The Last Full Measure

‘They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided.’ And ‘Greater love hath no man…’

Kathy McKinley wasn’t listening to the preacher. Her eyes were fixed on the two photographs displayed on easels there on the cliff top. The black ribbons fluttered in the breeze.

David Michael Starsky. Dark unruly curls, mischievous grin.

Kenneth Richard Hutchinson. Blondly handsome, smiling at the camera.

Friends. Partners. Lovers.

Her eyes were dry — she’d used up all her tears at the hospital where they’d treated her for shock and Mac had held her tight against his comforting bulk and let her cry until there were no tears left. She looked westward at the glorious sunset, not seeing it. Seeing again that moment when her brother and his partner had burst from their concealment, laughing, into the hail of gunfire that cut  them down like grass under the scythe. She’d seen her brother fall first, and Starsky rolling to cover him with his own body, but jerking helplessly under the impact of the bullets.

And then, suddenly, silence.  And somewhere a bird was singing. Cautiously, she edged from her shelter, but there was no movement. Nothing. Her rescuers had taken down the kidnappers, but at what cost? What unbearable cost?

There were sirens in the distance. The cavalry was on the way, but too late, too dreadfully late. Step by shaky step she crossed to where they lay, fell to her knees beside them.

“Kenny?” she whispered, hopelessly. Blood had pooled under his head, shockingly scarlet in the dust. Starsky’s arm lay across him, as if to protect him. A line of bullet-holes was stitched across his back, grim echo of that May morning years ago. “Oh, David…”

Captain Dobey was speaking, his voice cracking a little with emotion. “…two of the finest officers I have ever had  the privilege of commanding…”

She tuned him out. All she could see was the plain wooden box that held the mortal remains of her brother and his lover. Intermingled, now. Now they would never be parted.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…

They were never meant to grow old, she reflected. With Mac’s steadying arm around her shoulders, she stepped forward and lifted the box, opening it and letting the contents pour out, swirling as an errant gust caught them and carried them seaward to oblivion.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old.
At the going down of the sun
And in the morning
We will remember them.

 We will remember them.