That's not what this day is all about, though. Today, we remember those who fell serving our republic. They may have been wearing Army green, Air Force, Navy or Coast Guard blue, or Marine Corps "cammies," but they all served. And, we should remember, not all fell in battle, but they fell serving our nation. They, like so many of us, raised their right hand, took the oath, and promised their lives to America - and they ended up paying that ultimate price.

In my brief time in Uncle Sam's colors, mixed between active and reserve/National Guard time, I was fortunate. In spite of a close call or two, I was rarely in any real danger in my one deployment to a combat zone, that being for the first Gulf War in 1991. I was the Headquarters Platoon Leader for a medical clearing company in the Colorado National Guard that was activated for that conflict; I took 32 members of my platoon over to the Gulf, and all 32 of them came home.

There was one that never returned home, though. He was a buck sergeant - E5 - and the only soldier I ever lost under my command. To preserve the privacy of his family, I'll refer to him only as "Frank." This is his story.

It was late 1990. Our company was at Fort Carson, Colorado, preparing to deploy to the Middle East. We didn't know yet where we were bound, and the company officers and NCOs spent a lot of time poring over maps and speculating, but we were medics and had a pretty good idea of what was in store for us when the balloon went up. Frank was an NCO in my motor pool; as HQ Platoon Leader, I was in charge of the motor pool, food service, and supply. In those days, a soldier in the Guard could languish at E-5 or E-6 for quite a while, and that's what Frank had done; he was old for an E-5, but liked the work he was doing and was happy to stay at that level of responsibility. He was a good mechanic, a popular guy among the men. When I picture him, I always see him smiling. He was always cheerful, and whenever you went to him with a task, his reply was always "I'll take care of it, Eltee," and you could walk away with confidence that the task would be done quickly, completely, and properly. 

Then came the holidays. Our company's trucks and equipment had long since been rail-loaded to go to a port to ship to the theater of operations, but some screwup in the port meant our equipment was to be late arriving at the port in Saudi Arabia. So, instead of deploying in December, we were delayed until the first week of January. The company commander released us all to spend Christmas with our families, with the order to be back a few days after Christmas. I hopped in my pickup and blazed east to spend Christmas with my little daughter, and the company scattered to their homes for those few days.

I didn't know much about Frank's personal life. I knew he was divorced and had a grown daughter in her early 20s. He went off to spend Christmas with his daughter, and he was returning to Fort Carson when it happened. A witness, the driver of a car following Frank's car up U.S. Highway 50 in Colorado's Arkansas Valley, said that Frank's car had just rolled off the highway onto the verge, finally bouncing to a stop. The witness reported stopping, getting out to see what was wrong, and finding Frank, in his BDUs, dead behind the wheel, the victim of a massive heart attack.

I do not know, but have always suspected, that the stress of the deployment to a war zone, that stress that Frank concealed so well, may well have contributed to that event.

See Also: Essex Files: Honoring a Hero on Memorial Day

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My supply sergeant came to me the day after we heard the news. "We have to inventory Frank's gear and personal effects, sir," he told me. "I can get one of the guys to help me if you want."

"No," I told him. "I'll help you do it." I felt it was my responsibility. 

The entire company went to Frank's little Arkansas Valley hometown for his funeral. No military honors for Frank; just a small Catholic chapel, a plain coffin, the priest saying a prayer over Frank. No rifles firing blanks, no folded flag. No place in Arlington, just in the little Catholic cemetery in a small, dusty town in southeast Colorado. No honor guard; just Frank's daughter, in the front pew, tears pouring down her face. I spoke to her, told her what a good man and a good soldier her father was, how the company and his fellow motor pool troops loved him. I hope it helped.

And there can be no mistake: Frank fell serving his country. His republic. He is one of the fallen we remember on this day, on Memorial Day, and there are millions like him, buried where only their family knows their graves. Today, we should all take a moment to remember our nation's great heroes who fell in battle, but also the millions like Frank, who fell serving their nation. On this day every year, I remember Frank. I can still see his smiling face, still remember his confident reassurance, "I'll take care of it, Eltee."

This is your day, Frank.