Guest column: The full measure of Memorial Day

Memorial Day should be an overwhelming experience. Truth to tell, though, our actions say otherwise about this day for which we should be profoundly grateful.
On this day we honor untold numbers of our fellow citizens past and present, our brothers and sisters who, as President Lincoln said in his Gettysburg address, gave and give their "last full measure of devotion."
Many who have been immersed in the personal pain and horrors of war protect themselves from remembering and reliving their experiences by burying them deep within. Yes, as the song goes, "What's too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget."
For my part on this Memorial Day, I choose to trust you with my own experiences, share these memories and let you experience them vicariously, as painful as that may be.
World War II was well under way when I was a lad of 10. One of the ways families honored loved ones serving in the war was to hang little blue banners with white stars in the windows of their homes. I had a brother who participated in the invasion of North Africa and an uncle who flew the "hump" in Burma. Since my grandmother was living with us, we displayed two banners.
I still remember the great sadness that came into our family when we learned that Uncle Terrell's plane had been downed. We would never see him again. In his honor, a gold star replaced the white stars on one of our banners. As a young boy I thought I would never see a hurt greater than the grief and pain I saw in my grandmother upon her son's death.
The war ended, time passed, and I grew up, later completing my training in surgery. It was 1966 and we were again at war. I asked to be sent to Vietnam; I figured that that was where I was supposed to be. They gladly sent me to Da Nang, Vietnam, and the station hospital there, a series of Quonset huts with tin roofs that produced a deafening staccato beat during all-too-frequent torrential rain storms.
Vietnam was a helicopter war. Most everything was transported by helicopters, including the dead and wounded. Our receiving area for casualties was a Quonset hut and our stretcher holders were saw horses. We were the bearers.
Early one Sunday morning, we were greeted by the familiar "whop, whop, whop" of an incoming airship. That morning we received the bodies of nine dead U.S. Marines.
There they lay on those canvas stretchers, still clothed in their wet uniforms, flak jackets, boots and dog tags. As I examined each of them, I found wounds we could have treated. They were soldiers, like hundreds before them, we could have saved had we been able to get to them in time.
Now, the drenching rain that had kept us from getting to them seemed even louder on our tin roofs. Can you hear it? Can you see it? Nine young dead Americans who gave their last full measure of devotion. You could see on their faces the question, "I hope they get here in time." You can hear their orders: "Hold your position, men."
Although their skins were different colors, they all shared a singleness of devotion and purpose. They were all Americans.
Shut your eyes. Put yourself in my place at that place and time. Now, remove the dog tags, one by one, and seal the body bag over each beautiful young man.
Do this and you will start to understand the pain of carrying this scene in your head, heart and soul for 42 years. You may begin to understand why this and all Memorial Days are so very precious to me.
Today, I am a grandparent, a gift of unparalleled value. Those nine Marines would never know this joy, yet they willingly gave up that, and much more, for you and me.
Since 1776 our servicemen and women have been laying their lives on the line for you and me. They continue to sacrifice for us.
Army Staff Sgt. Jeremy Bessa, 26, who was home on leave when his son was born last Dec. 4. Jeremy's father, Ted, said, "He was so touched with his child, his boy, and the prospect of being a father." Sgt. Bessa died Feb. 23 in Khordi, Afghanistan, when his vehicle was struck by an explosive and small-arms fire. He will never be a grandfather.
Army Sgt. Simone Robinson, 21, on the night before her deployment, held her 2-year-old daughter and played with her until the last moment. Sgt Robinson died March 1 from wounds caused by an improvised explosive device that detonated near her security post in Kabul, Afghanistan. She will never be a grandmother.
This Memorial Day, pause from all the distractions of your typical three-day holiday weekend and look at that American flag. Feel, as I do, great pride, joy and gratitude in your heart that this is your flag and your country. Be willing to defend it and what it stands for, even with your life. Think of all the Gold Star parents of World War II. Remember my nine Marines in the rain in Vietnam. Picture the final hugs Sgt. Robinson and Sgt. Bessa gave their children. Honor afresh every American who gave the last full measure of devotion and who, from hallowed ground in places known and unknown, near and far, ask nothing in return but that they be remembered.

John H. Giles, M.D., was a commander in the U.S. Navy Medical Corps. He is a retired surgeon who grew up in Glen Alpine and has lived in Morganton for 40 years.