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I got a bunch of them.
They were in all different
sizes, ranks and poses.
They were even on different
sides. They were miniature Revolutionary War soldiers made out of pewter.
They were well-crafted and amazing things to see. They were given to me and
I took them without even mumbling a “much obliged.” My older cousin Daryle
had given them to me. Daryle was all dressed up in his army uniform when he
gave me the gift. He looked even more impressive than the little soldiers
did. I didn’t really want the little soldiers he offered me, but I took
them. Daryle was a good man and as my elder, he deserved respect. I was at
that awkward age when it came to such things. I was too old to play with
the small troops and too young to really appreciate them. The only material
things I was interested in at that age were my baseball glove, my GE
transistor radio with the earphone and my dream car that I would be too
young to drive even if I could have afforded to buy it.
My mother always told me that a
person could never be too thankful. Even with that wonderful instruction, I
had neglected to thank Daryle for the little soldiers. I wish my mother
would have taken them from me, along with my old comic books and baseball
cards, and told me that she would give them back to me when I turned 30 in
the hopes that I would have developed a brain by then.
I had become the proud
possessor of a Springfield single-shot .22 rifle. I wanted to practice with
it. Daryle had shown me his marksmanship badge and I thought maybe I could
earn myself one of those one day. He was plenty proud of that badge and
told me that it had taken a lot of practice to get it. A decent target cost
good money and I wasn’t much of a hunter, so the little soldiers were the
perfect prey for me. I set the little army men up on a rockpile and then
began picking them off one-by-one with my Springfield rifle. The shooting
did wonders for my sharpshooting skills, but it didn’t do the little pewter
figures much good. Soon they were all gone, shot to pieces, yet another
item tossed upon my life’s scrap heap.
Time passed. I had forgotten
all about the tiny pewter soldiers until I received word that Daryle had
been killed in Vietnam. The day he gave me the little soldiers was the last
day I was to ever see Daryle alive. He left a wife and two young children.
I felt a horrible emptiness inside. I wanted to bring Daryle back. I wanted
to bring those little pewter army men back. I never did thank Daryle for
those little soldiers. Perhaps playing with the little soldiers is what
made Daryle want to make the Army his career? I will never know.
Since that day that I learned
of Daryle’s death, I try very hard to thank everyone for everything.
Sometimes I forget, but I try real hard.
Some years ago, I made a trip
to Washington, DC, and visited the Vietnam Memorial. I was going to make
rubbings of Daryle’s name on the Memorial Wall, keeping one for myself and
giving the rest to a number of my aunts. I was doing okay at this task
until a little blond-haired girl wearing a white dress, put a flower at the
base of a long row of names. This little girl, probably the grandchild of
one of the deceased, brought back a flood of memories for me. Her actions
caused me to give much thought to Daryle and some to those little
Revolutionary War soldiers made out of pewter. I cried as I made a rubbing
of Daryle’s name from that Wall of names of brave people who died doing
their duty in the jungles of a foreign land. It took me a number of
attempts before I was able to finish making the rubbings. The Wall was
something—all those names! I cried like I had never cried before.
I never thanked Daryle for the
little pewter soldiers. I never thanked Daryle for serving this country
well, for being willing to die for all of us back home. Daryle died for his
country and for all the things it represents. People like Daryle have made
this country what it is, the greatest place on earth.
For some reason I know, the way
people sometimes know things, that whenever I thank a veteran, that Daryle
hears me and understands that I am thanking him, too. Thank you.
©2001 Al Batt
71622 325 St.
Hartland, MN
56042
SnoEowl@aol. |
