I must have

been about five years old when I saw him sitting on a float during the

July 4th parade on a terribly hot day in Kingsport, Tennessee. He was

the most ancient looking man I had ever seen; yet there was a presence

and dignity about him.

His hair was

white, as was his mustache, and he was thin, almost brittle looking. There

was, however, a steely glint in his eye as he surveyed the crowd and a

strength in his hand as he waved to the onlookers. He was trim and unbowed

in his gray woolen suit which, even to a five-year-old, spoke of a military

uniform.

My father bent

down and said, "He's one of the last surviving Confederate veterans

of the Civil War." That statement meant nothing to me at the time,

of course. I didn't know what a Confederate was and I certainly had never

heard of the Civil War. In those years, before political correctness and

before racists co-opted symbols of heritage, the Stars and Stripes and

the Stars and Bars, both ablaze with red, white, and blue, were displayed

in abundance together in southern parades and festivals. I loved the flags,

the horses, the marching bands, and the men in uniform parading down Broad

Street.

I would learn

about that terrible conflict in due time but, at the moment, I just stared

at the very, very old man. Even if he had been a youth at the end of the

War Between the States, he would have been in his nineties by the time

I saw him on that 4th of July. But it was the look on his face that struck

me. He had a look of satisfaction, of pride, as if he had accomplished

some great thing.

Two years ago,

I was asked to serve as the Master of Ceremonies for the Memorial Day

Observation in Peachtree City, Georgia. As the crowd of several hundred

gathered on that warm Monday morning, I was struck by the number of veterans

of various wars, conflicts, and eras who turned out to honor and remember

those who had fallen in battle on some distant patch of sod. The men and

women present represented all of the military services: the Marines, the

Army, the Navy, the Air Force, and the Coast Guard. Some wore caps signifying

their membership in the American Legion, the Veterans of Foreign Wars,

the Marine Corps League and so on.

Some of the

veterans were older, not as old as the Confederate Soldier, but older

like my father. Some of them had fought in Africa, Europe, and the Pacific

against Nazism or Imperial Japan. They were all grandfathers now, some

even great-grandfathers. Others, slightly younger but with plenty of thinning

or gray hair, saw service in Korea. A large number, most of them around

my age, represented the Vietnam War and stood proudly with the rest.

Scattered throughout

those present were veterans from Panama, Granada, and the Gulf War. Others

were present who were "cold war warriors," those who were never

in a "hot" war but stood guard around the world keeping Communism

at bay. There were those who had enlisted or had been commissioned during

times of peace and pulled their weight to keep the nation strong. I suppose

that this year, there will be young veterans, younger than my sons, who

have served in Afghanistan fighting murderous terrorists.

But that Memorial

Day two years ago, and again last year, I saw something I recognized from

long ago as I look out over the crowd from the vantage point of the podium.

I saw a look on the faces of those assembled a look of pride, as if those

gathered had accomplished some great thing. Unlike the ancient Confederate

soldier, few of those at the Memorial Service were wearing uniforms. Most,

like me, could no longer fit into the uniforms worn during youth, a testimony

to the prosperity of the nation. But the look of satisfaction, of pride,

and of accomplishment was on every face.

Sometimes I

talk to people who protested the war in Vietnam. Many may have a look

of smugness but none that I have spoken to has ever worn a look of pride

comparable to that on the face of a veteran. But how could they? Such

a look has to be earned and only those of that unique brotherhood know

what sacrifice and determination it takes to earn the title of "soldier,"

"sailor," "airman," or "marine."

I will see

that look again in a few days. This year will mark the third year that

I have been honored to serve as the Master of Ceremonies for the Memorial

Day Observation. Early in the morning on Monday, several hundred will

gather once again around the flags at the city hall and library buildings

in Peachtree City.

Perhaps William

Shakespeare, as found in Henry V, said it best: "We few, we happy

few, we band of brothers,Ķ for he today who sheds his blood

with me shall be my brother." In truth, that's what veterans are:

brothers (and sisters, of course). Brothers born of a common purpose,

sharing common struggles, prevailing against common enemies. All veterans

have paid a price. On Monday, America will honor and remember those men

and women whose price was their life.

The Reverend

Canon David Epps is rector of Christ the King Charismatic Episcopal Church

in the Coweta/Fayette County area of south metro Atlanta. He may be contacted

at [email protected] or at www.ctkcec.org .