Brenda says she likes arrival escorts that originate at little airports. I know what she means. At O’Hare or Mitchell (Milwaukee) we wait outside. They are optimized for big planes carrying hundreds of passengers or thousands of packages. At Waukegan Regional or DuPage Airport, they bring both plane and hearse into a hanger for the transfer.

It was 0800 on a Wednesday.

Dave & Brenda have three married children. Two of them, and associated grandchildren, live a mile from Matthew’s high school in Bartlett. The third lives just a couple miles from it and Dave & Brenda are five miles from that high school.

Matthew graduated from that high school just two years ago.

Should a PGRider in good standing walk down the flagline handing-out flyers announcing a memorial event for another fallen hero? If so, what about discount coupons for his nearby hot dog stand?

This is the emotionally eclectic world of a ride captain. Your grandchildren played football with the fallen hero, plus you have the hot dog coupons. All administrative matters were either resolved or tabled and we found our places.

It seems these little airports that cater to VIP passengers and cargo all have a special hanger that is Spartan, elegant and austere. The floor was memorable. It made me feel like I should take off my shoes before I walked across it.

The army sent an Honor Guard. We stood in that hanger and they stood there, too.

Then the family emerged from the waiting room and took the ten chairs that had been prepared for them. Twenty others guests stood just behind our flagline.

My place in the flagline was near the waiting room. I could hear the twenty guests take position right behind me. And then I couldn’t.

I was standing in a flagline so I couldn’t turn to see who was there. I knew there were some number from the sound of footsteps and clothes rustling. But then, nothing. No coughing, no whispering, no fidgeting. I knew they were there because I heard them come and I hadn’t heard them go but they were so silent I was inclined to confirm there presence by looking over my shoulder. But I didn’t.

Of course, if I closed my eyes, neither would I be aware of the PGRiders on my right and my left.

The plane was moved into its place and shut down. There were some clunking sounds from within before the door opened. Then the pilots performed their semi-automated procedure that brought the casket out of the plane and into the hanger.

Fred had said that we would hold our salute from the moment the Honor Guard touched the casket until the door of the hearse was closed. He could have whispered and we all would have heard him. But there is a virtue in his strong call. Fred’s commands occupied the whole of this cavernous hanger.

For us, it was a way we could jointly honor Matthew. “Present arms!” “Order arms!” We made a showing of respect by being there, by holding flags in formation and by saluting together. For the family, it was a reassurance that their sacrifice is valued by others.

The Honor Guard, the escort who rode in the plane and the Casualty Assistance Officer were all going to perform their duties diligently, regardless of who was watching. But surely they were watching us. A soldier was killed in battle and they were returning his mortal remains to his family, but they are soldiers too. They have volunteered their mortal selves to a great cause and it is important for them to see our endorsement.

Then we returned to our bikes. A marked police car would lead the procession the entire distance, followed by the bikes, the hearse and the family.

The last five photos on this web page were taken from the Bartlett H.S. website the day of the escort. They were prefaced with these words: “Updated 9/23/09 - Army Pfc. Matthew Martinek, a 2007 graduate of Bartlett High School, died in Afghanistan while serving his country earlier this month. On September 23, 2009, Matthew made his final trip home. At the family’s request, the Patriot Guard processional passed BHS and through the Village of Bartlett. Hundreds of BHS students, faculty, and staff quietly paid their respects as the Patriot Guard Riders escorted the processional past the high school.”

We rode past other schools, past fire departments, past joggers. The students, firefighters and joggers stopped talking and stood silently as we passed. Some saluted in various ways.

Cops are the most likely to salute. They represent authority. That’s why we follow their instruction and that’s why we dread the flashing blue lights in the rear view mirror. So there is something specially moving about the image of a police officer in perfect uniform standing rigidly at attention, fingertip to eyebrow as our flags move past in front of him.

Drivers all feel a responsibility to other drivers to keep their cars moving – no one wants to be honked-at because he didn’t notice that his light had turned to green. People know they should stop for a funeral procession, but maybe it will be a short procession and pass before they can stop, or maybe they will cause an accident by stopping, or maybe they will just turn at the next corner to avoid the whole matter…

I think most drivers are relieved if the car ahead of them stops. As when Fred commands us to salute, we can be confident about doing the right thing. So really, on a narrow road, only the first car makes the bold decision and the following cars simply conform.

On Bode Road, the first car had a single occupant, an elderly woman. Perhaps she lost a brother in World War Two. She held her thin left arm out her window extended upward, palm toward the passing flags.

In talking to the mother and brother (Travis), Brenda learned that Matthew would be pleased to know that his funeral caused traffic jams.

Photo albums are here and here.

back to the Martinek mission