In our little town, there was a "home" set up for men who had fought long ago wars and battles and no longer had family or whose families could no longer care for them. Most of the residents were seemingly jolly old men who wore proudly special caps that proclaimed the branch of service or the war that they had participated in. They could expect greetings and accolades on certain holidays and gifts during Christmas but were otherwise left to age quietly in solitude. If you ever had a conversation with one of them, they would relive with you, their heroic struggles against the other for country and family, lasting hours if you were not careful. Sadly, most of these men had nothing else to cling to in their old age, but they were generally happy from the outside.
One of them, named Old Ben, was notorious for being unlike the rest of the complacent and quiet men whose past glories were forgotten until a passerby stopped to say hello. He walked grouchily through the small-town, scaring children for fun. Old Ben had a pale white glass eye, and one hand shook continuously in rhythm with an internal beat that only he could hear. His hair lay greasy across his forehead, and a particularly putrid smell seemed to follow him like a cloud. Old Ben was not a pleasant person to meet and was treated as a pariah by most local townsfolk.The angry old man did not speak much. If he entered the pharmacists, they knew what was needed and would hand him his bag of medicines without a word, and at the grocers, he would signal sternly to the bag boy to get what he needed. Old Ben was not afforded the friendly "How do you do" and "Thank you for your service" the other rosy-cheeked smiling men received. Old Ben did not wear a cap to reveal his past battles, and he did not speak of his past glories.
One day in late May, the terrible news was received by the townspeople that one of their own, a young and beautiful boy of only twenty, had been killed in the latest war our country was fighting. The townsfolk hung pictures of his childlike face around town, and streamers in red, white, and blue were put up in every local business. The old men dusted off aged uniforms and shined tarnished belt buckles to greet with reverence their fallen comrade. On a warm day, they formed an honor guard, heroes of wars long past to accompany what was left of the body to his final resting place. Old Ben did not have his old uniform, nor did he keep any medals that could gleam brightly on his chest; he simply stood next to the coffin draped in our countries flag at stiff attention. Old Ben understood better than most what had been lost. As he followed proudly behind the body of a boy who he had not met, he also followed all those bodies of all those dear friends who he had seen fight to their last breath and whose bodies had never found, to their final resting place.
Several months later, the patriotic streamers had been removed from displays around town, and people began to get back on with their daily lives. The fallen soldier's pictures had started to sag on their signposts, and the colors had begun to fade from the cheap ink. The townspeople had again begun to look down on the community's recluse, and Old Ben had once again walled himself in with his anger at the world. While the other old men from the home waived at every passing car, he would glare at anyone who walked past them on the sidewalk.
Late one night as a thunderstorm rocked the town with bright blue bolts of lightning and echoing explosions of thunder, Old Ben's now thin form could be seen in the light of the flashes holding a rusty long rifle that he had hidden away. He ducked and hid as the thunder rolled liked bombs falling, and he was transported back into that place of fiery death from which he had narrowly escaped. Soaked by the rain, reality and memory merged as he fired his ancient rifle at the oncoming onslaught. Old Ben ran into traffic, horns blaring and bright lights blinding him until the fatal moment came, and he lay bloodied on the road, on the battlefield of his mind, finally ending his torment.
Dusty uniforms and tarnished medals were again cleaned and shined as the honor guard formed again to lay one of their own to rest. Only the old men, the keepers of the memories of battle, attended Old Bens funeral. Faces wrinkled with time and care; they watched as yet another one of them was pulled into the ground. The clarion call of taps echoed over the cemetery as a twenty-one gun salute to a fallen soldier rang out against the quiet afternoon.
As the authorities came to clean out Ben's room, as he had no family who would come, framed pictures and dusty boxes were thrown into the street to be taken to the garbage. If only someone had looked and seen the framed article about Ben, who had saved twelve men from a barrage of enemy fire when all seemed lost. If only someone would have seen the box carrying the purple heart or American flag that had been kept so carefully tucked away. Ben had hidden all of this out of pain, and we failed him and many like him because of our ambivalence and apathy. Heroes now are quietly aging and dying in the loneliness of veteran's homes or, worse, in the cold streets. Do not assume that someone's past is known to you just as no one knew what Ben had done for so many and what he carried for so many years. Reach out a friendly hand and remember to thank those who have gone before you.
