Mission Accomplished

Well, yesterday started with getting all suited up pretty early in the morning. We were supposed to stage up at a parking lot in Marietta at 9:35 and since I didn't really know what time I should leave, I was rather restless and got ready pretty early. It's always a bit of ordeal to get all my gear in order and get suited up so I tend to piddle around for more time that I really need when I am getting ready to ride somewhere.

I got suited up and pulled out of the house and gassed up at QuickTrip and then headed up I-75 North towards Marietta. After I'd been on the interstate a few minutes, I came up behind two bikes in the HOV lane. One was a BMW and the other a Harley, by the sound of it. When I got a little closer I could see a "Patriot Guard Rider" patch on one of the rider's jackets. Being the smart feller that I am, I decided to tuck in behind them and follow them to a ride. They exited at an exit I had not planned on using, but I followed them anyhow and followed them to the staging area. As it turned out, the one guy was a member of the National PGR group who happens to live in the area.

Pulling into the staging area (a strip mall parking lot about 1/2 mile from the church), I could see that I was surely the odd man out with regards to what I was riding. It was nearly all cruiser bikes, most of them Harleys or Harley Compatibles... I was a bit intimidated but within a few minutes, several other riders recognized me from a post I had made on the PGR forums about what I rode and what I wear (a VERY loud hi-viz yellow/green riding suit that is almost painful to look at). Turns out these Patriot Guard Riders folks are a friendly bunch. Maybe they discriminate against japanese bikes on their off time - but aside from some good natured kidding, I didn't notice any hostility towards me due to my "steed".

We had a mission briefing at around 10:00am. The ride captains (the guys who's job it is to get everything and everyone organized, informed, on the same sheet of music and at the right place at the right time - which considering all the "free spirit biker" types, could be pretty tough to do). They thanked us all for coming out and asked if there were any military veterans in the crowd (as if?) and everyone clapped when so many hands were raised. Then he asked for Vietnam vets. More clapping. Then he asked if there were any Vietnam vets who had never been welcomed home. 2 of them raised their hands, the one nearest to me raised his hand and said, "Aside from my wife, no.". The ride captain (a Nam vet himself I think) went to each man and shook his hand and hugged him. We all clapped and the man who had raised his hand got a little teared up. This got me a little emotional myself. At that point I realized it was going to be a long day.

The guy giving the briefing then mentioned that the Westboro Baptist Church people were planning to picket the funeral (the morons with the "God Killed Your Son because America tolerates Fags" signs and such). However, they had to secure a permit from the city to protest. Once their permit had been issued and at the point where it was too late to get another permit, the family of CPT Hayes Clayton and the Patriot Guard Riders changed the location of the funeral. So, the morons were off at another location with their signs but there was nothing to protest there... Talk about logistical espionage! Everyone cheered!

I'm not a Harley rider and am not much of a fan on loud bikes and chrome. I can appreciate them for what they are but I get tired of hearing them. Well, there was at least 150 bikes there, and as we all cranked up (my bike being inaudible once they were all started up) the roar was pretty loud. When we all started to line up and road down the street, I have to admit that it was pretty impressive being part of such a HUGE pack of bikes making so much noise. We rode down to another parking lot, dismounted and went across the street to the church. Everyone was carrying flags (some on poles, some to be held up by hand) and we formed a "Flag Line" to the entrance of the church. So, there were about 200 people, most of them rough and tumble bikers types, all standing with American flags, creating a wall of flags on both sides of the sidewalk. It was pretty patriotic I must admit.

As we waited for the family to arrive, people were slowly trickling into the church. Some would nod at us and exchange glances of thanks. One young man came waling in and he was exhaling heavily and trying not to make any eye contact with anyone. I don't know if the show of respect from so many strangers was getting to him, or if it was the funeral itself.

When the family arrived, the ride captain called the group to attention and to salute as the family walked through the flag line. I could see CPT Clayton's widow, an Army Lieutenant herself, carrying her 5 month old baby, getting out of the limo. I thought of something the ride captain had said earlier about the son growing up and thinking about his father being killed in Iraq every Christmas (he was killed by an IED on Christmas Day). I cried pretty much from that point until all the family had gone inside and we were told to stand down. It was pretty rough.

