I caught up with Harold Kelly in the narthex of the church following services Sunday. “Mr. Kelly,” I said extending my hand, “I just wanted to say, thank you for your service.” His eyes immediately filled up with tears that in a matter of moments came pouring down his cheeks.
The memories came flooding back; Anzio beach, the staccato report of a German light machine gun, the high pitched whine of an 88. I’d seen that look in my father’s eyes. My father, to the day he died could recite the name of every soldier in his platoon that had been killed or wounded and tell you the place and the date. There had been too many.
The combat veteran never forgets. He never forgets those he served with and those who fell. They are woven into the fabric of his existence to be carried as a precious gift through life and beyond. Those of us who never experienced war can never truly understand. “I came back,” he said, now gripping my hand with both of his, “so many didn’t . . . back to this church . . . God let me come home.”
Mr. Kelly’s friends, family, and fellow communicants within earshot encircled him in a group hug that would have made a liberal-Catholic envious. There wasn’t a dry eye. Once a year we honor our veterans, and we think that’s enough. It isn’t. Every day is Memorial Day for a combat veteran.
