Jack G
09-02-2007, 06:54 AM
Yesterday, I rode to a local church to meet with others for a PGR escort for the family of a fallen soldier. This young PFC had been a local football player, was good looking, well liked,, and did what so many of our children have and will . He joined the Army and was sent to ancient Iraq. He soldiered there until being sent to his god by an IED planted in the road.
At least 200 bikers showed. Yes, there were protesters there from a strange church in Kansas. In my minds eye, I refused to see them. The day was long and hot. The service started at noon and lasted until 3pm. Several of the bikers left for lunch and returned. Some got hot, tired, whatever, and left. Water and snacks were handed out on a routine basis by volunteers. I rested in the shade on a rise just to west of the parking lot watching bikers come and go, talking in small groups, those groups busting up and turning into different groups as the day went on. As the fallen soldier's family would enter and leave the church, we would stand by our bikes and hold our flags. Groups, who had been talking or walking around became silent in the presence of the family.
At long last, we lined up 2 abreast behind the funeral procession to the cemetery. The Ride Captains went first, followed by the large flag carriers, followed by the smaller flags, and the rest of us. At least, 100 bikers made up the escort to the cemetery 24 miles away. The local police stopped traffic at every intersection. Folks stood out of there cars, trucks, etc in the heat to watch us pass. Some saluted. Some waved. Some stood with their heads bowed, right hands to their hearts. As we passed firestations, businesses, neighborhoods, people would walk out to stand along the road to pay their respects. It was like that the entire distance as we passed thru this young soldier's childhood hometown.
As we turned into the cemetery, we saw family and friends who had arrived before us. Some had smiles, others tears. The bikes were parked on the far side and large flags were passed out to those wishing to form a flag line wrapping the family gathering in the sign of our country. The military marched, spoke, saluted with hands and rifle shots, flags were folded and given to the family by the military and the PGR Captain. Children played in the background, some were spanked, some cried.
Afterwards we waited for the family and friends to leave and we went our separate ways. Many, we will not see until the next PGR mission for a fallen soldier. I left and went to a nearby Western Sizzler. I was famished, tired, hungry. As I sat their by myself eating and drinking in large amounts of tea, something registered within me: Whether our nation's citizens support or protest the war, most realize soldiers, fallen or returning safe, aren't just someone's child. They belong to all of us. They will be remembered for their sacrifice and an occasional tear will fall.
At least 200 bikers showed. Yes, there were protesters there from a strange church in Kansas. In my minds eye, I refused to see them. The day was long and hot. The service started at noon and lasted until 3pm. Several of the bikers left for lunch and returned. Some got hot, tired, whatever, and left. Water and snacks were handed out on a routine basis by volunteers. I rested in the shade on a rise just to west of the parking lot watching bikers come and go, talking in small groups, those groups busting up and turning into different groups as the day went on. As the fallen soldier's family would enter and leave the church, we would stand by our bikes and hold our flags. Groups, who had been talking or walking around became silent in the presence of the family.
At long last, we lined up 2 abreast behind the funeral procession to the cemetery. The Ride Captains went first, followed by the large flag carriers, followed by the smaller flags, and the rest of us. At least, 100 bikers made up the escort to the cemetery 24 miles away. The local police stopped traffic at every intersection. Folks stood out of there cars, trucks, etc in the heat to watch us pass. Some saluted. Some waved. Some stood with their heads bowed, right hands to their hearts. As we passed firestations, businesses, neighborhoods, people would walk out to stand along the road to pay their respects. It was like that the entire distance as we passed thru this young soldier's childhood hometown.
As we turned into the cemetery, we saw family and friends who had arrived before us. Some had smiles, others tears. The bikes were parked on the far side and large flags were passed out to those wishing to form a flag line wrapping the family gathering in the sign of our country. The military marched, spoke, saluted with hands and rifle shots, flags were folded and given to the family by the military and the PGR Captain. Children played in the background, some were spanked, some cried.
Afterwards we waited for the family and friends to leave and we went our separate ways. Many, we will not see until the next PGR mission for a fallen soldier. I left and went to a nearby Western Sizzler. I was famished, tired, hungry. As I sat their by myself eating and drinking in large amounts of tea, something registered within me: Whether our nation's citizens support or protest the war, most realize soldiers, fallen or returning safe, aren't just someone's child. They belong to all of us. They will be remembered for their sacrifice and an occasional tear will fall.