The visitation for Dariusz Sadkowski fell on the day after Christmas and the funeral on the day after that. Robin and I stood for the first hour of the visitation. I returned alone the next day. What follows is the story of the funeral.

I arrived at the church early. The main entrance to the church faces the street. Behind the church is the school. Between the church and the school is the flagpole. The flag was flying from the top of the pole and the halyard was padlocked. Stanley came with the key and made the necessary adjustment.

Mount Prospect Evidence Technician Morel joined us. He was Airborne before he was a LEO and wears his jump wings at his passant.

Rick was the first bike to join our group and he would be the last to leave it, long after dark. The paint on his bike is inspired and whole bike is a mobile tribute to American values and those who serve them.

Four bikes would make the 65 mile escort to Abraham Lincoln National Cemetery. That is a good number for a day when snowfall was likely. They would lead the procession.

Scoot would be married later this day but none of us knew it. She didn’t want us to think about anything except Dariusz who had served two tours in Iraq and who we had gathered to honor. She kept her great secret because we were here on serious business. That was all she was thinking about. She reminded us of the distance to the cemetery and asked if we all had gas.

“I had gas last night.”

Scott is part of the northern Illinois formula that makes the PGR such a rewarding experience. No one stands-up straighter in the flagline, but he knows how to give our group a relaxed confidence as we face our somber task.

This mission was also blessed with the most competent of Ride Captains. Bigger than life, Fred is comfortable in his leadership role. The PGR is full of low-key, soft-spoken individuals and Fred is archetypical but no one misunderstands who is in charge when he is in charge. He would also be the officiant at the wedding to follow the funeral.

In his briefing, he scowled, “Just remember the prime rule of the Patriot Guard.”

Hold the flags straight aloft? Show honor and respect at all times? Humble ourselves before God?

“Don’t screw the flagpoles too tight.”

Fred has a beautiful red pickup that has transported our flags for many missions. The PVC flagstaffs screw together in the middle of their length. The plastic threads can stick and can be difficult to unscrew. “I’m not gonna help you get ‘em apart if you screw them on too tight. Your gonna have to do that yourself. You will be the last one and we will all be laughing at you.”

The groom was among us too but he and Scoot and Fred weren’t talking about the wedding. Fred did say that we should all meet at a certain bar after the graveside service for “something – I can’t tell you what – but something that will burn up the chat forum for days…”

“What?” asked Scott. “You gonna buy someone a drink?”

And then we took our flags from the red pickup, screwed them together gently and found our places. No more talking except by Fred. The arrival of the hearse was announced to the whole neighborhood when he cried, “Attention!”

And the neighborhood knew that Dariusz was about to be carried into the church by the cry, “Present arms!”

And there we stood as the mourners followed. Still no talking; no looking around. All our efforts focused entirely on showing our flags.

This is the peaceful time. In warm weather I can become lost in my thoughts and time passes quickly. Unfortunately in cold weather I am aware of every passing minute. Still, if I dress warmly, it is good.

For my first dozen missions, I tried to notice how the passers-by reacted to us. It has been a long time since I have concerned myself with that. I know we are a powerful presence and wandering eyes compromise that. I studied the mortar lines between the bricks.

And then the Mass began so we moved back to the red pickup. I stayed with the group for most of the time, but I did venture into the church briefly. On one side of the foyer there is a long bench. A longer casket flag draped over both ends. It had covered the casket on the way in and would cover it again on the way out.

On the other side of the foyer was a bulletin board. This church displayed sixteen photos of those serving from her congregation.

I went back out and talked to Judy. Robin and I had seen her at the visitation but only now did I learn that she dropped her bike on her way to that visitation. Too much front brake at a slippery intersection put her down. She got back up and stood for the visitation and now she was here.

Then Fred sent us back to our places. “Attention!”

“Present arms!”

Dariusz was returned to the hearse and we assembled for the escort. I was glad to see the four bikes at the head of the procession. I think it looks right to have the bikes lead.

We had significant LEO support for many intersections, but Fred performed an essential role blocking as the procession passed him and then overtaking it so he could block for it again.

Southbound on I-355 we passed under eight bridges where cop cars or fire trucks were parked overhead, their officers saluting our flags and our hero. They were not saluting me, so it would not be appropriate for me to acknowledge them. I always wish I could, though.

Fred’s best blocking was performed at the south end of our journey. Where our long procession turned from I-355 onto I-80, we had to merge right as other traffic would merge left through us. Or rather would have, had his red pickup not blocked them. Even when he is hidden inside his truck moving at expressway speeds, he seems to command an authority over the other traffic. (The flags flying at his two rear corners and other accoutrements no doubt helped.) And then he repeated that feat when our procession turned from I-80 onto Illinois 53.

And then Dariusz reached his final destination.

We moved to the site of the final service. We stood as the rifle salute further damaged our hearing. We waited with our flags even though our audience had their backs to us.

Because “being seen” is not our only reason for standing. We are also mourners.

Photography from the visitation and the funeral.

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