In the military, there is a ritual for almost every major transition in both career and life.  

The traditions and rites of passage practiced and passed down within the branches of our military serve  almost as time capsules which contain remnants and reflections of days long passed.  There is an antiquity to them which also carries with it a unifying element which  elicits a kind of nostalgia in anyone who witnesses or participates in them.  

To name a few: for a pilot in the Air Force there are dollar rides, namings, and fini flights which serve as landmarks as they move through their career.  

And then there’s the missing man and the piano burns for when they die. 

And though there is a vast difference of traditions amongst the various communities, one that is common across most of them is the roll call.  

A roll call can take many forms: 

There is the standard roll call which is very similar to what I, as a teacher, do when I take attendance. A formality that carries with it very little emotional importance.  

But then there are the roll calls which happen in a squadron bar. These are the ones that I would hear story after raucous story about.  

I always thought that squadron roll calls were nothing more than an excuse to gather and drink; all I knew was that the day after one,  John would have nothing but murky details to share and a hangover to nurse.   He’d describe them as best he could: the pilots would gather together, their call signs would be called out, and they would respond. 

A call and response.  

(And then…they would drink.  And sing.  And tell stories.  And drink some more)  

It wasn’t until John one day mentioned that the names of his deceased friends were also called out during roll call that the tradition began to carry with it a new resonance which even I as a civilian could appreciate.  There was something about the vision of an entire squadron listening for their  fallen friend’s name, and then sitting together in the brief silence or the “here-here’s” that followed that was profoundly moving.

(This moment would of course be followed by drinking.  And  singing.  And the telling of stories all the while drinking some more)  

The exact structure of a roll call varies across military branches:  Sometimes the deceased’s name is called three times, sometimes just once.  Sometimes it is their rank followed by their full name.  Other times, in the case of squadron roll calls: it is simply the fallen pilot’s call sign.  

Trojan, Stuck, Pyro…

Despite the differences, there is one consistent detail  that all roll calls share: no matter how many times a fallen soldier’s name is called, or what name they are actually called by, their voice will never be the one to respond back to it.  

The one consistent detail is that, for a split second, all of the deceased’s friends sit in that moment and exist in it without them. 

And then they drink…

And they sing… 

And drink some more… 

So yes, the roll call is just a part of what takes place in the middle of a rowdy squadron, and yes the moment where their friend’s name hovers in the air before quickly evaporating into waves of squadron songs and tall tales is short lived, but their name was spoken nonetheless.  Saying their name is important, even if they can’t say it back.  Their name and all the energy and stories threaded into it is added to the air the entire squadron breathes for one night. 

That’s why when you ask someone how to honor one of their fallen friends on Memorial Day, the most common response is: just say their name.  

So this Memorial Day, do just that.  

In the middle of whatever bar-b-q, bar, or pool party you end up at, in between the songs and the drinking and the story telling,  take a page out of a flying squadron’s playbook…and say their names.