The piece was written by Jim Murphy, 66, of Falmouth, Mass.,
a father of
six who teaches literature and writing at the Massachusetts Maritime
Academy and Boston College.
It was a gray, clammy August day in 1953. The Korean War had
ended a
week earlier, and the opposing forces were exchanging prisoners
of war at a
location that came to be known as "Freedom Village."
Murphy was there, representing his infantry regiment, standing
at
attention as the ambulances and buses arrived from the north. What
happened next,
Murphy says, changed forever the way he views the American flag.
In his words: "When the remaining Chinese and North
Koreans had been
herded off to their own vehicles, the UN prisoners were ushered
from the
trucks and bushes and sent across the bridge to our side. The UN
Honor
Guard, combat veterans and observers gasped when they saw the condition
of their
returning comrades who struggled, hobbled and staggered, gaunt and
emaciated, toward friendly faces. They were immediately embraced
and helped to the
awaiting medics and aid stations.
"One after another they came. The next one was in worse condition
than
the one before. Long lines of dull-eyed soldiers of the 'Forgotten
War' inched
their way to freedom, and out of their number, a gray-faced, stick
figure
of a boy-turned-old man dragged himself along the bridge. His bony
arms were
held out like a sleepwalker. He staggered and swayed and one time
fell
into the wooden railing. Every eye in that village was suddenly
trained on that
one figure. Even those on the northern side watched the gallant
physical
effort of the wasted soldier.
"Each tried, inwardly, to help, to urge him on, until, finally,
when he
lurched forward, an M. P. major, a giant of a man, came up
to help. The
soldier waved him off with his skeleton hands and arms.
"Looking around at the grim faces, he caught sight of the
three
color-bearers and shuffled toward them. When he reached the American
flag-bearer, he knelt on trembling knees before the flag as though
it were
an altar. He reached up and tugged at the flag. The color-bearer,
either by
instinct or by some infinite wisdom, lowered the flag and the soldier
covered his face with it, sobbing and shaking uncontrollably.
"Other than the clicks of cameras, the village was cemetery-quiet.
Tears
streamed from all of us. Cotton replaced saliva in our throats.
After
several moments frozen for eternity, the stillness was broken by
the sound of the
heavy boots of the M. P. major, who came crunching across
the gravel, his
cheeks moist and glistening. He bent down and tenderly scooped the
soldier
up in his muscular arms and carried him off to a waiting ambulance,
much as a
father would carry a baby.
"There wasn't a dry eye in this silent village, thousands
of miles away
from Elm Street, USA"
It's something to ponder. Murphy has for 47 years.
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