We came to the top of the hill and saw the golden eagles before anything else, forming the sides of a beautiful blue iron gate. They were high in the air, forcing the head to tilt upwards toward the heavens. We crossed through the entrance, flanked by the gilded sentinels. Without realizing, our giggles came to an abrupt halt and were replaced with a hallowed reverence. We had made our way to the U.S. Military Cemetery.
The Czech took his time at the visitor's center by the gate, trying to read as much as he could. I pressed on, knowing tears would fast be approaching and needing a few moments to let them fall. Directly before me stood what I thought to be a monument of grand size, with words on the side offering gratitude for the men and woman buried there, the brave souls who perished after the Allied invasion of Europe in 1944. I have always been interested in World War II, but since being with the Czech I have learned a vast deal more than ever before. I sat on a bench and thought about these men before going to walk amongst them. Many of them had died at Bastogne, months of mortar fire in the woods of eastern Belgium during the winter of 1944-1945. They could not warm themselves with campfires, supplies were limited, and the fighting endless. It was cold and they were freezing. But they stayed in their foxholes and saw it all through.
The Czech met up with me and we kept walking, past the monument that was actually a chapel and into the fields of crosses. We stepped onto the perfectly manicured grass and my tears flowed freely. We read the names somberly, curious about who these boys were and where they were form. California, New Jersey, Wisconsin. Two boys from Ohio and Michigan were buried next to each other. On and on it went. The Czech pensively examined his surroundings, soaking everything in, gratitude emanating from his stance.
The leaflet told us that twenty-two sets of brothers were buried side by side through the cemetery as well as several sets of friends. The crosses were so simple, as were the stars of David. I've walked through many cemeteries and have seen the most beautiful tombstones, eloquently carved with figures and images to depict the soul whose body lay below. These boys deserved such monuments, I thought. Each of them. But there they were in Luxembourg, on the other side of the world. Some of them were not even named.
I have been to several memorials honoring American soldiers and have even been to Arlington National Cemetery, but have never been so humbled. Nor so proud to be an American. There were a handful of other visitors meandering on their own course throughout the grounds. One set was a middle-aged daughter touring with her veteran father. He seemed so proud to be back around his comrades and she delighted beyond measure with all that her father represented.
My tears ebbed with the cessation of the rain, leaving an indelible mark of humility and the utmost thanks. I thought a great deal about my loved ones who have very recently passed away. Mental wishes for my two grandmothers to hug these boys were sent to the heavens. My time to hug them will come, too, but I wanted them hugged then and there.
We packed away the umbrella and made our way to the veranda surrounding the chapel. On our way we saluted the bloody bastards of Bastogne in the only way we knew how; we had a drink of Coke in their honor. As we left, we noticed the soft chime of church bells coming from the tiny on-site chapel. It took us a few verses before we realized what we were listening to. It was The Star Spangled Banner.
The walk back to the bus and the trip into the city center went far more quickly than our initial journey. Our hearts were full, but our spirits light. We walked and kept singing, enjoying the sunlight and warmth of a summer day in Europe, such a day the men buried two miles away would never know.
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