REFLECTIONS ON MEMORIAL DAY
The night before Memorial Day a friend asked me if I was deliberately observing the holiday, if even in some small way. “I always think of those we’ve lost. Tomorrow, after nine days on the road, I’m going to mow my yard and rest,” I was personally satisfied with my answer, smug even, propped up by having co-founded a small nonprofit that connects post-9/11 Veterans with high school students, “The 9:57 Project.” I got off the phone. Memory, I thought, is what we do. For us, every day is Memorial Day.
I turned on the PBS Memorial Day Broadcast from our Nation’s Capitol and watched the solemnity and reverence offered by some very talented and dedicated Americans. I saw a gifted performer read the words of Marine Kirstie Ennis, a helicopter door-gunner. A crash in Afghanistan left her with one leg and a whole lot of hurt. I heard her words, her heart, her resilience. It hit home. I spent some of the best years of my life flying helicopters in the Army.
I pondered Kirstie’s story and thought, God, I’ve been so lucky. There was a close call or two. I have a couple buddies who crashed one night in Afghanistan. My helicopter came very close to crashing that night also, but it didn’t. I heard how this woman struggled to resume her purpose in the wake of her accident, how she fought to regain her footing, her mission. Dark times, but she did it. She’s a Marine, she adapted and overcame, and she had help. A stranger came into her room one day, giving her a snowboard and hope. She learned movement was medicine. She climbed mountains (literally) with her new leg and showed us all how to fight the biggest battles - the quiet, lonely ones that come way after the desert dust clears. She took her place on stage, proud, strong, and gave us her voice.
And for a quick moment, I thought, John Hamilton, you should be ashamed. That Marine is facing this nation with unmatched courage to observe Memorial Day, and you’re going to cut the grass. You can at least honor the day by going to a local ceremony. The thought of that seemed daunting for some reason. Maybe it’s because I have a loved one fighting the worst illness right now. He’s a Veteran too. My brother Ben. I didn’t want to think about how short life can be. I wanted to take a break from hard memories.
I thought about Memorial Day last year. Jason Smith, my fellow crewmember who safely planted our helicopter that dark Afghanistan night, went to Arlington to visit and remember our brother Warrior and beloved friend, Kevin. Jason is a lifelong friend and former boss, but always my Combat Commander and head of our little Army family. Always WIDOWMAKER 6. I took out my phone and looked at the picture he sent us last year. Kevin’s resting place at Arlington and the flowers WIDOWMAKER 6 placed there.
Kevin Robert Keaton, the World’s Greatest Gun Pilot, and my best Army Buddy. He didn’t die in combat, he came home alive and kicking. Afterwards, in fits and starts, he fought that same lonely battle our brave Marine crewchief had faced, his awash in alcohol and a sea of broken relationships. He lost the quiet skirmish on Veterans Day 2017, death by liver failure. The persistent memory of Kevin’s battlefield heroics and larger-than-life personality is usually enough to keep the sadness of his end out of my mind. His confidence in my flying skills made me, and that’s not just a figure of speech. He was an Instructor Pilot and evaluator in our Apache Gunship, he gave the checkrides and graded the gunnery tapes. He was the “Master Gunner” of the 3-101 Eagle Attack Battalion. He embraced his role with unsurpassed passion and skill.
Kev was far from perfect, troubled even, but he was a great soul, a giant. One snowy Saturday morning long ago, I caught a ride home with him from Ft Campbell. We stopped to lend assistance to an elderly couple who’d slid off I-24. “John Boy,” he said, “always be good to dogs and old people.” Anytime good fortune fell upon him or our unit, he’d say the same thing, “Good clean living, John Boy. Good clean living.” Like the time he gave his last bit of Beechnut tobacco to a Soldier who’d just pumped gas into his helicopter, only to come back to his cot and find a newly delivered package from home laying there. A package full of Beechnut chew. “Good clean living John Boy.”
Yep, I don’t feel like thinking about him or any of this. I want to cut my grass and rest. I want a day off. I want to enjoy the freedom so many died for without thinking too much about it.
Of course, I can’t do that.
The next day, I went downtown to join the people who remember. I didn’t want to go alone, but I did. I scanned the ceremonial scene, I stood in the back, by one of those old cannons that have come to symbolize Franklin, Tennessee. We live in a sacred place, the sight of violent combat, when we turned against ourselves, working out our inner demons as we cleared the path of freedom for all. Battles occurred right here, even I forget sometimes. Blood flowed, lives ended, in our little town, on the precise spot where we go to fall festivals and run 5Ks.
