If you happen to live anywhere in Eastern Nebraska, then you may have followed the news about the repatriation of Louis James Tushla from Atkinson who died aboard the USS Oklahoma on December 7, 1941 during the infamous bombing at Pearl Harbor. After many years, his remains were finally identified, and he was brought home to be officially laid to rest.
You may also have heard about the motorcycle escort of American Legion Riders from Atkinson and other posts who accompanied his remains from Omaha to Atkinson. I was one of those riders; I joined the escort in Norfolk along with quite a few other riders. Norfolk to Atkinson was the final leg of the escort, a distance of 95 miles -- 95 miles of pure, unadulterated patriotism like nothing I've ever seen before.
That's what I want to tell you about. While the repatriation of a fallen hero was the reason for the ride, what happened during those 95 miles opened, or reopened, my eyes to the reality of things instead of the false narrative that is thrown in our faces everyday.
Since I was riding, I couldn't take photos. Even though we were driving very slowly a few times, there wasn't a single time that my feet hit the pavement for those entire 95 miles, so there wasn't an opportunity for me to even snap a quick photo of what I saw even though I really wanted to.
Instead, I'm going to do what I most like to do -- show you through my words what I witnessed.
Leaving Norfolk, a police escort took us to the edge of town, and other police officers manned the few lights we had to pass through, keeping traffic stopped. Not only did those officers hold up the traffic, but they also stood and saluted us as we passed. People lined the streets on foot and in their vehicles, holding flags of every size. The majority had one hand over their hearts, too. If they weren't holding a flag, then they were holding a cell phone and filming our passage -- I figure that I appear in hundreds upon hundreds of cell phone videos. At the edge of town, a line of military vehicles marked our transition to the highway.
I thought then that we'd simply drive on to the next town where there'd be more people awaiting us, but I was wrong. People awaited us along the entire stretch of highway from Norfolk to Atkinson, sometimes in large groupings and other times it would just be a solitary driver who had stopped and got out of his or her vehicle to watch us go by. There was a large group gathered at the Battle Creek junction, and the crowds everywhere were of all ages.
Naturally, when we reached Meadow Grove, the highway was lined again with people as it was with each town through which we passed after that. Firetrucks were out, and flags flew from their buckets as well as from raised tractor buckets and extended telehandlers and anything else that could be raised.
Along the highway, I was most impressed and moved by a young truck driver who had exited his semi and was standing in front of it ramrod straight and immobile as we drove by him. He clearly was an ex-military man. A guy mowing his large yard that abutted the highway stopped mowing and watched us pass by, a huge grin on his face. An elderly woman leaned on a cane and was also supported by her daughter or granddaughter; there was a chair behind her, but she stood as we passed, and she put her hand over her heart. Men held their caps in their hands, women clapped, small children waved small American flags, teenagers held high huge American flags, and everyone stood as we passed.
The firetrucks in O'Neill met us coming into town and, in turn, escorted us through the town at a snail's pace, so that the throngs of people lining the whole length could get a good look, and we could get a good look, too, at the reception for this young man so many years after his death. The local radio station was playing Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the U.S.A." loudly over speakers as we passed; that song always chokes me up. Aside from that song, though, our passage everywhere we went was marked by reverent silence. People waved, but no one shouted or carried on in anyway that would be even the slightest bit disrespectful toward Tushla and the ultimate sacrifice he made.
At Atkinson, we drove through town in sort of a parade until we got to the Legion. There they served us hamburgers, and I had one of the best chocolate cupcakes I've had in a while. The family, the town, and the entire community was so appreciative of our escort because they never thought Tushla would be brought home. The American Legion there is named for him and for John William Farley who died at sea during WWI. Farley's remains were buried at sea, so there's no coming home for him. Tushla, thanks to advancements in identification, is finally home.
Those of us who escorted him home were deeply honored to do so. It's why we are Legion Riders. However, this particular escort was unlike any I've ever done, and I've been a Rider for eight years. My boyfriend has been one much longer, and he says the same. We got choked up numerous times along the route -- he more often than me because his son was in the military when he died by suicide.
If the nation and the world could see what I saw on Thursday, it would silence so much of the crap that's being spewed and would show how very much the heart of this nation loves the United States and what the flag of this country stands for. While I try to avoid the majority of garbage that's out there inciting division, I still see enough of it to make me fear for the future of the country; however, I now have a renewed hope and a belief that patriotism is alive and well, at least in Northeast Nebraska.
Kim and I after the long ride.
My bike and others cooling off after the long ride.
Sorry for the glare, but this is a photo of the information about Farley and Tushla that is located inside the Legion Post that is named after them in Atkinson.
