The Free Press: Things Worth Remembering: ‘Do Not Mourn Me Dead’, by Bill Ackerman:
Of all American holidays, Memorial Day is beset by the most contradictions. Officially, it is a somber holiday, one where we honor our country’s war dead, but it is also the holiday that marks the unofficial beginning of summer. Over this long weekend, many of us will pull out our barbecues, or travel to our local beach, or check out the latest blockbuster. I grew up in a religious household and, for me, Memorial Day weekend meant it was the one Sunday I didn’t have to go to church; the Indy 500 was on, and I was allowed to watch the race with my dad.
Then I joined the Marines, and fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. After that, Memorial Day took on a different, more specific meaning for me. In the early years, I’d spend the day visiting the graves of friends buried at Arlington. …
Like countless others before me, I knew that, in the event I was killed, I wanted to have one last word with the people I loved. So I wrote a few letters, hid them, and told my best friend from high school where they were in case anything happened. Fortunately, they were never opened. Today, they sit in a drawer with some mementos from the war. My father, who one of the letters was addressed to, has since passed away. My children, who were then unborn, have no letters addressed to them. The letters are from a different time, as if written by a different person. I doubt I’ll ever open them. …
The practice of writing a “death letter” is as old as war itself. In the summer of 1861, Sullivan Ballou, a 32-year-old Union major in the 2nd Rhode Island Infantry Regiment, wrote one such letter to his wife on July 14, one week before the First Battle of Bull Run. If you’re wondering how to remember the dead this Memorial Day, I recommend you spend a moment with this letter:
July 14, 1861
Camp Clark, Washington
My very dear Sarah: The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days — perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more …
I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing — perfectly willing — to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt …
In Iraq and Afghanistan, our cause was rarely so clearly articulated. It was the same for the American wars that preceded mine, in Vietnam and Korea. To hear a voice from the past speak with such clarity about his cause gives us a view into a very different America. In my wars, we fought for myriad reasons: for each other; because we were professionals; or because we loved soldiering and couldn’t imagine or didn’t want a life outside the military. I can’t remember ever hearing someone say the reason they were willing to lay down their life was for any “Government” whether it be Iraqi, Afghan, or even American.
Country, yes. Each other, yes. But not the government. …
Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me — perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness …
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights … always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again …
Sullivan Ballou was killed a week later at the First Battle of Bull Run. Sarah Ballou never remarried. She lived another 55 years after her husband’s death. She died in 1917, and is buried next to him.
Sullivan Ballou and I are separated by centuries. He lived in a country I scarcely recognize. But what I understand is the letter he wrote, one that seeks to reach across time, across the barrier between life and death, one that would allow him to continue living in the memories of those he left behind. It is a reminder that Memorial Day is not only for those who died, but also those who go on living without them. Ballou’s letter isn’t about death; it’s about life: the “soft breeze” on Sarah’s cheek; “the cool air” on her temple. …
[P]lease go to the beach, watch the blockbuster, have that barbecue. Remember the dead. And then live, for them; that is what they fought for.
