On that fateful day on November 22, 1963, I was on a 96-hour pass driving home to Bucks County to visit my family. My car radio was not working (some things never change), so I was completely cut off from the events of the day. When I pulled off the road to get some gas, the station attendant informed me that President Kennedy had been assassinated. I called my mom on a pay phone, and she told me the base had called with orders for me to immediately return to the barracks. Overwhelming feel- ings of sorrow and despair accompanied me on the ride back. I just kept thinking, This can’t be true. When I returned to base, the same solemn atmosphere permeated everyone and everything. Lee Harvey Oswald was already in custody, but no one knew for sure who was behind the plot. The Russians? Castro? The Mob? Not knowing who was responsible and what could be coming next had everyone on high alert.
Once Lyndon Johnson assumed the presidency, stability was restored and I was given a new task. I was assigned to assist the Marine Corps officer in charge of the funeral procession. We were responsible for scheduling and properly locating the military cordon and the various military bands that would be playing along the procession’s route from St. Matthew’s Cathedral to Arlington National Cemetery. For four straight days leading up to the burial, the work was nonstop, but I looked upon it as a great honor.
I’ll never forget viewing the president’s casket in the Capitol rotunda and praying for him and his family. Even more haunting for me was the image of the eternal flame being lit at his graveside. I’m aware of the effect it had on the millions of Americans who watched in anguish as the black-and-white, two-dimensional image of our shared national agony appeared on their television sets. Imagine what I felt on November 25, seeing firsthand the full-color, three-dimensional version of the same image punctuated with the scent of the newly lit flame as it filtered through the chilly fall air.
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