The Silence When Soldiers Die
By Keith Sherman
When I was a little kid growing up in Heath, Massachusetts, I would head over toward the main street in Charlemont, the next town and watch in awe as veterans marched along in order as Shriners played “I’m a Yankee Doodle Boy,” with their big brassy instruments booming in my ears. I loved that song and belted out those lyrics proudly never realizing I’d grow up to be a sailor.
It was a beautiful day in Washington D.C. on November 1st — the sun was beating down as over 100 Gold Star families from across this country gathered together to see their loved one’s stories about the ultimate price of war be escorted into the Library of Congress forever preserved in our nation’s history. Over the course of a year and a half, I had traveled to every corner of the United States in cities and towns large and small to interview family members of the fallen who have been killed in action since 9/11. I met the mothers, fathers, siblings, children and other loved ones of our fallen heroes. In run down apartments, shacks, and sometimes homes with pristine manicured lawns — I could see with my own eyes grief’s unbearable imprimatur forever marked by the loss of a loved one from war.
I had started my journey home to Massachusetts a broken man. After 26 years of service and parachuting some 600 times, I had been diagnosed with PTSD and was beginning the road to recovery from my emotional and physical scars. I couldn’t just go back to the place where I grew up a broken sailor, I wanted to go home whole again — that person I was when I enlisted. After losing countless friends to the horrors of war be it in combat or blowing their brains out by suicide, I decided I needed a healing journey. The only ones who could help me were the Gold Star families whose children had given their last full measure of devotion with their very blood.
I started my trek with my car, motorbike and a tent in San Francisco traveling eastward from state to state to document the stories of the fallen though their families voices. These men and women who paid the ultimate price for freedom came alive again for an hour or two in a room where they were remembered and no longer just names etched on a cold granite memorial wall. Once again, the soldiers were people who had hopes, dreams and life-long plans for a better tomorrow. They were whole and not stopped in their final tracks on foreign lands and mine rigged battlefields.
I went to 50 states to collect 50 stories. A permanent digital collection of their biographies was assembled with the intention of donating the collection to the Library of Congress. I met my last family outside of Boston. U.S. Marine Captain Jennifer Harris, 28, was piloting a helicopter when it was blown up outside of Fallujah, Iraq. Her father, Raymond, said she could have been anything she wanted to be, a doctor, a lawyer but Jennifer wanted to fly like a dove. That would become her military nickname. Through his unhindered tears, he spoke deeply of Jennifer. Jennifer Harris — remember her name.
On that November day, these Gold Star families from across this great country gathered together, be it whether they flew, drove or walked to Washington D.C. shrouded in emotion on a brisk fall afternoon. I had sent out official invitations to all of our senators, and members of Congress who I thought wore a flag pin on their lapels as a sign of their unwavering and unbiased support for not only our troops but the freedom our flag represents. I invited the media to come as I recognized this was an important story.
No one came. No one. These families deserved so much better than the absence of dignitaries let alone the press. Do we really live in a time where these ultimate sacrifices made are not recognized by those who put their hand on a Bible and swear an oath of protection to this nation? What is Veterans Day? When I was that boy growing up veterans were our heroes who had been at Normandy, received Purple Hearts and witnessed D-Day. That sense of patriotism brought our country together although I realize Vietnam was the first time we turned a cold. back to our soldiers.
As I was standing at a podium in the awe-inspiring Library of Congress giving my speech about the importance of enshrining these stories forever in our nation’s archives, I could see not 500 yards away through the window — the majestic Capitol. I thought to myself about honor at that moment. I had heard and documented the stories of these Congress members constituents no longer alive, and I came to the conclusion that sometimes wearing a flag pin is an accessory, much like a tie or a scarf. Thankfully, the lack of attendance by senators and congressmen was transparent to the families and didn’t diminish the importance of that day’s event to them. Those families can now take solace in knowing that their heroes legacies will live forever in the National Archives.
On this journey, I have healed. Through the sadness of those whom I have met who have entrusted me with their loved one’s memories, somehow, I grew stronger. I have finished my path of crossing this great land with its beautiful peaks and valleys. I’m now resuming my new normal, whatever that may be. I’m not the same innocent man who left home 27 years ago. I’m a veteran, a Yankee Doodle Dandy and Veterans Day will always be this soldier’s homecoming. It’s not simply a day off but rather a day of reflection and reckoning for all that I have seen.
