No one would notice him, he muttered under his breath. Why would they? Today of all days? Not like he held the medal of honor, given to him by the President himself. Not like he lost three fingers in Germany, yet still fought on. It's not like he didn't give up everything that was important to him to defend this nation that all the people around him are taking for granted. He was bitter, and in his mind, he had every reason to be. While people set off fireworks, had warm family cookouts, saying how much they love this country and are celebrating its birth, he knew that everything they did was shallow and without real remembrance of those that died to give them this day. He may as well have died, he thinks as he scowls at a group of young men toasting drinks under a flag. If he died, he would have been remembered.
His steps are faltering due to years of heavy drinking, and his hair is all but gone, but looking at him today is nothing like looking at him when he landed in England in 1942. He was a young, robust man. He was ready to defend his country after the devastation on Pearl Harbor. Jim Baker, his best friend since grade school and fellow grunt, was with him the day he landed, July 3rd, 1942, 11:49pm. Being so close to the American holiday, they didn't want to disappoint the Old Girl an ocean away by not honoring her birth, they took out a flag and waved it from the back of the jeep as they drove to the barracks. He would always remember Jim smiling as he waved that flag like a maniac. Remembering Jimmy was one of the few things he smiled about these days. A German air raid struck at 12:01am, July 4th, 1942, striking just behind the jeep and throwing it forward. Jimmy was killed instantly from shrapnel, though he made it out with only a few contusions and a broken finger. He silently had to admit to himself, all these years later, that event may have soured him on the way people celebrate Independence Day. They should be celebrating Jimmy and the life he gave to defend them on that day.
He sits on a bench, his old bones creaking and shaking, as he lowers himself down. How did I get so old, he chuckles, looking to his right to ask his lovely wife. Silent as death, he looks sadly at the empty space next to him. She died a few years back, he reminds himself. They lived a long time together, had so many good times that it is impossible to count, but the cancer finally stole her from him. . . July 4th, 2007, 1:30am. His mind flashes to the day he met her, much like a good number of other soldiers, they met at an Army hospital where he was taken after a German soldier took three of his fingers in a knife fight after they both sheepishly ran out of ammo. She was gorgeous, he reminisces. Long brown hair, a smile that could steal your breath, and eyes that conveyed a world of meaning in a single glance. It was love at first sight, he was smitten. They began seeing each other through letters after he was sent back to Germany, and were married two days after he returned to the States, July 4th, 1944, 4:06pm. They lived modestly, he worked in a auto plant and she cared for their two sons. Unfortunately, they lost both of their sons in the Vietnam War, July 4th, 1969, 8:30pm, to a landmine.
She never recovered from their loss and they never had any more children. Tears filled his eyes, though he never let others see weaknesses in him. He couldn't stop and wept on that bench, surrounded by people annoyed that some old man in a faded army uniform was ruining the fun for them. A young man, dressed in his formal Navy whites approached him and stood silently looking down at him. He looked up and the young man saluted smartly. Astonished and caught unprepared for this to happen, he slowly raised to his feet, the young man never moving to help him, which made him happy; this young man respected him. A sharp salute back and the young soldier shook the wrinkled hand of the older soldier, simply telling him thank you. The tears returned to his eyes as he asked, in a voice thick with emotion, why are you thanking me.
"For everything you gave to this country, sir. My grandmother never let me forget what you gave this country or my family. I'm sorry, sir, I should have introduced myself. My name is James Baker, III, and it is an honor to finally meet you and thank you in person."
He fell backwards into the bench, the young man springing forward with a concerned look on his face. James Baker? Jimmy? His young wife was pregnant before he left for England? With meeting this young man, his life came full circle. He stood up, a smile lighting his face, and asked the young man if he would like to know about his grandfather. Walking close together, the unsung hero walked shoulder to shoulder with a young solider, both remembering what this day means to them, and realizing that this day means so much to so many other people.
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