While in Belgium Part 3 (On a German Cemetery)

Their names stare back at you, under debris and rubbish, looked after only by the dandelion weeds and towering oaks. They have no other guardians. No one else comes to see where they lay. Faceless names, but still humans. How could they not be? Men who had their stories cut far too early are buried here, under the expanse in a small plot of land.

Kneel closer on the damp grass to see the names, and brush the surface clear. Your dirtied hand is no concern since exposing their names to the light is of far greater importance than soiled fingers. Read their names just to recognize that they lived, and to some extent, you think perhaps, somewhere among the thousands lays a distant relation. You are a German American after all. You are not so different from them; they who, so many, were torn between their native and adopted countries. Pluck the small daisy from a patch of un-mown lawn and set it on the forgotten, mildewed stone. It is the least you can do for the twenty forgotten men, and you have nothing else to offer.

Whisper to the wind, “What drew you to this fate? What was your story, ended far too early? What could it have been?”

Society often idolizes the “heroes” of the winning side and forgets that not all soldiers share the same views as those that commanded them hence, to throw themselves over the top. Not all soldiers fight for what their opponents believe makes them the heathen. And yet, they will remain twenty faceless names on a placard. And in this secluded place, they will remain twenty-five thousand souls in the sea of a forgotten mass grave.

Is this how we treat the memory of the dead? This is not a demonstration of nobility or graciousness in victory or defeat. It is a travesty that so many should have to die for society to remember their humanity.