Honoring Fallen Veterans This Memorial Day
Veterans Affairs Secretary Doug Collins reflects on the heavy toll of war and the sacrifices endured by service members. He stresses the importance of remembering those who did not make it home and keeping their memories alive.
On November 2, 2023, I lost my husband, Andy, in a Humvee accident during Army Reserve training in Virginia. He was a captain, just four months shy of turning 28. We had a 17-month-old daughter, Adalynn, were in the middle of building a house, and had just received pre-approval for the 200-acre farm we had been dreaming about for years. But by 2:20 PM that day, all those plans faded. When I answered the phone and heard the commander’s voice, my surroundings blurred, and I felt like I was crumbling inside, so I requested he send me an email.
Three days later, my family and I traveled to the Virginia Commonwealth University Trauma Center in Richmond to bring Andy home. A hearse from Edinburg Funeral Home was waiting for us. Andy’s commander, dressed in uniform, stood there with a stoic expression. He embraced me tightly, and as we parted, I noticed him trembling and falling to his knees.
I thought the drive home would be subdued, just a quiet two-and-a-half hours. A small procession followed the white hearse with green markings, led by my brother-in-law, with my family, Andy’s brother, and a few friends behind. I expected it to be solemn, expected nothing to disrupt that peace.
I was completely wrong.
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The first hint something was different appeared as I noticed a fire truck parked by the bridge, displaying an American flag, with three uniformed firefighters coming to salute us. I finally realized this tribute was for Andy, for us.
A few miles later, another bridge came into view, adorned with a fire engine and a large flag dangling down from its ladder. A dozen uniformed firefighters stood honoring us. The sight was breathtaking and emotional. I focused on the overpass until it vanished from my view, wishing I had thought to capture that moment.
Perhaps I thought I would have more chances.
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On that drive, we passed under around 35 of these tributes. The firefighters exhibited a composed, respectful demeanor throughout, honoring a soldier they never met. It wasn’t just the overpasses. People stopped on the highway to salute as we passed. I couldn’t believe how many strangers offered their respects.
Later, I learned my friend Josh had been instrumental in coordinating this. A few days back, I had asked him to arrange a small homecoming for friends and family on Main Street in Woodstock. I never anticipated I’d be making that journey back home.
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Josh, a volunteer firefighter, had connections with various municipalities along our route, while his wife Amanda organized a professional photographer and videographer to document Andy’s final journey for Adalynn to look back on one day.
One of Andy’s comrades, Mike, a Richmond police officer, led the procession from the coroner’s office to I-95. Local and state police stepped in to ensure a smooth merge onto the highway, even blocking access to allow our small convoy through. “This is how they treat the president,” my brother-in-law remarked.
No one told me. They wanted to surprise me with a pleasant shock, a stark contrast to what I experienced days before. One memorable tribute was a massive American flag suspended between cranes above Highway 81, with members of the public showing their support—waving, saluting, smiling. I felt like I should have stopped to thank every one of them.
As we got closer to home, I saw another striking sight. On the last stretch of Route 81, farm machinery was lined up along the roadside. Not just any farmers, but those Andy had helped. He worked in agriculture and treated them like family. They stood with tractors and other machinery, solemnly saluting as we drove past.
I had no idea about their political views or preferences, nor their personal stories. What mattered was they showed up.
We set off for Richmond in bright sunlight, expecting a two-and-a-half-hour trip. The journey back took four hours, thanks to all the memorials.
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I wish those moments could have lasted forever.
A police escort guided us slowly down Woodstock’s Main Street toward the funeral home, where neighbors lined the roadside, waving small American flags. It felt like Independence Day. Pastor Nate held the Emmanuel Church flag over his head, crying—it was the same flag that once welcomed us to Woodstock.
Technically, Andy died in the line of duty, which meant I was presented with a ceremonial flag at his funeral the following week. The Army provided us with three—one for me, one for Adalynn, and one for Andy’s Uncle Wayne. Since then, I’ve grappled with whether I truly deserve the title of military widow. Andy didn’t die in combat; he passed during a training accident on U.S. soil, four minutes after texting a friend.
What I learned on that drive back is that the country views this differently than I do. The firefighters on the overpass didn’t inquire about the specifics of Andy’s death. They showed up, saluting because he’d worn the uniform and wouldn’t be coming home.
On Memorial Day, we think of all of it—the firefighters, farmers, neighbors with small flags, Pastor Nate on Main Street, strangers on the roadside as we drove by. None of them knew Andy, yet they all came out for him.
That’s what Memorial Day signifies. It’s not about sales, long weekends, or summer beginnings. It’s about a nation where people stand on overpasses and salute, without needing to be asked.