I knew I wasn’t really alone in a mass of my fellow citizens, but I was well aware I wasn’t with the WIDOWMAKERS, my family, or anyone I knew, so I stood by that cannon, immersed in my thoughts.
Then, something dawned on me as I placed my hand on the cannon’s iron wheel. I felt a familiar feeling. That cannon was the most formidable gun at the Battle of Franklin. I thought of the thing I carried into battle, or more accurately, the thing that carried me, my Apache, just like that cannon, the most lethal weapon around. I thought back to a realization I had a couple of years ago looking at a two decade old picture of me next to my aircraft in Afghanistan. I noticed the placement of my hands. I instantly recalled the tactile feel of the things I had my fingertips on, my left hand on the course, gritty sandpaper-like nonslip step that leads to the cockpit, and my right thumb rubbing the smooth glass of the seekerhead on the tip of an underslung missile. I was standing nestled in the corner of the wing and the fuselage, tucked into a cradle of armored firepower. I look like a kid in that picture- safe and happy, smiling broadly. My unit had been shot up a few days before by the same people who’d harbored the perpetrators of 9/11, every aircraft full of holes, but we had all come back in one piece. The American People had sent us to war in an airborne tank. I loved that helicopter, not because it was fierce and powerful, but because I knew it would bring me home. I felt so fortunate. And so lucky. To be there then, to be home now.
That big gun made me think of the Apache and my Master Gunner, Kevin Keaton. Not in a sad way, but a good way, lucky to have known him, lucky to have flown with him, lucky to tell you about him now. I smiled to myself then I noticed…..
Some youngsters, maybe 6 or 7 years old, sitting on the cannon’s axle. And I thought, huh, I’m not alone anymore. These kids, they don’t know it, they are my brief wingmen for this mission of memory, having taken their position on this weapon of war turned object of remembrance. They quietly and respectfully listened to the grownups talk and the band play.
And so did I. Our Honorably elected officials, all of them Veterans, reminded us of why we gathered. I laughed to myself as Mayor Moore told a story about a Franklin man who died in Vietnam. A colorful character, and I thought, yep, a rascal, just like Kevin. I wasn’t keeping sad thoughts at bay anymore. They were gone. I was joyful to be in a crowd with those who appreciated the blessings of liberty on a sunny May morning. I noticed the warmth on my face, the cicadas hovering about, a bulldog behind me breathing so loudly. I looked over at the church where I once went to a memorial service for someone who died, only to find out immediately afterwards that I would be a Dad. I marveled at the ebb and flow of life, the mystery of it all. How death and sacrifice seem to lead to life and energy and beauty, if we’re lucky, and blessed. If we have a stranger show up with a snowboard. If we have a friend who challenges us to remember.
I thought back to a text I received earlier that day from my friend Gordie, whose brother Ed Felt had died on Flight 93, “The motivations that call us to action are wide and diverse. However I strongly believe that it is the freedom that flows through our veins that is the source of our strength.” In my mind, the heroes of Flight 93 are warriors who died for this nation too, and I tell their loved ones as much. Gordie, with his obvious respect for those who’ve raised their right hand to serve, seems very aware of the distinction between the warriors of necessity on Flight 93, and those who volunteered. I read his text that morning and thought, hmm, did Ed really have any more say in his untimely death than a draftee who died in Vietnam?
Millions died for “the freedom that flows through our veins.”
Memorial Day, ultimately, is not for the dead, it’s for the living. We have to be worthy of what they did for us, and we must be reminded of it. Next year, I’ll be more deliberate. I got it right in 2024, but just barely. Memorial Day will not be an afterthought in 2025.
How will you observe Memorial Day next year? I’m thankful someone asked me that question this year. When you remember, I think you’ll find as I did, you’ll be thankful too. Gratitude can erase sadness. You’ll feel lucky. Just like Kirstie Ellis, just like me, just like Kev Keaton, the world’s greatest gun pilot, getting back to his tent after a mission, discovering a case of Beechnut on his cot. “Good clean living, John Boy. Good clean living.”
