Memorial Day: More than a 3-day weekend

Navy lieutenant Josh Fox and daughter Emma walk through the Field of Heroes, Westerville, OH. Photo by Kayla Fox

by Judy Williams and Jim Aust

Back in 1968 when Congress moved Memorial Day from May 30 to the last Monday in May, many people opposed the change for fear the public might forget the meaning of the day. As the bereaved sister of young man who gave his life for this country, I attend Memorial Day services every year. In the past, the Stockbridge High School gymnasium used to brim with families. Now, the service is held at the American Legion Hall, and a small group attends. I have to ask: Have people forgotten that Memorial Day is more than just a three-day weekend?

Established in 1868 as Decoration Day, Memorial Day is a day to honor the men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice for this nation. Their sacrifices changed the order of history, and their families miss them daily. Here are two perspectives on the loss of young John Martin Donohue, 18, who shipped off to Vietnam and returned draped under a flag.

This reporter’s story as the sister:

The day was Sunday, and I was home from college to celebrate my father’s birthday. I was getting ready to go to church and out to dinner with my parents. Dad knocked on my bedroom door and told me to come quickly. I walked into the living room. My Mom was sitting on the sofa sobbing in the presence of two strangers in Marine uniforms.

I sat down beside her and held her as one of the Marines started talking. He explained that my brother had been killed in action four days earlier. He kept talking, but I stopped hearing. I remember the look on Dad’s face and the sound of his voice as he looked at the Marines and said, “Today is my birthday.”

The next few days were a fog. I was a sophomore at Michigan State University and stayed home with my family until after the funeral. I had to drop a couple of classes because it was impossible to catch up after missing their labs. A constant stream of friends and family visited, bringing food and flowers. Everyone shared stories of the past that made us laugh and cry at the same time.

A week later, my parents were contacted about the arrival of my brother’s remains. The evening was late as Dad left to accompany Bill Caskey, the undertaker, to the airport to pick up my brother and bring him home. The next morning, I awoke to find a strange young man, the escort, at our home.

It seemed strange to have Jim Aust sleeping in my brother’s room and going for runs with our family dog. I have often wondered how he felt about staying with our family during this grief-stricken time, so now I have asked him, and here is his story:

Jim Aust’s story:

I was assigned the job of payroll at the Philadelphia Naval Base working in the Marine Corps Supply Depot. Only two things happened of any note for the next 14 months until I was discharged. First, I met Barbara who one day agreed to be my wife. Second, I was given orders to escort a young Marine home who had been killed in Vietnam.

John Martin Donohue was 17 when he enlisted in the Marine Corps. He was sent to Guam to wait because you couldn’t be in combat until you were 18. He turned 18 on August 4, 1968, and was sent to Vietnam on Sept 7. Nine days later, on Sept 16, he was killed in combat.

It took two weeks for US forces to recapture the area and recover the bodies. John returned home on September 30.

I was assigned the honor of escorting his body home. His parents, I was informed, lived in a central Michigan town called Gregory, and they lived on a farm. John had one sister, Judy.

I went to Dover, Delaware, to the Marine Corps mortuary center to sign for John’s body. My orders were to stay with the remains until the family took charge. I was to watch the loading of the casket on the plane and get off the plane when it landed to be sure it was properly unloaded. We had one stop along the way, and there I was to get off the plane, stand on the tarmac and watch to ensure no one accidentally unloaded the casket.

Afterward, I reboarded the plane. We landed in Detroit at midnight, and Mr. Donohue and the undertaker were standing on the tarmac waiting. I was to sign the remains over and ask if I could stay for the funeral. Mr. Donohue said of course I could stay, and I would stay at their house.

I stayed for three days, sleeping in John’s bedroom, all too aware that just 5 or 6 months prior he was sleeping there as a 17-year-old kid. Each morning I took his dog for a run over the hills of the farm. When I returned, Mrs. Donohue always had coffee waiting. Then she and I would sit at the kitchen table, and she would cry.

I didn’t know what to do or say. I was 21 years old. Each afternoon and evening for two days, we went to the funeral home for the wake. I stood in the back in uniform, and people often came up to me thinking that I was a friend of John’s.

The day of the funeral, a Marine Corps color guard arrived from Detroit to give military honors. They shot their rifles and folded the flag to give to the parents. But Mrs. Donohue would not take the flag from the Marine captain. Instead, she asked that he give it to me, so that I could present the flag to her.

That was one of the most heart-wrenching days of my life. To this day, tears flood my eyes when I think about her.

Years after the Marine Corps, I found John’s name on the Wall in Washington, D.C. I placed my hand over it remembering his mom, dad, and sister.

Remember, Memorial Day was set aside to honor all those who have died in service while defending the United States. Each name is a story of a person who did not live his or her life to its full potential, and this this story is intertwined with families whose lives were changed forever.

You tell me. Has making Memorial Day part of a 3-day weekend undermined the true meaning of the day?

John M. Donohue turned 18 on his way to Vietnam and was killed in action just 6 weeks later.