THE WALL OF FACES

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.

Dear Lt George Fitzgerald,
Thank you for your service as a Basic Infantry Officer. Today is the 17th anniversary of 9/11, and we remember you all. It has been too long, and it's about time for us all to acknowledge the sacrifices of those like you who answered our nation's call. Please watch over America, it stills needs your strength, courage and faithfulness. Rest in peace with the angels.

George and I went through Quantico together, During Christmas 1965, he visited my parent's home just outside of Philthy-delphia on our way back to Quantico. He was a 1965 UNC graduate and proud of his association there with Billy the Kid Cunningham and Tar Heel basketball. I was moved by the story of his mother visiting his grave on this web site.

George was my first exposure to the loss that war brings. I was only 7 months old when George was KIA in 1966, but I probably "met" him for the first time when I was 3 or 4.

My sister died the year before I was born, she was only 7 years old. She was buried at St. Michael's Cemetery, not far from George. As you can imagine, her loss was devastating to my parents, and I spent a lot of time at that cemetery with my mom, and my older brother when I was young.

Whenever we went, we would always see an "older" woman crying, more like weeping, at a grave. I couldn't have been more than 3 or 4, and really didn't understand how she always seemed to be there, and how she always seemed to be crying. My mom would always send my brother, who was 11 or 12, and I over to "Help Mrs. Fitzgerald", while she visited my sister's grave. I could remember lugging water buckets back and forth from those hand operated water pumps, so that she could water her flowers, and I vaguely remember digging small holes for plants.

One day while leaving, my brother (I don't think it was me), asked my mom why "Mrs. Fitzgerald" was always crying. My mom, who spoke with her often while visiting the cemetery, said that her son was killed in a war. She said he was shot and died waiting for help. I was very young and didn't understand. I asked "Did his friends leave him?" and I immediately had this image of him sitting against a tree waiting for help, I still so. I don't know if any of that is accurate, or if its a 5 year olds interpretation of an adult story, but its my recollection of George from the view of a little boy.

A couple years went by and I stopped noticing "Mrs. Fitzgerald". When my mom told me she died, and I asked why, she replied simply "Her heart was broken".

45 years later, I visit my sister and now my parents at St. Michaels. When I do I stop by George for minute or two, to yank an overgrown weed, or like last week, to clear off some snow.

George won't be forgotten.

I never had the chance to meet you but my dad has told me so many stories of you. I wish I had the chance to meet you but maybe some day I will on the other side. I didn't know you but I love you uncle George. Thank you so much for all you have done :)