Picture It:
There are over 140 national cemeteries in the United States, each reserved primarily for military veterans and their spouses. Most states also have special cemeteries set aside for veterans. And of course, there are the thousands of soldiers laid to rest in simple family plots, with countless more buried where they fell in unmarked graves.
Picture It:
All those graying headstones, rank upon rank. All those humble crosses or Stars of David. Many bear names that are fading, worn away by wind, water, and time. Others never bore names at all, being veritable tombs for unknown soldiers. If you ever have the fortune to visit one of these cemeteries, you will likely never stand in a place more solemn and reverent.
Picture It:
Take just any one of these graves, it doesn’t matter which. Each will have its own story. Each will stand as tribute to deeds of valor, service, and sacrifice. Of course, most of these stories will never be made into a movie. Most will feature only as footnotes in history books, if at all. But if you take the time to learn them, you’ll find they are all fascinating, all humbling, all important.
Take, for example, the story of Alonzo Cushing.
Picture It:
He’s little more than a boy—only twenty-two years old. He has a round face with dark brown hair parted to the side. He comes from Wisconsin, already the veteran of many battles. His friends describe him as a lover of duty and discipline, a young man who takes his job seriously and would prefer no other. At only twenty-two, he is already a leader. He is commissioned in the United States Army as a first lieutenant, but the war is long and the situation is desperate and he is authorized to act as a major in the artillery.
Picture It:
He is standing behind a low stone wall atop a rolling green ridge flanked by woody hills. Far away, through the smoke of musket and cannon fire lies a town called Gettysburg. It is the third day of battle, and the third year of the Civil War.
Suddenly, on another ridge nearly a mile away, over one hundred cannons start spitting fire. It is a barrage such as the world has never seen, meant to destroy and drive off men like Cushing. Behind the stone wall, men duck for cover or run for safety.
Then Cushing appears, gesturing, shouting, encouraging. Get back in line, get back in line. The other men comply. They return to their posts. Cushing himself is already wounded, his body pierced by shell fragments. But he is still standing.
Suddenly, the cannon fire stops just as suddenly as it started. Gray shapes appear out of the smoke. The Confederate Army is advancing. Cushing orders his men to fire, but the gray wave keeps coming. The battery of cannons he commands is already nearly crushed, and Cushing is ordered to go to the rear. He refuses, because there is no one to take his place.
Picture It:
A second shell tears through his abdomen. Another officer comes, says, “Cushing, to the rear.” Cushing refuses again. He personally directs every shot. He is still standing—because he has ordered a sergeant to hold him up.
Cushing looks out and sees the enemy is only yards away, and will be up and over the stone wall within seconds. He reaches for the nearest cannon.
“I will give them one more shot,” he says. He does. And he dies.
History books—and Abraham Lincoln—record what comes after. That his sacrifice was not in vain.
Picture It:
In the cemetery at West Point, there stands a tall headstone. It reads:
Alonzo H. Cushing
Fell July 3rd 1863 at Gettysburg
Faithful unto death.
There are hundreds of cemeteries across the United States, the final resting place for countless heroes like Alonzo Cushing. Each a study in service and sacrifice. Each “faithful unto death.” Each with a story to tell.
To me, that is what Memorial Day is for. It’s a chance to remember their stories. To picture them as they were in life. To ensure that, while the names on their headstones fade, their memories never do.
