I’d forgotten my ear muffs. How could I have been so careless on such a cold day? Plus, I had to take off my toasty-warm gloves to operate my camera, taking photographs at a burial: an urn of cremains; a family seated around it; local veterans grasping flagpoles, the flags flying free in a brisk and bitter wind; and an honor guard, guns at the ready for a 21-gun salute.
I mentioned, well, I may have grumbled, okay, I griped to one of the veterans who took part in the military burial that my ears—and the rest of me--were frozen.
“I figure he went through a lot more than that,” was the veteran’s one-sentence reply.
Yes, I’m betting Pvt. Morris Worrell wouldn’t have grumbled at all. He may not have minded crawling out of a warm car to stand for 20 minutes on a blustery November day to honor a man such as himself.
He might not have minded standing at attention, alive and residing in a free country, well-fed and well-clothed—even though it was only 19 degrees—to revere one of his own.
He probably wouldn’t even have minded surviving 75 cold Nebraska winters if he wouldn’t have been forced—in sweltering heat –into a march so brutal as many as 650 American prisoners of war died en route to a POW prison.
Years ago I was able to visit with a friend who—like Pvt. Worrell—endured the Bataan Death March in April of 1942, about four months after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. I never met Pvt. Worrell, but perhaps my friend Walter did. Perhaps, Walt Lawrence and Morris Worrell struggled alongside each other in a particular kind of hell reserved for a 70-mile hike from Bataan to Camp Cabanautuan in the Philippines. Perhaps they’d have starved together, thirsted together, been tortured together, or watched fellow soldiers bayonetted or beheaded for the least infraction.
My friend Walter had a difficult time walking when he got back to the States – because, you see, enemy forces had broken his arches.
I detest war. I’ve always maintained that as a relatively-bright species known as humans, we should be able to avoid war, to come together at a bargaining table and arrive at a fair and sensible solution to each and all disagreements with other nations without picking up stones and slings, clubs and mace, flintlocks, breech-loaders, rifles and machine guns.
But there are situations, I’m told, when it can’t be avoided. On those occasions, men and women go to fight those wars on our behalf. On my behalf. So that I have the privilege to speak my mind about—and write about—war. Or anything else I please.
These men and women have my deepest and ongoing gratitude.
Yes, I’ll bet Pvt. Worrell would have gladly traded places with me at the cemetery this morning, even without ear muffs. Or maybe not. Because soldiers seem to be a special breed of mankind. They must believe there is no finer thing a person can do with his or her life than to risk it in exchange for another’s. for freedom. for us.
In honor of our veterans, and especially Pvt. Morris Worrell, after so many years of rest in a mass grass, brought to his hometown for burial at Wisner, Nebraska -- LaRayne Topp
I mentioned, well, I may have grumbled, okay, I griped to one of the veterans who took part in the military burial that my ears—and the rest of me--were frozen.
“I figure he went through a lot more than that,” was the veteran’s one-sentence reply.
Yes, I’m betting Pvt. Morris Worrell wouldn’t have grumbled at all. He may not have minded crawling out of a warm car to stand for 20 minutes on a blustery November day to honor a man such as himself.
He might not have minded standing at attention, alive and residing in a free country, well-fed and well-clothed—even though it was only 19 degrees—to revere one of his own.
He probably wouldn’t even have minded surviving 75 cold Nebraska winters if he wouldn’t have been forced—in sweltering heat –into a march so brutal as many as 650 American prisoners of war died en route to a POW prison.
Years ago I was able to visit with a friend who—like Pvt. Worrell—endured the Bataan Death March in April of 1942, about four months after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. I never met Pvt. Worrell, but perhaps my friend Walter did. Perhaps, Walt Lawrence and Morris Worrell struggled alongside each other in a particular kind of hell reserved for a 70-mile hike from Bataan to Camp Cabanautuan in the Philippines. Perhaps they’d have starved together, thirsted together, been tortured together, or watched fellow soldiers bayonetted or beheaded for the least infraction.
My friend Walter had a difficult time walking when he got back to the States – because, you see, enemy forces had broken his arches.
I detest war. I’ve always maintained that as a relatively-bright species known as humans, we should be able to avoid war, to come together at a bargaining table and arrive at a fair and sensible solution to each and all disagreements with other nations without picking up stones and slings, clubs and mace, flintlocks, breech-loaders, rifles and machine guns.
But there are situations, I’m told, when it can’t be avoided. On those occasions, men and women go to fight those wars on our behalf. On my behalf. So that I have the privilege to speak my mind about—and write about—war. Or anything else I please.
These men and women have my deepest and ongoing gratitude.
Yes, I’ll bet Pvt. Worrell would have gladly traded places with me at the cemetery this morning, even without ear muffs. Or maybe not. Because soldiers seem to be a special breed of mankind. They must believe there is no finer thing a person can do with his or her life than to risk it in exchange for another’s. for freedom. for us.
In honor of our veterans, and especially Pvt. Morris Worrell, after so many years of rest in a mass grass, brought to his hometown for burial at Wisner, Nebraska -- LaRayne Topp
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