Dan Gallagher - October 18, 2005
Human Cost of War
This is Dan Gallagher with Veteran’s Viewpoint.
Autumn is my favorite time of year. Perhaps it’s the colors of fall, the image of ripened fruit, the long shadows, or the harvest moon; or maybe it’s my rural upbringing that makes this season special to me. I also find myself more contemplative and introspective and, probably, more emotional as October comes around.
And now, autumn—at least this autumn—gives me new reason for contemplation.
The war in Iraq goes on, and continues its tragic harvest of young American lives. The produce of this war, as it is with all wars, is found, not only in the number who have made the supreme sacrifice, but in the tens of thousands who will return to their homeland as war veterans, bearing in scarred bodies and minds the unending cost of war.
I have frequently spoken of the moral obligation of our policymakers to weigh the human cost of war before even considering entering into it—and to weigh it as a priority concern, remembering Jimmy Carter’s words that “war is sometimes a necessary evil, but it remains an evil.”
Recently, the most vivid demonstration of war’s evil was visited upon the families and friends of two Missoula soldiers—Josh Hyland and Andrew Bedard—who joined 2000 other of their fellow soldiers in making that great sacrifice of their young lives.
Last week, I stood in line along a Missoula street to honor the sacrifice and the memory of Andrew Bedard, a 19-year-old Missoulian who was killed in action in Iraq just two weeks ago.
As I stood there with my youngest children, a flood of thoughts and memories came over me—as I am sure was true with most who stood there. As young Andrew’s coffin was carried from the funeral mass at St. Anthony’s Catholic church and placed in a hearse, and as his body was carried in the hearse along Missoula’s streets to his final resting place, the sadness in the air was so thick that one felt as if it could and should, somehow, be brushed away from us.
St. Joseph’s grade-schoolers—from preschool through eighth grade, and Loyola students, some of them perhaps only a year or so younger than Andrew, lined the streets near their school.
It was a scene that was, in the same instant, both reverent and sad. There were fallen autumn leaves along the curb where the students stood, and it occurred to me that, before the leaves of another autumn have fallen, some of those students and some of Andrew’s friends and buddies who drove in his procession might well be called on to face whatever demons this war has to offer them.
As I watched the procession, my mind returned to a time when I was young and had to say a similar goodbye to war buddies who had paid that same ultimate price. I wondered if the feelings of Andrew’s friends and buddies were the same at that moment as mine had been as a
nineteen-year-old soldier.
I was unimpressed by those who appeared to treat the moment as some sort of official event, yet moved by the genuine outpouring of emotion that could be felt.
I was especially touched by the sight of so many young people—whom I presumed to be Andrew’s classmates and friends—who inched their way along as they drove in that sad procession. So young, dear God, so young.
As I watched, I wondered about the pain of his death. I thought of how his parents must have felt when that terrible news was first given to them, and I’m sure that I can not really fathom the intensity of their sorrow.
I thought of the depth of pride we all felt for Andrew, and that we feel for all those who serve in our name, and how we Americans have always known that service and loyalty to our nation is part of our heritage. And, even though I have opposed this war, I have always honored those willing to put on the uniform and face combat in our name.
And, I must admit that, as I watched the hearse go by, the words “what a waste” came to my mind—the ‘waste’ being that war—humankind’s most horrific invention—had ended a fine young life long before God had ever intended; had forever stolen a child away from those who birthed and nurtured him; and had removed forever all that might have been—all that might have come from this young man.
From this procession, I took a heightened resolve, as all of us can, to do what is possible to make war an extinct artifact from human history; but, more importantly to me, to help assure that those who have died in our name will not be forgotten, and that those who served and sacrificed—and continue to do so—will not be left to fend for themselves in resolving their
war-caused difficulties. Every one of us has a moral duty to assure our defenders that our flag waving will not be traded in for neglect; that the yellow ribbons of today will not be the veterans’ red tape tomorrow; and that the families of those who prayed their soldiers home from war will not see the prospect of treatment and respect for their veterans become little more than a prayer, itself.
To the Bedards and Hylands and the families of all other honored dead I can only offer condolences and prayers and respect—and a commitment.
Andrew and Josh and the others have left us, but their memories remain.
There is, I am told, and engraving at Arlington that says best what I and others can offer to their memories, a brief prayer of simple eloquence. It reads: “Sleep well, soldier, you are not forgotten.”
This is Dan Gallagher with Veteran’s Viewpoint.
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