It's easy to lose touch with the world when you live in paradise. Western Nevada has everything to offer if you are an outdoorsman; the Sierras, the fresh air, friendly people and Mother Nature.
I was jerked back into reality Monday. I went to the South Lake Tahoe Airport to honor a young soldier as his body was flown in for burial at home. I didn't know Sgt. Smith, but I am grateful for his service to our country and I wish he had not had to die for us. His vehicle was struck by an improvised explosive device in Iraq on April 7.
Assembled were an Army Honor Guard, police, firefighters, reporters and our group of motorcycle riders that have become an integral part of these all-too-frequent gatherings. During the hour we waited for Sgt. Smith's plane to arrive, the upper deck at the runway began to fill with people. I saw families and individuals, probably relatives and definitely friends. The groups greeted one another and there were dozens of hugs and quiet conversations. Civility was undeniable. There were several people holding flags.
Our group, mostly Veterans of a wide age-range, stood off to one side. One remarked quietly that this soldier was not going to be treated as our generation had been almost 40 years ago on our arrival after war. As the airplane landed and taxied, I noticed a shift in demeanor, all eyes were on the aircraft and each of us assumed some position that denoted respect for the precious cargo within. The door opened and two soldiers approached and communicated with the crew. The caisson was offloaded and the honor guard marched to the craft. Within minutes, they were offloading the precious cargo, under our American flag.
All was transpiring as planned. Everyone in uniform was at the position of attention, right-hand locked in a salute. The rest of us were still and at our own attention. All at once, the orderliness of the occasion was broken as three young people broke from the crowd and approached the casket. They were either relatives or friends, I'm not sure which. They were sobbing and obviously had to be nearer to Sgt. Smith than the rest of us. I felt anguish for them and I am certain the rest of the onlookers must have felt the same. We all lost a soldier in Sgt. Smith; these young folks lost one that they knew.
We rode north on the highway, providing escort for Sgt. Smith to the mortuary at a slow pace. As we rode those few miles along Highway 50 to the "Y" I was struck by the crowds of people on both sides of the highway. Like our small detail, these hundreds of people were standing, saluting, holding Old Glory and paying tribute to one of their own. I doubt anyone present will ever forget the day they brought Sgt. Smith home to his mountain town.
n Bruce Rosin is a Minden resident and a retired police officer.