Sincerely,
John Hamilton
Pictured: Apache Pilots of Charlie Company, 3-101 Eagle Attack Battalion, 101st Airborne, conduct a combat mission briefing in 2002 as part of Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan. Charlie Company was known by the callsign “Widowmaker.” From left to right: Marc Hazel, Jason Smith, Mike Brown, Kevin Keaton, and Rob Pierce.
I turned on the PBS Memorial Day Broadcast from our Nation’s Capitol and watched the solemnity and reverence offered by some very talented and dedicated Americans. I saw a gifted performer read the words of Marine Kirstie Ennis, a helicopter door-gunner. A crash in Afghanistan left her with one leg and a whole lot of hurt. I heard her words, her heart, her resilience. It hit home. I spent some of the best years of my life flying helicopters in the Army.
I pondered Kirstie’s story and thought, God, I’ve been so lucky. There was a close call or two. I have a couple buddies who crashed one night in Afghanistan. My helicopter came very close to crashing that night also, but it didn’t. I heard how this woman struggled to resume her purpose in the wake of her accident, how she fought to regain her footing, her mission. Dark times, but she did it. She’s a Marine, she adapted and overcame, and she had help. A stranger came into her room one day, giving her a snowboard and hope. She learned movement was medicine. She climbed mountains (literally) with her new leg and showed us all how to fight the biggest battles - the quiet, lonely ones that come way after the desert dust clears. She took her place on stage, proud, strong, and gave us her voice.
And for a quick moment, I thought, John Hamilton, you should be ashamed. That Marine is facing this nation with unmatched courage to observe Memorial Day, and you’re going to cut the grass. You can at least honor the day by going to a local ceremony. The thought of that seemed daunting for some reason. Maybe it’s because I have a loved one fighting the worst illness right now. He’s a Veteran too. My brother Ben. I didn’t want to think about how short life can be. I wanted to take a break from hard memories.
I thought about Memorial Day last year. Jason Smith, my fellow crewmember who safely planted our helicopter that dark Afghanistan night, went to Arlington to visit and remember our brother Warrior and beloved friend, Kevin. Jason is a lifelong friend and former boss, but always my Combat Commander and head of our little Army family. Always WIDOWMAKER 6. I took out my phone and looked at the picture he sent us last year. Kevin’s resting place at Arlington and the flowers WIDOWMAKER 6 placed there.
Kevin Robert Keaton, the World’s Greatest Gun Pilot, and my best Army Buddy. He didn’t die in combat, he came home alive and kicking. Afterwards, in fits and starts, he fought that same lonely battle our brave Marine crewchief had faced, his awash in alcohol and a sea of broken relationships. He lost the quiet skirmish on Veterans Day 2017, death by liver failure. The persistent memory of Kevin’s battlefield heroics and larger-than-life personality is usually enough to keep the sadness of his end out of my mind. His confidence in my flying skills made me, and that’s not just a figure of speech. He was an Instructor Pilot and evaluator in our Apache Gunship, he gave the checkrides and graded the gunnery tapes. He was the “Master Gunner” of the 3-101 Eagle Attack Battalion. He embraced his role with unsurpassed passion and skill.
Kev was far from perfect, troubled even, but he was a great soul, a giant. One snowy Saturday morning long ago, I caught a ride home with him from Ft Campbell. We stopped to lend assistance to an elderly couple who’d slid off I-24. “John Boy,” he said, “always be good to dogs and old people.” Anytime good fortune fell upon him or our unit, he’d say the same thing, “Good clean living, John Boy. Good clean living.” Like the time he gave his last bit of Beechnut tobacco to a Soldier who’d just pumped gas into his helicopter, only to come back to his cot and find a newly delivered package from home laying there. A package full of Beechnut chew. “Good clean living John Boy.”
Yep, I don’t feel like thinking about him or any of this. I want to cut my grass and rest. I want a day off. I want to enjoy the freedom so many died for without thinking too much about it.
Of course, I can’t do that.
The next day, I went downtown to join the people who remember. I didn’t want to go alone, but I did. I scanned the ceremonial scene, I stood in the back, by one of those old cannons that have come to symbolize Franklin, Tennessee. We live in a sacred place, the sight of violent combat, when we turned against ourselves, working out our inner demons as we cleared the path of freedom for all. Battles occurred right here, even I forget sometimes. Blood flowed, lives ended, in our little town, on the precise spot where we go to fall festivals and run 5Ks.
