Brothers

The Rest of a Story

I

They were brothers in every way, but blood.
One who came to this country from Germany
with his wife to start anew. Then war.
He'd just become an American citizen
and they decided is was the best way to say thank you.

He left his newborn son (my Uncle Bill) and his wife
behind in New Jersey going back across the pond
to become intimate with foxholes that never seemed deep enough.
During endless hours he fought aside the man
who'd become his brother.
Three times
they each dug bullets from the other
and patched torn skin from bullet holes.
They cried in each other's arms,
spoke of wives left behind and swore
they'd get home.

Called to duty in new places
they were torn apart to continue fighting
in new foxholes, climbing new hills.

II

When the Tomb of the Unknowns
was first dedicated, there was
no body buried there as yet.
They needed a soldier to play taps
and called for a volunteer.
The brother answered the call
playing taps on a tarnished and dented bugle
that had traveled the miles with him.
A quiet ceremony without the bells and ribbons,
but necessary and important.

From Arlington he traveled to New Jersey
in hopes of reuniting with his brother. Or,
finding out where he was,
if he still was.
In a crowded marketplace just outside
the train station in Paterson,
he saw a man limping alongside a woman.
He knew that face. He knew that man.
Left arm sleeve flapping in the breeze,
he ran to his brother.

III

He left his bugle to his brother.
Who left it to his younger son,
who left it to his son
who left it to mine.

All of us have placed a wreath
at the Tomb. My dad after WW!!,
my brother during Viet Nam,
me while in the Army,
my son during school,
my daughter a few years before joining the Navy.

We've all watched the official ceremonies,
counted steps under our breath, and
felt the body shiver one always feels.
The tears that inevitably fall
and still do
whenever Taps is played.