The Mission

The man rose early. Today was the mission. John Baxter wore his tailored black suit and un-clipped the name badge with his picture from his belt, he wouldn’t need it today. He took the paper grocery bag full of the contents needed for the mission, rolled down the top and tucked it under his arm. He looked at the photo once more, a young man in  uniform staring back. He committed it to memory and slipped it into his breast pocket. John put on dark shades and headed for the door.

The bus was on time; he checked his watch to be sure. John searched for an open seat as the driver eased the machine into traffic. He had taken this ride many times before, always the same mission.  He opened the paper bag slowly and looked inside making sure the items were accounted for. John the fastidious planner never left anything to chance.  

The bus made its first scheduled stopped as a few slow moving patrons grabbed their backpacks and loudly descended. This was Washington D.C and the buses were full of tourists eager to get pictures at the memorials and museums. Most of the crowd appeared to John to be first timers in the city. A father in a Pittsburgh Pirates cap flipped through a brochure while rattling off the day’s itinerary to his kids. A mother in the seat across from John scolded a young boy who wouldn’t sit, preferring to run down the aisle. Nearly everyone had a canvas bag or a camera held close and chatted loudly while pointing out landmarks.

John sat expressionless. He thought about the families, most on vacation, enjoying time with each other. He remembered the last time he felt carefree and hopeful about the future. He quickly put it out of his mind and focused. The mission demanded preparedness and sobriety, determination and toughness. Others wouldn’t understand so he never talked about it. He looked out of place with his black suit and dark glasses amid a sea of shorts and sandals. The bag sat on his lap, the contents wrapped tightly inside with the top rolled shut.

   

His stop would be the third and the driver had just opened the doors at the second. Another round of sight seers disembarked and made their way toward the capitol. A pang of nervousness shot through John’s legs as he knew the next stop was where the mission would begin. He thought about his first one. The nervous tremors nearly ended the whole affair. It had gotten easier since but was never easy. Today was Memorial Day which explained all the extra people around. John preferred the anonymity of a midweek mission but today was special.  

John let out a long breath as the bus slowed and finally stopped. He grabbed his bag securely and stepped off, looking skyward as the bright sun warmed his face. The walk toward the rendezvous was the worst part. It took nearly 10 minutes to walk from the bus stop to the site, all the time walking past reminders of the country’s legacy etched into stone carvings.

He could feel the soft grass under his feet, the weakness in his knees becoming more apparent, his heart beat quickened. John stopped and turned; his hand shaking as he reached into the bag and removed the bouquet as he gingerly approached the head stone with unfortunate wording.

John Baxter Jr.

PFC

U.S. Army

1990-2010

Afghanistan

Iraq

He took a Kleenex from his pocket, the tears coming down in streams as he removed his glasses. He carefully laid the flowers in front the stone while digging for the small flag he would sink in the earth. He removed the photo from his jacket and leaned it gently against the cold granite. He thought about how insignificant the tokens were for such a special life. These moments were tough. What to say? After a few minutes John gained his composer and knelt down for an intimate talk with the one person he would give anything to see again. He felt less alone here than at home but the sadness of Arlington National Cemetery made it impossible to stay long. Others were there too visiting loved ones and paying respect, their own personal mission.

He stayed 30 minutes today, the guard change signaling the time. John picked up his empty bag ready to go and looked around the enormous cemetery, another successful mission. He thought it wonderfully ironic that both vacationers and families of the war dead came to Arlington for the same reasons. The monuments represent freedom and sacrifice in equal measure. Families of the fallen got the sacrifice while the rest got the freedom. He was encouraged by the ceremonies and parades, folded flags and speeches celebrating his son’s bravery. They couldn’t fill the emptiness or satisfy the need, but it helped when other’s asked about his son. John loved to share stories with anyone who cared, anyone interested. It helped to pass the time--until his next mission.

Memorial Day 2016.