We stood for an army veteran who had gone on to become Captain of the firefighters at Great Lakes Naval Training Base. He was badge number 855, according to the rear window of this car.

He was also my age. He was a biker, like me. And he rode on route 137 over route 45, as I have many times. A couple days ago, as he was going home after work on 137, a car abruptly moved into the road just ahead of his bike, a little east of 45.

I traveled to the visitation on a Friday afternoon which was just 15 miles northwest of my home. About the halfway point in my short trip I was moving west on 137 approaching 45, just as John Sligting had 48 hours earlier. Unlike John, I rolled past uneventfully.

Our bikes were side-by-side along the edge of the street, the funeral home parking lot and the grass beyond were full of cars, and we were standing silently – one flag apiece – for the four hours.

Many firemen were among those who passed through our line. Inside it must have been somber but near our position there was strong, happy conversation. At one point, several loud pagers rose above the clamor. Four Round Lake firemen jogged to their nearby truck and drove quickly away.

I stood next to Kathy, the first of three tough chicks I will describe. Others took breaks. I took a break to take pictures. I don’t think she took a break at all.

Jim Reed was John’s friend. After he said good bye to badge 855 he returned to the parking lot to talk with other mourners for a while. Like others that afternoon, he approached me and expressed his appreciation for our gesture of respect.

Then he asked me how he could join us. My first thought was to give him the patriotguard.org address, but then I realized that Linda was also standing next to me. I introduced him and she gave him a business card with the website address. Then she told him that she goes by “Scoot.”

“Just the old-timers call me ‘Linda’.”

Not since my first mission for Private Yates 15 months ago had I been called an “old-timer”. Then it was by some whipper-snapper soldier who was making gentle fun. Linda offered it as a compliment saying, “After all, our whole organization is only 20 months old.”

I am pleased to note that I received a similar comment from the third strong Patriot Guard woman I will note. Ro (Rogene) was our Ride Captain. She said to me that it was reassuring to her when she saw “regulars” like me arrive. I thought that was very nice.

When Ro runs the show, talking is discouraged, but hugging is not.

I went home, past the accident site. The next morning, I returned for the funeral, passing the accident site yet again. Soon others arrived.

There would be no escort for us today. John was a member of the Gold Wing Road Riders Association and they would leave with the hearse. Ro thought we should hold our display until the family left, and then we would be finished. So we took up our flags to do our simple presentation of the colors.

Simple is powerful. Showing the flag makes our statement. Any other communication would dilute our message.

After the guests had all arrived and the service started, we moved to the rear of the church. It was warm, so we sat in the shade.

The Gold Wing riders outnumbered us, but they were all inside.

The gold-wingers were there because John was a biker. We were there because John was a soldier.

The Round Lake and Great Lakes Fire Departments were there because he was a fireman.

The gold-wingers would escort the hearse but these fire trucks and ambulances would not. Today they carried mourners, not firemen.

We had formed a corridor of flags reaching from the door of the funeral home to the waiting hearse. The firemen stood in our lines, between our flags.

Then, it happened again. Four mourners became firemen again. In a minute, they were gone.

A few minutes later, John would be carried out of the building, between our lines of flags and to the waiting hearse. Then taps and some last words. And then the Gold Wing Road Riders Association members retrieved their bikes from the rear of the church and lined-up behind the hearse, under the colors held by the Patriot Guard Riders.

And Fire Captain Sligting was moved away from his trucks and his troops.

It is no surprise when a soldier becomes a fireman. Both are inspired by a sense of service. Both face danger so that others need not.

When the office workers were running down and out of the World Trade Center, 343 firemen were running in and up, and to their deaths. Since then, ten times that number of our military have charged into war and to their deaths.

The rest of us owe the soldiers and firefighters our gratitude. John Sligting was both.

The hearse, family, friends and gold-wingers had left. The Great Lakes firefighters folded their mourning drapery. We folded our flags.

Ten minutes later I was rolling east on 137 past 45.

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