On November 11, 2011 I accompanied the British and the American ambassadors to the US military cemetery outside Luxembourg City. Luxembourg was a small duchy. The British Ambassador had appointed me unofficial writer in residence. The CIA thought I was a spook. I dressed the part and never told them otherwise. Neither had Alice. I looked out the window of the British Embassy Jaguar, as we exited from the city. The morning sun struggled to break through the low fog. It would have little success on that day as it had at the end of 1944.
In December of 1944 over four thousand American had fallen in the Battle of the Bulge. Our troops had stopped the Nazis by Christmas, but the savage fight had been a close thing.
Our destination. The American Military Cemetery. Armistice Day was an important holiday in Luxembourg for all the combatant nations. The German ambassador and French Ambassadors waited at the gate of the cemetery. They had come to lay a wreath to honor of the dead. Beyond the entrance thousands of white crosses marked the graves of my fallen countrymen. These were my people. These Americans had died to free Europe from the Third Reich. I got out of the Jaguar and walked away from the assembled dignitaries like the old man at the beginning of SAVING PRIVATE RYAN.
"Are you okay?" The American ambassador caught up with me at a wall rusted by autumn leaves.
"Yes." There were tears in my eyes. These men were from the last generation. My father had served the US Army Air Force, testing radar-directed 20mm cannons on B-25. In Kentucky. Far for Europe. The casualty rate had been in the 20%. WWII had been a world war. "I'm surprised by it all."
"I felt the same way the first time I saw all these graves." The ambassador was a few years older than me. "Let's walk to the back of the cemetery."
The dewy grass wet our shoes, as we checked the gravestones for names, ages, and states. 
Each one had died in the bitter cold of December 1944. They hailed from every nationality. Most had been in their twenties. More than a few hailed from my home states of Massachusetts and Maine.
We arrived at the last row and returned slowly through the gravestones to General Patton’s grave, who laid forever at the head of his army. Some more dust got in my eyes, as a lone bugler played Taps. The American ambassador patted my shoulder. We didn't say another word, just nodded to honor the dead
The next day I traveled to Charleroi and mentioned this visit to an American friend. Everyone said he was with the CIA. Vonelli poured me a glass of Orval Beer and we sat by the living room fire.
"My father had been with the artillery in the Battle of the Bulge and my old man never got over the horror of that winter."
Vonelli was a veteran of a colder war from the 70s and 80s.
"Every morning the platoon commander held a lottery, which picked the forward artillery observers. After the results the chosen men shook hands with their friends, knowing their chances of coming back in the evening were close to nil."
"And they went?"
"It's what they did," Vonelli said with reverence.
I thought about the graves that the ambassador and I had passed yesterday and seeing those marked unknown.
"They were the best of the best." We could only honor their sacrifice.
"That they were."
Maybe the dust in my eye had had something to do with the lump in my throat, because those men had been us once and I am eternally grateful in the Here-Now as well as dedicated to keeping the peace in the Here-Beyond.
It's the least I can do for those men.
