Thanks to Honor Flight angels

By Ron Huber

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Bert Huber, World War II veteran, Pacific theater, and also my dad, served the Signal Corps, exchanging sensitive communications. I piloted gunships in Vietnam, and sometimes, still, in my dreams.

Eastern Iowa Honor Flight, supported by businesses and individuals and dedicated to getting WWII vets to Washington, D.C., before none are left, accepted Dad's request. We scheduled repeatedly. At 87, health and life is tenuous, and Dad suffered setbacks requiring hospitalization. Dad looked forward, heart and soul, to this trip.

June 5 reservations actualized. I can't list all the organizations and individuals, angels with well-tucked wings, who enabled this.

To scribe completely of that day, the attendant emotion, joy and reverence, would take pages. In this age, few read pages, so I'll condense.

I drove in after sleeping fitfully and rising at 3:30 a.m. to make The Eastern Iowa Airport at 5:20 a.m., later than wished. Old warriors move slowly.

We'd attended orientation in Hiawatha a week prior. The same extraordinary organization, care and grace evident then blossomed again at the airport. Many vets, including Dad, required wheelchair support. It's no easy task to accommodate more than 90 wheel-chaired vets and their escorts with loading and seating. Masterfully done, it foreshadowed the entire, long, overwhelming day. Meals and water distribution were constant. Medical professionals accompanied constantly.

Old men, having signed contracts and sworn oaths for their nation and countrymen up to and including their lives, visited D.C. memorials most had only seen in schoolbooks or Internet sites. Conversation ebbed and flowed. Recognizable by red shirts and white caps, veterans received thanks everywhere they went. Escorts, blue-shirted and white-capped, received thanks for tending veterans.

Whispering inquiries from schoolchildren asked, “Who are they?” Once told, they pressed, “Can we thank them?” Consent given, they formed long lines as youthful hands growing in strength clasped aged, withered hands losing strength. Young faces reflected solemnity, respect and distant affection; elder faces beamed with appreciation that these youngsters found cause to greet, respect, embrace. Eyes moistened; some strong men wept.

A crisis rose as we boarded the plane for return. One elderly warrior escorted by his daughter showed signs of distress. Medical staff swarmed over him. Takeoff was delayed over an hour with medical experts determining he and his daughter should check into a hospital to assure he was well enough to come home, which he did subsequently.

We returned to Cedar Rapids, wheelchairs bloomed and escorted veterans deplaned and rolled or strode into the airport. Despite the late arrival, the jam-packed airport presented greeters of every conceivable stripe extending hands and thanks for these remarkable veterans. Young, old, able and infirm shined soul-born smiles of sincere appreciation and gratitude for these men who served honorably, suffered hardships, some unspeakable, and built lives denied to many resting in gardens of stone at Normandy and elsewhere.

These men will join them too soon, but the fullness of their lives found meaning in their aging and joy in this day. I wish we could keep them forever, but nobody has forever.

Where do we get such men as these, age after age, conflict after conflict, eternally committed and ready, as human conflicts continue till time ends? Look around. Note your neighbors. They're there in plain sight, more now as conflicts rage. Warriors pledge their lives, fortunes and sacred honor going harm's way on our behalf.

Dad charged me to write thanks. “You're better at that than me, and my hands hurt too much.” I did, Dad. I love you; this nation loves you and your mates. Thank you, every one.

Ron Huber of Ankeny is retired from teaching language arts. Comments: r.l.huber@mchsi.com