On this Memorial Day 2005, I listen to the planes overhead flying in formation on their way to ceremonies to honor our military, and especially those who were lost in battle. Memorial Day is Memory Day for me.
I remember the days I spent at the U.S. Marine Corps Air Station at Cherry Point, N.C., and at the Naval Air Station on Coronado Island, San Diego, as a Marine lieutenant. I always had to answer roll call as “Barbara (None) Hudson,” for I had no middle name.
I remember the pilots who got into their planes, waved to me and gave me a big smile as they called, “I’ll be back!” And they did not come back. They crashed in the Carolina bogs due to sabotage of their planes, or they flew too low over Bataan and Iwo Jima. One spun in over Philadelphia. He didn’t meet me for dinner that evening. Vic Sardi from New York, who was in charge of our officer’s mess, came to me with the message.
One pilot wept as he stood with me on the porch of the Officer’s Club one moonlit night and said, “I’m not coming back. My brother just crashed in the Pacific. I’m going to fly lower and lower every time I drop my bombs on the target in memory of him.” He did not come back.
Big bright smiles. How handsome they were. How young we were. I’m now 84. Their faces never grow old in my memory.
How thankful I am for the times I said in farewell, “Believe in Jesus,” “God loves you,” “Pray!” “Trust God!” “We’ll live in eternity!”
Their faces will never grow old.
— Lt. Barbara (None) Hudson, Thousand Oaks
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