I knew I wasn’t really alone in a mass of my fellow citizens, but I was well aware I wasn’t with the WIDOWMAKERS, my family, or anyone I knew, so I stood by that cannon, immersed in my thoughts.
Then, something dawned on me as I placed my hand on the cannon’s iron wheel. I felt a familiar feeling. That cannon was the most formidable gun at the Battle of Franklin. I thought of the thing I carried into battle, or more accurately, the thing that carried me, my Apache, just like that cannon, the most lethal weapon around. I thought back to a realization I had a couple of years ago looking at a two decade old picture of me next to my aircraft in Afghanistan. I noticed the placement of my hands. I instantly recalled the tactile feel of the things I had my fingertips on, my left hand on the course, gritty sandpaper-like nonslip step that leads to the cockpit, and my right thumb rubbing the smooth glass of the seekerhead on the tip of an underslung missile. I was standing nestled in the corner of the wing and the fuselage, tucked into a cradle of armored firepower. I look like a kid in that picture- safe and happy, smiling broadly. My unit had been shot up a few days before by the same people who’d harbored the perpetrators of 9/11, every aircraft full of holes, but we had all come back in one piece. The American People had sent us to war in an airborne tank. I loved that helicopter, not because it was fierce and powerful, but because I knew it would bring me home. I felt so fortunate. And so lucky. To be there then, to be home now.
That big gun made me think of the Apache and my Master Gunner, Kevin Keaton. Not in a sad way, but a good way, lucky to have known him, lucky to have flown with him, lucky to tell you about him now. I smiled to myself then I noticed…..
Some youngsters, maybe 6 or 7 years old, sitting on the cannon’s axle. And I thought, huh, I’m not alone anymore. These kids, they don’t know it, they are my brief wingmen for this mission of memory, having taken their position on this weapon of war turned object of remembrance. They quietly and respectfully listened to the grownups talk and the band play.
And so did I. Our Honorably elected officials, all of them Veterans, reminded us of why we gathered. I laughed to myself as Mayor Moore told a story about a Franklin man who died in Vietnam. A colorful character, and I thought, yep, a rascal, just like Kevin. I wasn’t keeping sad thoughts at bay anymore. They were gone. I was joyful to be in a crowd with those who appreciated the blessings of liberty on a sunny May morning. I noticed the warmth on my face, the cicadas hovering about, a bulldog behind me breathing so loudly. I looked over at the church where I once went to a memorial service for someone who died, only to find out immediately afterwards that I would be a Dad. I marveled at the ebb and flow of life, the mystery of it all. How death and sacrifice seem to lead to life and energy and beauty, if we’re lucky, and blessed. If we have a stranger show up with a snowboard. If we have a friend who challenges us to remember.
I thought back to a text I received earlier that day from my friend Gordie, whose brother Ed Felt had died on Flight 93, “The motivations that call us to action are wide and diverse. However I strongly believe that it is the freedom that flows through our veins that is the source of our strength.” In my mind, the heroes of Flight 93 are warriors who died for this nation too, and I tell their loved ones as much. Gordie, with his obvious respect for those who’ve raised their right hand to serve, seems very aware of the distinction between the warriors of necessity on Flight 93, and those who volunteered. I read his text that morning and thought, hmm, did Ed really have any more say in his untimely death than a draftee who died in Vietnam?
Millions died for “the freedom that flows through our veins.”
Memorial Day, ultimately, is not for the dead, it’s for the living. We have to be worthy of what they did for us, and we must be reminded of it. Next year, I’ll be more deliberate. I got it right in 2024, but just barely. Memorial Day will not be an afterthought in 2025.
How will you observe Memorial Day next year? I’m thankful someone asked me that question this year. When you remember, I think you’ll find as I did, you’ll be thankful too. Gratitude can erase sadness. You’ll feel lucky. Just like Kirstie Ellis, just like me, just like Kev Keaton, the world’s greatest gun pilot, getting back to his tent after a mission, discovering a case of Beechnut on his cot. “Good clean living, John Boy. Good clean living.”
Sincerely,
John Hamilton
Pictured: Apache Pilots of Charlie Company, 3-101 Eagle Attack Battalion, 101st Airborne, conduct a combat mission briefing in 2002 as part of Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan. Charlie Company was known by the callsign “Widowmaker.” From left to right: Marc Hazel, Jason Smith, Mike Brown, Kevin Keaton, and Rob Pierce.