CHAPTER 13 - TAPS

            The scene that greeted us outside the chapel looked more like the staging area for a parade than a funeral procession. Instead of a hearse, waiting next to the curb was a caisson drawn by six white horses. I noticed immediately, and thought it somewhat odd, that all the horses wore saddles in addition to their harness, and that the three horses on the left side had riders. There was a fourth mounted solder waiting beside the caisson. Their uniforms were not the same as the others because they were from the Army.

            There were still more uniformed men, mostly Marines, waiting in formation across the road. The column was led by a Marine Corps bugler and - of all things - a bagpiper and drummer, both in full highland dress. I supposed that was appropriate. The Shannons came from Ireland, but there were also plenty of Wallaces, Campbells, and Scotts, in the family tree.

            After the musicians, next in line came the escort platoon and firing team all standing smartly at attention with their rifles on their shoulders. Bringing up the rear was the color guard bearing the flags of the United States and the Marine Corps, flanked by two more Marines with rifles.

            The doors of the chapel opened and Pastor Barlow emerged with Col. Ryan, followed by the casket team, six burly young Marines carrying Joey's coffin. I watched in awed interest, taking everything in. Just before they reached the curb, Pastor Barlow and Col. Ryan stepped aside while the body bearers continued past. Col. Ryan saluted, and Pastor Barlow placed his hand over his heart as the flag-draped coffin went by. The casket team executed a five-step formal turn with clockwork precision. Then, I watched in awe as the soldiers effortlessly raised the casket to almost shoulder height in order to place it on the caisson. No easy feat, I mused. That must be why they picked such big boys for the detail. I suppose those horses knew they were in the Army too, because none of them so much as twitched a muscle during the execution of the entire operation.

            The bagpiper prepared to play, and I cringed as his instrument made an atonal screech. This was the result of the piper inflating his instrument and settling it under his arm. This accomplished, he began to produce something slightly more melodious while the drummer beat out a solemn and stately tattoo. The chosen tune was The Flowers of the Forest, a suitably mournful-sounding Scottish lament to accompany the procession to the gravesite. Of course, the deep whining hum of the drone pipes sounding over the melody from the chanter would have made just about anything sound suitably mournful, even Happy Birthday.

            Falling in behind the piper was the escort platoon and firing team with the color guard behind them. Pastor Barlow followed the marching element at an interval of about 15 yards, walking ahead of the caisson, which followed at a similar space. Since it was not a great distance to the gravesite, we mourners followed the caisson on foot, just like in all those old western movies with the bereaved walking behind a horse-drawn hearse up to Boot Hill.

            When we reached the gravesite, I heard the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge give the order, "Present Arms!" and the soldiers all raised their hands in a crisp salute. Pastor Barlow again placed his hand over his heart. At the command, "Order Arms!" everyone dropped the salute again. The piper and drummer, escort platoon, and color guard were already in position, waiting at the foot of the grave. The bugler was standing a short distance away between the piper and the chairs, which had been set up for the family. About 50 yards away, the firing team was standing ready at a 45-degree angle facing the grave.

            A hand on my back gently propelled me in the direction of the places prepared for the immediate family. I had assumed it was Dan, but I found myself looking unexpectedly up into the face of my father. He appeared weary, but he attempted a faint though somewhat distracted smile as he guided me to a chair. As next of kin, he was expected to take the first chair. I anticipated that my mother would take the place next to him, but she opted for the seat directly behind him and indicated that I should take the next seat. Dan sat beside me with Gary beside him. Kay took a seat on the back row with my young cousins between her and my mother.

            I watched as the body bearers stepped forward to remove the casket from the caisson. Then, the bagpiper began to play Amazing Grace, and that overwhelming sense of loss hit me all over again. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and bit my lip to maintain control. Col. Ryan and Pastor Barlow saluted yet again as the casket team executed yet another turn with drill-team exactitude and prepared to march to the grave. At the command, "Ready, step!" Pastor Barlow moved in front of the body bearers to lead the procession to the grave, and Col. Ryan followed behind.

            While the piper continued with his excruciatingly heart-rending rendition of Amazing Grace, Pastor Barlow reached the gravesite and stepped to the side, once again placing his hand over his heart as the casket passed. Col. Ryan, who also saluted, joined him. As the body bearers positioned the remains over the grave, they dropped their salutes together. I remember thinking, Pastor B's getting good at that. And it dawned on me that the repeated salutes had been for the flag covering the coffin and not the coffin itself.

            Once the coffin was in place, the casket team unfolded the flag and held it taut, like a canopy, over the remains. Apparently this was Pastor Barlow's cue to begin his portion of the service. He stood at the head of the casket and said, "We've now done everything we can do for our friend and brother, Sergeant Joseph Wayne Shannon. We've brought his body to its final resting-place, and we commend it to the earth from whence it came. But first, I want to remind you of the words of John, the beloved apostle, in the book of Revelation where we find this promise:

"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

            "The Apostle Paul in one of his letters to the Corinthian church also reminded us that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. Though Joseph is absent from this earthly body, we know that he is present with his Heavenly Father, and he's waiting for us to join him there."

