Andrew looked over at Kathleen and nodded.
Smiling, she came forward and took his hand. Together they stepped off the dais and carefully walked out into the graveyard. The band picked up a patriotic air, the marching song of the army, “The Battle Cry of Freedom,” and the music cut into his soul.
So many times I heard that, he thought wistfully, on the parade ground in Maine, on the road to Antietam as we crossed South Mountain, again on the road to Gettysburg, in the camps around Petersburg, then through so many hard-fought victories on this world. And now yet again here.
“Mind if we join you?”
It was Pat, Vincent, and Emil trailing behind.
Andrew smiled.
Together they walked to the middle of the cemetery. They stopped together before his grave. Andrew looked down at the mounded earth, finding it hard to believe that here was the final resting place of his oldest friend. No, not here, he tried to reason, and he thought again of Kal’s dream. Kathleen let go of his hand, and he looked back and saw that Tamira, leading her son, was quietly approaching.
Kathleen put her arm around her shoulder. Andrew and the others respectfully drew back.
She knelt by the grave, placing a flower upon it, the boy doing the same.
“Papa here?” the boy lisped.
“No,” she replied softly, “Papa in heaven.”
The boy smiled and, as two-year-olds will, started to wander off.
Kathleen looked over at Andrew, eyes bright with tears, and again there was the deep unspoken understanding of love.
He nodded, and she turned, putting her arm around Tamira’s shoulder, and led her away.
“You old Dutchman. Damn how I miss you.” Pat sighed as he stepped forward, looked around awkwardly, wiping the tears from his eyes, and saluted. A bit self-consciously he reached into his pocket, pulled out a flask, raised it in salute, and took a drink. Recorking the flask, he laid it on the grave.
“Farewell, sir, and thank you.” Vincent stepped forward and saluted. Gone were the rakish kepi and the Sheridan whiskers. The boy was clean-shaven, wearing a standard-issue slouch cap. Andrew studied him carefully and smiled inwardly. Hans always liked the lad, and he sensed that in Vincent he saw the same things Hans once saw in him. The icy fury of war had been purged out of the boy. He had seasoned into a commander who could lead, earn respect, and show compassion. Vincent shyly laid a single flower on the grave.
Emil stepped up to join his friends. He started to say something, but couldn’t. Lowering his head, he gently reached out and touched the headstone.
Andrew caught a whisper of an ancient prayer in Hebrew. “Yisgadahl, v’yiskadash …” With head still lowered, he finally stepped back.
As if by unspoken agreement, the three looked back at Andrew and nodded. They turned, Pat in the middle, the other two with hands on either shoulder, and walked off, leaving Andrew alone.
There was nothing more to be said, Andrew realized. The tears were all but gone, replaced with a sad yet happy memory of all that had been, of all they had done and all the dreams still to come.
Here at last the Lost Regiment had found a home and a country. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a precious keepsake of the other world.
“It was always yours, Hans,” he whispered through his tears. “I just hung on to it for a little while.”
He placed the object on the grave, stepped back, and saluted.
“Good-bye my old friend.”
As he started to turn he saw the colors passing by the edge of the cemetery, the regiment following in close order, accompanied by the band still playing the “Battle Cry of Freedom.”
Coming to attention he saluted the passing of the colors of the 35th Maine, the 44th New York Light Artillery, and the flag of the Republic.
Colonel Andrew Lawrence Keane, commander of the Army of the Republic, quietly left the cemetery to rejoin his friends … leaving behind, on the grave of Sergeant Major Hans Schuder … the Medal of Honor given for heroism above and beyond the call of duty.