Last Friday I sat in the sun dappled shade on a bench in Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery as my father was honored as a Marine for the last time.  For me it was the first time I had sat in the front row at a military funeral.  I have always been standing in the crowd at the back but this time I couldn't hide.

 

My father was a Marine at the tail end of World War II.  By the time he was able get in the Corps, the war was nothing but an occupation but he had to get in and serve.  His service was spent in Puerto Rico and Alabama repairing aircraft and crashing jeeps in swamps.  But, it left an indelible mark of odd military terms, the compelling need to call the bathroom the head and a ridiculous sense of the appropriate time to wake up your children for the rest of his life.

 

He passed away quietly in a hospital bed several weeks ago as he struggled to breath following complications suffered after what should have been a harmless home accident.  Instead he went to join my mother who had preceded him by five years.  He took his time in his way and after 81 years could say he lived a good life.

 

Then last week I made my way home with my family to join my brothers and sister as we were sat in the front row to stare at the stand that would hold the small box of his cremated remains under a shelter in the center of the cemetery.  A bagpiper played off in the woods a few yards away as we settled in our seats.  My parents friends quietly gathered behind us.  I could feel their eyes on my back and I longed for a spot on the wall behind them.

 

To our left stood a remarkable honor guard of ancient men in crisp Marine Corps uniforms with neat M-14 rifles at the rest position.  Each one with the lines of a long ago war etched on their faces but a grim watery eyed determination to honor a fellow Marine on his final mission.  Volunteers who ensure that no veteran is buried alone.

 

I realized I felt terribly exposed.  The comfort of the back row was not mine this day.  For all these years I was always able to quietly huddle away from prying eyes.  As a soldier I know what is coming in this ceremony and as a veteran of four tours of war I know the routine all to well.  I know which parts will make my shoulders shudder and which parts will make my eyes water.  It is a routine carefully hidden-- when hidden in the back row.

 

The music stopped as two young Marines collected his remains and a flag from the hearse and marched quietly to stand before us.  The box was laid down as I surveyed these young men.  The sergeant had a chest of ribbons including all the trappings of a reservist with multiple mobilizations and three stars on his Iraq Service Medal.  There were no lines on his face and in many ways it looked like he could barely shave but he had probably seen more life and death combat than I had seen over my 22 years.

 

I knew I would be found out as the flag was unfurled and the honor guard marched a few paces away. I knew what would happen next as they raised their rifles and the shots began to echo.  Three volleys for a not so young Marine sergeant and my shoulders began to shudder as they always do.  I braced myself for the distant bugle as it took up Taps.

 

A simple song that has so much meaning to a veteran.  At West Point it meant it was time to call it a night.  In my youth I found 'Taps' a soothing sound at night.  It meant peace fell on the often chaotic halls of the Academy. It was a time I cherished for many years.

 

Then I went to war and 'Taps' became the tear producing symbol of another life lost in service.  The long bugle is the most mournful sound I can imagine. The tune drifted across our seats as tears fell on my suit.  I was thinking how much I hated being in the front row as the bagpipes rose again in a final salute to a great Marine, father and patriot.  In the end a folded flag was presented as the sergeant thanked my oldest brother on behalf of a grateful nation for my fathers service.

 

I thanked my father for giving me the desire to serve for so many years and mildly cursed that service for making 'Taps' forever a sad song in my heart.

 

As we stood to head home I promised myself to be in the back row again next time.