided to pass on the visit home after this, and the group talked for a bit before deciding to end the day with a favorite event they all enjoyed: they went bowling.

And on this one day of the year every ball they threw was a strike, with the crashing of the pins adding to the thunder of the their sacrifice to the nation that they all loved. It was eternally loud, and caused people for miles around to look to Heaven for the source. But all the people saw was what some thought to be the flash of explosions on the horizon. 

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Have a blessed Memorial Day. Honor those who paid for our holiday weekend, if just for a moment. They deserve our respect. They never came home.