At this point, about 30 bikes stayed behind to wait for the service to be over so they could escort the family to the cemetary (Georgia National Cemetery in Canton, GA). The rest of us headed off the to cemetery to get a flag line set up there. As we pulled out, there was a young couple standing in the tall grass across the street from the church, holding a sign and waving with tears in their eyes. The sign read something to the effect of "America thanks you, Patriot Guard for what you are doing". There I was, crying in my helmet, trying to stay in formation with a gigantic pack of Harleys as we roared up the road.

The cemetery was about 35 miles up the Interstate and we rode up there and got parked and waiting for the family to arrive. The Army part of the funeral would be here, with the Honor Guard and such. I took some of the time we had to walk around and visit some of the graves. Lots of retirees and veterans from various conflicts. Some of them were obvious "War on Terror" casualties due to their age. It is a new cemetery and has lots and lots of space. I couldn't help thinking that I hoped it never filled up.

We then got the word that it might be a few hours before the procession made it to the cemetery. You would think that this would have caused a groan from the group. Nobody complained. Even though we had not eaten since early in the morning, had no place to go to the restroom and no place to get even water, nobody complained. As the afternoon wore on, about 20% of the riders left due to previous engagements. You could tell that it pained many of them to leave before the job was done.

At the right time, we all headed over to the pavilion and set up another flag line and waited for the family to arrive. I found a place in line and stood there holding my flag. An Army Captain walked around and shook the hand of every single rider there. It must have taken him 10 minutes. He looked each one of us in the eye and said "Thank you" with a stern look on his face, that I'm sure was how he was keeping it together.

The hearse pulled up and stopped right in front of me. I could the flag draped casket through the window. The Army Honor Guard Marched up. The rifle squad was taking their places at the top of small hill behind us. I could hear them marching, their shoes scuffing the pavement. The Honor Guard carried the casket from the hearse, moving in total synchronicity with each other, toward the pavilion. The family was then seated with many more mourners crowding around the pavilion, standing.

All of us in the flag line moved closer in towards the pavilion. While we were pretty far away, we could still hear bits and pieces of the ceremony. Our ride captain called us to attention and we saluted as the rifle squad was loading their rifles behind us. I could hear a female soldier calling out hushed commands to her detail to load their rifles. "Present Arms!" "Ready!" "Aim! "Fire!" The sound of seven M-14 rifles cracked the silence. Many of the people in and around the pavilion jumped as the rifle report popped. Again the rifles sounded, and finally the last seven rounds were fired aa the sound of the spent brass cartridges clinking onto the pavement was faded into silence. I caught a whiff of gunpowder just as a loan bugler began to play Taps off in the distance. I completely broke down. Through my tear filled eyes, I could an officer and another soldier removing the flag from the casket, fold it and present it to the widow. I think I could actually hear the words, "This flag is presented On behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciateion for your loved one's honorable and faithful service..." which caused me to break down again.

We were dismissed afterwards. The family invited us back to the church for a reception. I couldn't do it. I just had to leave. I wanted to take the opportunity to find the ride captains and thank them for their effort, to find the Honor Guard, the rifle squad and the bugler and thank them for their work. I couldn't do it.

With not much discussion, I made my way up the hill where my bike was parked in the grass. I suited up and headed off down the road. As I got on the interstate, I passed a group of Patriot Guard Riders, engines thundering, American and PGR flags waving, as they were headed the other direction to return home from wherever it was they came. I began to cry for Captain Clayton and his family. I wondered how bleak and colorless the burial service would have been had we not been there, over 100 of us, holding up the Stars & Stripes. And I cried out of thanks for these people who would take their entire day to thank someone that they had never met. It was an honor to stand with them. It was an honor to stand for CPT Clayton.

Sadly, SFC Dexter Wheelous, who was killed in the same Hummvee as CPT Clayton, will be buried in Atlanta on tuesday. The Patriot Guard Riders will be there too. I'll be there with them, to stand and hold a flag for another of America's fallen heroes.