When there is no room left on stone
To write the wrong
Or spell the sin
Who will name the dead?

- John Cory

Last weekend was Memorial Day, the de rigueur beginning of summer when flags wave, the Youth of the Nation march and barbecues shake off the final dregs of another Winter of Discontent. Politicians from local mayors to Presidential candidates thump their chests; the electronic monster in the living room spews forth endless images of flags, wreaths and tears; and some of us even pause a moment to remember those who died in service to their country.

And through all the celebration, through all the fireworks, through all the patriotism moves a silent, almost unseen and too-oft-forgot specter…the Lost Veteran. His ball and chain make little noise, for they are invisible to most of the celebrants on this day. But he struggles under their weight as mightily as did Christ under the weight of his cross on the road to Golgotha.

In his soul, the Lost Vet carries the remnants of horrors long past, but still as real, as vivid and as overwhelming as when he first encountered them. If he can, he plays the “good soldier” and goes through the motions of celebration, but for too many of his kind the shackles become too heavy to pretend. For these poor souls trapped in Purgatory, Hell beckons as a welcome alternative.

We erect memorials on The Mall and write the names of those who died on walls. It is much easier to pay tribute to those who are no longer with us than to look into the hollow eyes of those who are Lost, for it is hard to know what to say to a ghost.

The Lost Vet doesn’t get his name on a wall because only his soul was left on the battlefield; his body made it home. Like those who care mightily for the unborn but quickly turn away once the new life is expelled from its mother’s womb, we care deeply for those on the battlefield but find them easy to ignore once they return.

What we don’t realize is that the Lost Vet has only one real desire – the extinction of his kind.

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