ringoffire
03-27-06, 07:13 AM
I got this in an email and thought it was worth sharing:
This is a true story....
A SIMPLE CUP OF COFFEE by Don Shacklette (Viet Vet)
One of the things I miss the most about the military was our morning cup of coffee. We all gathered together and had coffee at the start of each day. It could have been in a mess hall, on some sandbags by a bunker or around a jeep in the field, but we always gathered there to talk over and plan the days events. It was also time to share with comrades.
My family had the same habit, gathering around a big blue enameled coffee pot and matching cups at the kitchen table. This was our time together at the start of each day. It was time to share after the chores were done and the breakfast dishes had been cleared. Just a little time to talk and share family.
On the 11th of November I made my usual trek to the National Cemetery with the last of those battered old blue enamel cups and a thermos to have a cup of coffee with my brother Matthew. Matt was much older than me, he was killed in Korea when I was only six years old. For the past 10 years I have journeyed to his grave each Memorial Day and Veterans Day to share my thoughts over a cup of coffee.
It had been snowing off and on for the past three days and the usual Veteran's Day ceremonies had taken place the day before, but it had been moved to a nearby VFW Hall in deference to the many WW2 and Korean Vets who usually attended.
My car was the only one in sight as I turned into the gate and drove along the perimeter road. The sun had just started to rise and a soft light softly illuminated the rows of markers. It was one of those mornings when the fros had rimmed the trees in white.
I carefully counted the rows until I was sure that I had reached the correct one. I was wearing a heavy pair of hunting boots in an attempt to keep my feet warm. No footprints marred the snow between the markers that traveled as far as I could see. I retrieved my thermos and that old battered cup that I had drank from for so many years.
I started to make the walk that I had made so many times before, the snow crunching under my boots. I had counted off less than 30 stones when I stopped, I could hear footsteps behind me. I turned to welcome the visitor and found that I was alone. It was then that I realized that the steps I heard were mine, echoing off the many stones that marked my route. More marching feet joined mine as I moved farther into the cemetery and deeper into the field of markers. By the time I had reached marker 243 it sounded like a battalion were marching in step behind this guidon bearer with a thermos and that old and battered metal cup.
I filled my cup with coffee and poured a little out for Matt. Suddenly I started to shake, tears running down my cheeks, not so much for my grief, but because I had not brought enough coffee for all my other brothers who had marched with me and followed me to Matts grave. I poured the rest of the thermos on the ground in salute to them. It was a small offering, not enough for what they had given. I realized then that I stood again with friends and comrades and we once more shared a cup of coffee on a cold winter morning. The brown stain on the fresh snow almost seemed to be an obscenity, but it was the only mark that I could see. The only mark that said someone cared enough to come out on Veterans Day in the cold and snow and say Thank You for all they had done.
I stood and talked to Matt for about an hour, bringing him up to date about the family and what had happened in the past six months. A final salute and it was time to go.
I don't know what had happened with the snow, it was still falling lightly. Maybe the wind had changed, for I did not hear the echoing footsteps as I left, only my own. My brother and my brothers were not following me as I left, and they never will.
It will be warm on Memorial Day, Spring will have arrived and it will be warm. The grass will be green and the markers will be as white as always. Next Veterans Day I will return again as usual, but with a larger thermos. I hope it is snowing then also.
This is a true story....
A SIMPLE CUP OF COFFEE by Don Shacklette (Viet Vet)
One of the things I miss the most about the military was our morning cup of coffee. We all gathered together and had coffee at the start of each day. It could have been in a mess hall, on some sandbags by a bunker or around a jeep in the field, but we always gathered there to talk over and plan the days events. It was also time to share with comrades.
My family had the same habit, gathering around a big blue enameled coffee pot and matching cups at the kitchen table. This was our time together at the start of each day. It was time to share after the chores were done and the breakfast dishes had been cleared. Just a little time to talk and share family.
On the 11th of November I made my usual trek to the National Cemetery with the last of those battered old blue enamel cups and a thermos to have a cup of coffee with my brother Matthew. Matt was much older than me, he was killed in Korea when I was only six years old. For the past 10 years I have journeyed to his grave each Memorial Day and Veterans Day to share my thoughts over a cup of coffee.
It had been snowing off and on for the past three days and the usual Veteran's Day ceremonies had taken place the day before, but it had been moved to a nearby VFW Hall in deference to the many WW2 and Korean Vets who usually attended.
My car was the only one in sight as I turned into the gate and drove along the perimeter road. The sun had just started to rise and a soft light softly illuminated the rows of markers. It was one of those mornings when the fros had rimmed the trees in white.
I carefully counted the rows until I was sure that I had reached the correct one. I was wearing a heavy pair of hunting boots in an attempt to keep my feet warm. No footprints marred the snow between the markers that traveled as far as I could see. I retrieved my thermos and that old battered cup that I had drank from for so many years.
I started to make the walk that I had made so many times before, the snow crunching under my boots. I had counted off less than 30 stones when I stopped, I could hear footsteps behind me. I turned to welcome the visitor and found that I was alone. It was then that I realized that the steps I heard were mine, echoing off the many stones that marked my route. More marching feet joined mine as I moved farther into the cemetery and deeper into the field of markers. By the time I had reached marker 243 it sounded like a battalion were marching in step behind this guidon bearer with a thermos and that old and battered metal cup.
I filled my cup with coffee and poured a little out for Matt. Suddenly I started to shake, tears running down my cheeks, not so much for my grief, but because I had not brought enough coffee for all my other brothers who had marched with me and followed me to Matts grave. I poured the rest of the thermos on the ground in salute to them. It was a small offering, not enough for what they had given. I realized then that I stood again with friends and comrades and we once more shared a cup of coffee on a cold winter morning. The brown stain on the fresh snow almost seemed to be an obscenity, but it was the only mark that I could see. The only mark that said someone cared enough to come out on Veterans Day in the cold and snow and say Thank You for all they had done.
I stood and talked to Matt for about an hour, bringing him up to date about the family and what had happened in the past six months. A final salute and it was time to go.
I don't know what had happened with the snow, it was still falling lightly. Maybe the wind had changed, for I did not hear the echoing footsteps as I left, only my own. My brother and my brothers were not following me as I left, and they never will.
It will be warm on Memorial Day, Spring will have arrived and it will be warm. The grass will be green and the markers will be as white as always. Next Veterans Day I will return again as usual, but with a larger thermos. I hope it is snowing then also.