            Pastor B. folded his hands in front of him and intoned in this most ministerial voice, "Now, let us pray." Bowing his head, he began, "Almighty God, our Father in heaven, in whose hands are all the living and the dead. We thank you for your children who have laid down their lives in the service of our country and especially our brother, Joseph. We pray that you will bless and keep his family and friends who feel his loss so deeply, make Your face to shine upon them and be gracious unto them, lift up Your countenance upon them and give them peace. Amen."

            Pastor Barlow stepped back, and the NCOIC took his place as the funeral director made a motion for us all to rise. The NCOIC gave the command, "Present arms!" and the military personnel all saluted again in unison as I saw the firing team raise their rifles to fire the first volley. Even though I expected the loud report that followed, I still flinched and Dan put his arm around me. The soldiers fired the second and third volleys in quick succession, and then all was silence as the bugler slowly raised his instrument to his lips and began to play Taps.

            I don't think there is a sadder, lonelier sound in all the world than that solitary bugle call over the grave of a fallen soldier. I listened with a lump in my throat as the words ran through my mind.

Day is done, gone the sun
From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky,
All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.

            There were other verses, but this was the only one I remembered. I had learned it during a brief stint as a Girl Scout in elementary school. I recalled standing in a circle with all the other girls in the deserted school cafeteria, joining hands and singing those words to signal the close of each weekly meeting.

            As the final, poignant note faded into the distance, the funeral director motioned for us to be seated and the military personnel dropped their salutes. The casket team began to fold the flag, which they'd been holding over the grave. From bottom to top and from end to end they folded the banner 13 times with practiced ease and stylized ceremony until all that remained was the familiar triangle of white stars on a blue field. When this ritual was complete, the casket team leader turned and presented the flag to Col. Ryan, who saluted him before receiving it. Then, the team leader saluted the flag and the body bearers were dismissed.

            With great dignity, Col. Ryan walked toward my father to make the formal presentation. As he stepped up to my father, however, my father looked up at the officer and indicated by a nod and gesture that he should present the flag instead to me. He nodded in understanding and took one step to his right until he was standing in front of me.

            Genuflecting, he extended the flag to me and said, "On behalf of the President of the United States, a grateful nation, and a proud Marine Corps, this flag is presented as a token of our appreciation for the honorable and faithful service rendered by your loved one to his country and Corps." Though the words came to him with a practiced ease born of too many repetitions, I knew they were spoken with sincerity. I accepted the flag, covering his gloved hand briefly with my own in a small gesture of empathy. As I looked up into his eyes, I saw that they were sad and tired. In that instant, I felt a rush of sympathy for all the times that he must have been forced to enact this scene. I sensed that the job had only grown more difficult with each funeral through the years.

            With discipline born of a lifetime of service, he rose, snapped to attention and saluted the flag once more. I nodded my mute thanks and hugged the banner to my chest as the silent tears rolled down my cheeks, making dark spots on the blue cloth. Then, in what might have been a minor breach of decorum, Col. Ryan placed his hand on my shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. Leaning over, he whispered in my ear, "God bless you," as he softly kissed my cheek.

            Once the presentation of the flag was made, Col. Ryan, Pastor Barlow, the funeral director and other attendants lined up to offer formal condolences. People I'd never seen before, and people I barely knew, acquaintances and friends passed by and shook my hand, speaking the customary words of sympathy. I offered my hand and nodded, making the appropriate replies. Though I responded automatically, my heart was far away. Actually, no, that wasn't quite true. My heart was only a few feet away, waiting to be buried in Joey's narrow grave.

            Finally, the last hand was shaken and we rose from our chairs. People were milling about the cemetery, visiting in small groups. Others made their way back toward the chapel and their vehicles. The cortege had been dismissed and the military personnel were making a dignified and discreet exit. My parents, Kay and the boys and Gary all began to walk toward the chapel and the limousine that would take us home.

            Without a word, Dan put his arm around me once more as we slowly started to walk away. There was no need for words, just the gently comforting pressure of his hand on my arm. Pausing for a moment, I looked back over my shoulder as the tears welled up again. There, beside the grave, stood a lone sentry who would keep his solitary vigil until the body was interred.

            My Uncle Gary and his family left the morning after the funeral, back to New Orleans, out of sight and out of mind. Dan and his family left for their home in California that afternoon. Before he left, though, Dan gave me his telephone number and told me to call him collect if I ever wanted to talk. After he returned home, Dan made a valiant effort to keep in touch. He never failed to remember me with a card or telephone call on holidays and birthdays. He tried so very hard, but California was at the other end of the world as far as I was concerned, and I still couldn't help my feelings of abandonment.

