On Nov. 2, 2023, I lost my husband Andy in a Humvee accident during an Army Reserve training exercise in . He was a captain. He was four months shy of his twenty-eighth birthday. We had a 17-month-old daughter named Adalyn, we were in the middle of building a home, and we had just received pre-approval on a 200-acre farm, a purchase we had dreamed of for years. None of that mattered by 2:20 that afternoon, when I picked up the phone and heard his commanding officer say words, I asked him to text me, because my ears were ringing and the walls felt like they were caving in.
Three days later, I drove to Virginia Commonwealth University trauma center in Richmond with my family, to bring Andy home. A hearse from the funeral home in Edinburg met us there. Andy’s commanding officer was waiting in uniform, with the straight back and stoic features you would expect from an Army officer. He gave me the tightest hug of my life, and as we separated, his legs buckled and he sank to his knees.
I figured the drive home would be a quiet two and a half hours. A small procession behind a white hearse with green markings, my brother-in-law at the wheel, my family, Andy’s brothers and a few friends following. I expected solemn. I expected uneventful.
I was wrong about all of it.
The first overpass should have been a hint. I glanced up from a text on my phone and saw a fire engine parked across the bridge, an American flag draped over its side, three uniformed firefighters holding fast at salute as we approached. This is for Andy, I realized. This is for us.
A few miles down, another overpass appeared, and on it another fire engine, this one with its ladder raised and maybe a dozen uniformed firefighters standing centered over a massive American flag hanging down across the railing. Saluting. The sight was awe-inspiring and emotionally wrenching all at once. I held my gaze on that overpass until it shrank from view in the rear window, touched by the kindness of strangers and wishing only that I had thought to take a picture.
As it turned out, I would have plenty more chances.
I could see the next overpass coming in the distance, what appeared to be tiny figurines standing before a toy fire truck. As we drew closer, I saw another American flag, this one held high by a pair of firefighters in dress uniforms saluting with their free hands. They had been joined by civilians who came on their own. Men, women, children and even toddlers little older than my daughter standing at salute.
We passed under around 35 overpasses on the way home. Firefighters maintained a stoic, reserved, respectful presence on almost every one of them. American heroes themselves, paying tribute to a fallen soldier they had never met. And it was not just the overpasses. People had pulled off the highway onto the shoulder of the road and were saluting us as we passed. I could not believe the multitude of along the way.
I learned later that our friend Josh had helped arrange it. I had called him a few days earlier and asked if he could organize a small homecoming on Main Street in Woodstock for friends and family. I had not expected a homecoming that spanned the entire two-and-a-half-hour drive.
Josh was a volunteer firefighter, and he knew the right people to call at the various municipalities along Route 64 and Route 81. His wife, Amanda, arranged for a professional photographer and videographer so that Andy’s final ride home would be preserved forever, mainly day when she is old enough to appreciate it.
One of the men in Andy’s unit, Mike, happened to also be a in Richmond. He led the procession from the medical examiner’s office onto I-95. From there, local and state police took over from one another at regular intervals along the highway. At one point, they closed off access to the interstate to allow our small line of vehicles an unimpeded merge up the ramp. “This is what they do for the president,”
