Roll Call
April 12th, 2008 by 1st Lt Prifogle
“Captain White.”
“Present.”
“Major Thompson.”
“Present.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Maddox.”
“Present.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Walls.”
Silence.
“Lieutenant Colonel Walls.” The voice echoes through the silence of the Memorial Chapel.
Silence.
“Lieutenant Colonel Walls.” Now, with an annoyance in each syllable like the sound of a teachers voice calling for a child skipping class.
Silence.
“Lieutenant Colonel Walls.” The voice from the back of the sanctuary announces the name one last time and I can hear tears coming through the Sergeant Major sounding off roll call. Breaking the somber silence a solo bugle player belts out the notes in Taps as we stare at the fallen Marine’s picture, a pair of boots, an M16 propped up with his Kevlar on top and his flak jacket with his subdued field rank displayed on the chest. The scene is something out of a movie, only it’s real. This is all too real for me
I did not know this man. This Marine. This Father. This son. This Husband. This Friend. But now I am at his memorial. I wanted to pay my respects to a fellow Marine killed by a roadside bomb.
For a moment I think that I came to the memorial for the wrong reasons, or maybe just my own reasons. I came because I wanted to feel something. Pain or sorrow or sympathy – anything but a growing disdain for this war. Anything but this nagging oncoming of nothingness. This apathy towards life.
I listen to the words of those who worked with him.
“Being a Marine, a leader, wasn’t just a job – it was a way of life.” I can’t help but internalize the words of these strangers. I zone out as I picture my own memorial. I try to imagine what people would say about me.
“He is survived by his wife and four children.” The chaplain announces to the somber room. Nobody would survive me. I don’t have a husband or family of my own. Would that make it easier for a room for of strangers to accept my passing if something were to happen? “She’s survived by her parents, and four siblings.”
I came here to remember what its like to be sad. To feel something other then self-pity for my still being here ordering things that are more comfort related items than anything that can be contributed to the war efforts. I came here to be reminded that I am in a war. People are dying here. I came here to feel – I’ve forgotten anything other then anger, frustration, exhaustion. I forget what it’s like to not be here.
The memorial ends with a photo slide of this man and his children, his Marines, his wife. I fight the urge to cry. I ask myself – why are you here? At this memorial? In this country? In this war? None of it makes any sense anymore.
All the emotions that I had forgotten about flood my body and for a moment time stops. I look at this man’s picture one more time. I think about his family and the funeral they are attending on the other side of the world. I think of their children and how they will never know their father. I think of a woman who just lost the man she loves to war. I think life isn’t fair, but for this man at least the suffering is over.
*Names have been changed.
Hey Libby, that would stink so bad if that ws you who couldn’t respond back to roll call. I don’t know shat I would do without you.
Miss You
Sara
Hey Libby,
Your recall of the memorial service prompted me to remember when I sang a solo hymn for a fallen Marine in our unit in 1990. I didn’t know him, as you didn’t know the man whose service you attended. Like you, I wanted to feel the sadness and to give honor to a brother, hoping if it were me instead that someone would honor me in a similar way.
Hats Off,
Matt
Ma’am,
Thank you for writing that.
I’ve found it hard to explain myself just why the Last Roll Call affects me as much as it does. And you’ve gotten it just right-it’s the tone of voice. It’s the /way/ they call, as though the soldier (or marine) were just late, had just overslept, had just forgotten their gear and run back for it or SOMETHING, and any moment they’re going to come running down the aisle, saying “I’m here, I’m here, don’t call me out of ranks, I’m here, I’m late, but I’m here.”
And then the last time, the tone of voice, you know they’re not going to answer. That they’re never going to answer again.
That’s the part that always hits me the hardest.
Thank you for writing it better than I could have.