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The Ghosts of Arlington West

My three Army years were served during peacetime in Germany. None of my buddies were killed. I am grateful for that. Only my Commander in Chief, John F. Kennedy, was killed while I was in the Army. It is not so today: The Commander in Chief is safe, but the troops are dying.

I have been to the Arlington West war memorial at least a dozen times in San Diego County over the last three years. I see young Marines walking among the crosses on the beach. They appear as silent sentinels, walking through a fresh graveyard. Each time it is disturbing as they brush by the ghosts of their buddies.

I have spoken with some of these men. They are all respectful and mostly willing to talk with us old guys and women about why we do this. I yearn to understand why they do what they do, but asking a young man why he volunteers to face death seems a disrespectful questioning of his judgment. I know the altruistic answers he may give, but I yearn to understand what fate has impelled them. They are grateful for Arlington West. It is so little that we do, but they never fail to thank us. Yet I cannot bring myself to thank them for their willingness to die. I have never felt they were dying for me; I have nothing of such great value that I would be willing to exchange for the life of one of these young men — not even my own life and freedom. It would be confrontational to suggest that I have more to fear from domestic tyrants than from foreign enemies. (Please understand, I came from New Orleans. I had family there.)

It gets harder each time to broach conversation with these Marines. It stirs up such a tempest in my soul. Twice I have later found names on crosses of young men with whom I had spoken at Arlington West. When the sun sets and the great field of candles and crosses glow in the night, the rolling waves create great undulations of sorrow. Ghosts start moving silently. The candles will soon lose their light. By midnight the memorial has disappeared. So have the Marines. But the ghosts of the dead still linger with the waves. They will not go away.

I am strong in matters of reason but crumble in matters of sorrow. I no longer approach or speak to these young men, although I often feel they are seeking assurances. It seems too intrusive for my soul to touch theirs. Their being is too sacred. I listen in on their conversations with others but often have to walk away, for I know that the moment our eyes and souls meet, we cannot be separated. I will not be able to forget them. They will appear in my dreams during the night, and part of my soul will follow them into war.

I do not like that so many of them will have their psyches and souls shattered. I do not like that so many of their bodies will be ripped and slashed. I do not like that these young men will enter hell, where the demons of war will infest their psyches for the rest of eternity. I do not like that many will return seeking home but become homeless. I am distressed that many will grow bitter and disillusioned with our government and others will rationalize the evils of war to protect their own concept of self worth.

I know they are tough young men, well-trained Marines, but I see them as innocent young kids. It rips me apart, knowing they will themselves be ripped, in psyche and body. I don’t think the Universe intended it this way. The God I know seems so full of sorrow.

Most young people have a sense of invulnerability. Death does not exist in their world. These young men, however, know the danger they face. Many have already lost buddies, or seen their injuries. Yet they go. They are Marines and always faithful to what they see as their duty.

I wish that the old men in Washington who send them had gone themselves. I just wish that these calloused, insentient old men could feel the innocence, trust and integrity of these young men. I wish they could exchange their greed and lust for power for the respect, valor and integrity of these Marines. I wish they could understand the sacred worth of each one of these young men the way that the Universe does. And I hope that each of these young Marines, as they meet the ghost of their buddies, will come to understand the great value of their own being in this world. I hope they will all become commanders and shapers of their own moral integrity.

Why do we cast such beautiful pearls before such swine? Why do we place crosses on a beach where their ghosts move about? When will these ghosts go away?

Arlington West, with 2,228 crosses, was set up on the Oceanside, CA, beach on Saturday, January 18, by the San Diego Veterans for Peace and the North County Coalition for Peace & Justice.

 

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