In the company of a fallen sailor
A few days ago I was fortunate—and yes, I meant to use the word “fortunate”—to be traveling on a commercial airplane commandeered by the U.S. Navy.
While still in the terminal, I saw the men in their dress uniforms. I made note of their medals, their stripes … and even how shiny their shoes were, how stiff their hats. People clapped. And I heard a few token “Thanks for your service” shouts from fellow travelers. The officers nodded. Shook a few hands. Smiled, oh so slightly. But then — everything changed when people saw the flag-draped coffin being lifted from one plane to the next and realized, to everyone’s dismay, that these men weren’t on their way home … they were part of the honor guard accompanying a fallen sailor to his final resting place.
Truth be known, I don’t like to fly. In fact, I hate it. Something about a gigantic bundle of steel being able to float through the air just doesn’t sit with me — basic physics and Bernoulli’s law aside. So, when I’m in the air, it’s going to be a bumpy ride for me, and everyone around me, no matter how friendly the sky. Yet when you’re sitting a mere ten feet or so above a fallen sailor, and your mind begins to encompass the gravity of the situation, it’s easier to be calm. Easier, for me at least, because rather than think about crashing to the ground, I couldn’t stop thinking about the person whose homecoming was far from joyous.
Later that afternoon, when I was safely home I couldn’t help myself and I began an hour long search — with Google’s help — to try and find out more about the fallen sailor. I felt an overwhelming urge to know his, or her name. To know if they were young. Had a family. Who their parents were. What they did before the Navy … what made the sailor, who he or she was. But I couldn’t find anything. And maybe that’s for the best. Because forever now in my mind, that sailor is everyone — there is no race, no gender, no age … no characteristics other than someone who lost their life helping to protect mine.
There is nothing beautiful about war.
Nothing beautiful about lives lost, about countryside’s scorned, about fear generated from ideology. Yet witnessing the active-duty men and women salute our airplane upon touchdown; and sharing the moment with complete strangers, well, that was beautiful. And I for one, consider myself fortunate to have been allowed to help bring this sailor home. To cry beside people I didn’t know. To feel something so profound I cannot even begin to describe. For that, I am honored. And it is something I will never forget.
Note, while I wrote this more than a decade ago, the photo is from a recent trip (2023) my husband and I took to Pearl Harbor. Also, something I am fortunate to have experienced.
Originally published between 2011 and 2014, this post has been updated but preserves its original publish date as content is migrated from the archives of The Flavored Word.
DISCLAIMER: I’m a writer and an editor. And I try my best to make sure every post is articulate and free from errors. However, being that I edit my own work—and it’s next to impossible to properly edit your own work—I admit, occasionally there may be an error or two I miss. But doing so doesn’t make me an idiot so don’t be mean. Just smile, pat yourself on the back for finding an error and be glad you’re not the only one who makes mistakes sometimes … xoxox
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