A Memorial Day tribute to the men and women who serve.
Ellen Cardwell, her lovely face remote and unaffected, tapped the microphone against her cold breast. Ignoring her cameraman, she scanned the huge crowd gathered in the churchyard for yet another military funeral. How many of these had she been forced to endure over the last year? It was the same old story over and over, grieving family, military honors, mothers weeping; fathers stoic or openly distraught. Another hollow-eyed widow numbed by loss staring blankly toward the grave. Another wasted young life.
The coverage would no doubt feature one of the family or a close friend babbling on about the fallen warrior. How he or she, loved their country and had been all too willing to sacrifice their patriotic lives for freedom - in short, nothing new, nothing exciting.
Besides the usual cluster of civilians, a large contingent of military types formed a veritable cluster around the immediate family. An Honor Guard conveyed the flag draped coffin to the gaping hole in the soft earth where another youngster would rest for what remained of eternity. Sighing, Ellen's bored eyes continued to roam over the crowd and stopped short.
Standing at ridged attention on the very edge of the crowd stood one lone officer, dressed in crisp Air Force blues. It was difficult from this distance to discern the officer's rank, but his chest clearly displayed a pair of wings and was covered with a host of ribbons. A single star situated on each ramrod shoulder glinted in the hot sun. So, not just an officer, a brigadier general, interesting. What was an Air Force big wig doing attending a lowly Marine's funeral? Using the crowd for cover, Ellen shielded her eyes from the glare and maneuvered closer.
The general's tall and weathered features wore the customary mask of military indifference. His body was fit in a way that indicated the man was still a very vibrant and active officer not just some token desk jockey.
Drawing closer, she noted that throughout the ceremony his handsome face remained empty. The dark sunglasses he wore made it impossible to gauge any spark of emotion in his eyes. He stood so very still, she almost imagined he was made of stone instead of flesh and blood. Jaded, she thought, cynical and jaded. So then, why was he here, isolated and alone? Good question Ellen, maybe you've unearthed something. Drawing closer, she continued to study the unknown general intently.
The minister's deep baritone seemed to drone on for quite sometime filled with sentiment and sorrow. Evidently the deceased had been an exceptional, young man, his life filled with promise, his loss clearly regrettable. The air seemed to quiver with mourning, sobs escalated in volume. Her softhearted cameraman sighed with regret and even Ellen pushed aside an unwelcome spark of sentiment. The boy's mother threw herself on the flag draped coffin and screamed her pain. And still, the stoic brigadier appeared unmoved.
Brigadier General Jack O'Neill kept his eyes focused on the stars and stripes. This was unfortunately not his first sojourn into the dark battlefield of sorrow and loss. Too many wars, too many fallen comrades over countless years, built a thick armor of ice around his emotions, and his all too compassionate heart. He knew how to distance himself from the pain, knew how to lock away his sorrow and deny it dominion - at least in public.
Yep, he was a master of denial, but in the wee hours of night, when all was still and empty, those carefully tamped down feelings would threaten to overwhelm his sensitive soul and steal away his humanity. Ah, but over time, like all seasoned veterans, he'd learned how to deal with that kind of torment too. Learned to drag his sorry ass up the ladder to his roof and let the vast ebony expanse of the universe absorb his anguish. The glittering stars in the night skies formed a lifeline of salvation, allowing him to climb up from the dark abyss that threatened to swallow his soul.
Jack remembered the first time Billy Shelly's squeaky adolescent voice tentatively requested entry into his fortress of deliverance. It had been a crisp, cool and cloudless night in early May, he'd just returned from that second fatal mission to Abydos. A hellish mission during which he'd lost another friend, this time to a parasitic creature instead of a bullet. Somehow that made the loss all the more horrific and surreal. So, he'd headed up to the roof with a bottle of Jack Daniel's intending to use the whiskey to push away the pain.
"Ya-oh! Colonel O'Neill, it's me Billy. Whatcha doing up there? Hey, can I come up?" Billy's voice cracked and pleaded hopefully from below.
Putting aside his drink, Jack peered over the lip of the roof.
Billy angled his small flashlight under his chin and grinned upward, his face appearing rather ghoulish and endearingly goofy.
Despite his foul mood, Jack recognized the pesky kid from next door and stifled a laugh. What the hell, why not? Maybe it was time to share his sanctuary. "Sure kid, but be careful, will ya? If you tumble off that ladder your mom will skin me alive."
"Ya sure, you betcha!" Unconsciously mimicking his hero, Billy joyfully took the rungs two at a time and scampered onto the roof. He was an athletic thirteen, slightly gangly and freckled-faced redhead with a sweet disposition, whose father was all too often out of town on business. Hungry for a man's attentions, he'd latched onto O'Neill, and with his mother's blessing, sought the man's company whenever possible.
He'd been primed for it he supposed, given that he'd just lost his son, his wife and retired from the Air Force. Thanks to one inexperienced, but open, all too geeky archeologist and a group of trusting alien kids on another planet light year from earth, Jack's aching and empty psyche was slowly learning to live again. Over the years, Billy inveigled his way into the hard assed colonel's guarded heart. Yep, from day one, unloading boxes from the back of his pick-up, little Billy seemed to wiggle beneath Jack's armor.
And when he'd left retirement behind, once again taking up the mantle of a warrior, Billy's approval somehow added a hint of bittersweet spice to the mix, making his life all the sweeter.
The minister's voice stopped suddenly. An expectant hush fell over the crowd, followed by the bugler's mournful rendition of Taps; shaking Jack from his reverie. Touched, his eyes burned behind the safety of his shades with unshed tears.
Ellen noted the sudden tensing of the unknown general's impassive jaw. Anticipating a reaction at last, she slinked forward, instincts at the ready, hoping to capture and immortalize that moment of naked revelation.
The bugle faded out, silence gave way to the clip and cadence of military protocol, as the Honor Guard carefully removed the American flag from the coffin. And then, folding it formally, presented it to the young Marine's mother.
The general, his face still disappointingly dispassionate, turned away, his ramrod shoulders squaring imperceptibly as he moved.
Gesturing for her cameraman to follow her lead, Ellen rushed to intercept him. Placing her slender body in his path, she flipped the microphone on, tossed the hair out of her eyes and smiled knowingly. "What brings the Air Force to a Marine's funeral, General? Why are you standing back here, all alone?"
Momentarily taken aback, Jack's head came up sharply, his mouth tensed into a thin line of disapproval. Crap, where the hell did she come from? Normally, he would have seen her coming a mile off. Refusing to respond, he pushed past the nosey journalist, ire clearly fueling his long legged stride.
Disappointment suffused Ellen's cool features. Then, quite suddenly, the general halted mid-stride. Pivoting with astonishing agility, he whipped off his sunglasses and pierced her with a knowing glare.
Carefully controlled rage simmered in the depths of his deep-set and narrowed sable eyes, his lips twisted with contempt. Something beyond anger flitted over his arresting countenance. Something Ellen couldn't fully identify, until she studied the footage later that day. Yes, later, when she wasn't just chasing a lead, Ellen recognized those emotions for what they were: pure undisguised pride and affection.
"Because, Gunnery Sergeant William Joseph Shelly mattered." He hissed. Looking over his shoulder, his gaze swept the Honor Guard as they filed by. "They all matter." He added passionately.
Jamming the sunglasses back over his eyes, Brigadier General Jack O'Neill, seasoned officer, leader of men and grieving friend, regained his façade of icy composure. And, just as he had countless times before, found the strength to move on.
