Somebody explained to me that each of
the little blue flags had a while label with the name of a Californian
soldier that had died in Iraq on it. People were taking one of them and
then lining up to take a turn reading the name of that person on the PA.
I decided to chime in. Standing in line
was a short but quietly reflective experience.
I read "Sargent Lawrence J. Carter" and
it was only a few steps later that Grannie Ruth wanted me to put my
flag in her bucket. It was a while before I stopped wondering what
there was to know about Carter.
The dead Californian soldiers were
respected as individual names. I remember Mike telling me that his
image of Iraq is a burly Marine with "IRAQ" tattooed across his chest
in big, fancy letters lying on a bed in a stateside hospital. He has
bandaged stumps where his arms and legs had been before those and most
of the flesh on his face got blown off by a roadside bomb. He survives
because we have made a science out of keeping people alive if at all
possible, but he will never again be what he was before that day. He is
only one of 23,417 (so far). Don't get me started on the Iraqi
civilians...