            My father spent the entire weekend following Joey's funeral packing away his youngest brother's clothing and possessions. With the exception of Joey's football jacket, which I rescued from the pile and squirreled away in my bedroom when my father wasn't looking, all his clothing was destined for donation to the Salvation Army. Joey's other possessions, his footlocker that I doubted my father had even bothered to open, and the meager collection of boxes that represented all of my uncle's worldly goods were relegated to storage in the attic. There, they joined everything else my parents no longer wanted but with which they still could not quite bring themselves to part. It was the final repository for anything my folks wanted out of sight and out of mind. I suppose I was lucky that they hadn't decided to stick me up there with all the other things that had ceased to hold their interest.

            My parents had both been surprised when they came home from work the next day to find that I had quietly moved all my things into Joey's room. I was acting on the premise that it's easier to get forgiveness than permission, and gambling that they'd be more likely to acquiesce once I was already in residence. My father, as it turned out, didn't seem to care one way or another. My mother was slightly affronted, though, that I should prefer Joey's masculine-looking room to the one she had personally decorated with its white canopy bed and froth of organdy ruffles and chintz flounces. To tell the truth, I'd always felt like an interloper in that room. My mother created the perfect little girl's room with absolutely no regard for the fact that I had never borne any resemblance to the perfect little girl.

            In Joey's room, I felt at home and I felt closer to Joey, because I'd surrounded myself with the things that reminded me of him. I braved spiders and whatever else had made its home in the dusty darkness of the attic to go through the things my father had so peremptorily packed away, bringing them right back down from the attic. One of the things I rescued was Joey's record collection. His albums by artists like the Beatles, Hendrix, the Rolling Stones, and the Doors joined my recordings of the Monkees, Bobby Sherman, and the Partridge Family. Joey's high school yearbooks took their place on the bookshelf beside my copies of Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books and the Chronicles of Narnia. The Beatles poster that had always hung on Joey's closet door went back to its rightful place, and the guitar that he'd loved and played so often once again took its accustomed position in the corner.

            On top of the chest of drawers that now held my clothes instead of his was the folded flag that had draped Joey's coffin. Next to the flag was the box that held Joey's medals and decorations, carefully arranged in order of precedence: the Silver Star, the Distinguished Flying Cross, and the Purple Heart with a star, denoting a subsequent award. Apparently the bullet that ended Joey's life had not been the first he'd encountered. There was an Air Medal with a bronze Roman numeral "III" denoting the number of flight awards, and the Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal with a V for Valor. There was a Marine Corps Good Conduct Medal for good behavior and faithful service, a Vietnam Service Medal with four bronze stars denoting his participation in four campaigns during his time in country, and also the Republic of Vietnam Campaign Medal for support of RVN troops. Last were his marksmanship awards: the Rifle and Pistol Medal, both with bronze E's denoting his expert qualifications.

            I had known about the marksmanship and the campaign medals, but the other decorations were a complete surprise. Joey had never mentioned the awards in his letters to me. On the one hand, Joey was not the type to brag about accolades and honors. He was a humble and unassuming hero. On the other hand, he would have been reluctant to worry me with the details of some of the heroism and meritorious achievements that had garnered many of those awards. I would probably never know the full story of Joey's tours of duty.

            Flanking the flag and medals were two framed photographs. On the right was the formal 8 x 10 portrait taken when he'd graduated from boot camp, one of those multiple view photographs that had been popular at the time. The full frontal view showed a stranger, a solemn-faced Joey in dress-blues, but superimposed like a ghost in the background was Joey's face in profile wearing a gentler expression. The other photograph on the left was of Joey the way I preferred to remember him. It had been taken on the patio in the backyard. Joey was leaning against the wooden porch post, his head slightly bowed, dark hair tousled, smiling up at the camera when the picture was snapped. Every night before I climbed into bed, I would say good-night to Joey by kissing my fingertips and touching them to the top of the picture frame, a practice that will most likely continue for the rest of my life.

            I wish that I could say that Joey's death had brought my family closer together, bequeathing a new legacy of love and understanding between my parents and me. Unfortunately, that sort of thing only happens on those Sunday evening Hallmark Hall of Fame television specials. The truth of the matter is that we soon fell easily into the old familiar patterns and habits of our relationship. My parents remained distant, preoccupied with their own lives, and I was equally distant, preoccupied with mine.

***        

            Whenever I think of Joey, I will always remember him as he was on the day we said good-bye, kneeling before me, those luminous blue eyes looking up into mine while the brilliance of his smile suffused his boyish face with an almost holy glow. Even then, I think a part of me knew that he was too good for this world. Joey was a true believer. To Joey, patriotism, duty, and honor weren't just meaningless words to be parroted on Memorial Day and the Fourth of July. They were the creed by which he lived his life.