Someone once told me, “Happy Memorial Day,” while I was filling up at a gas station. I smiled politely, like I always do. Not because I agreed—but because I didn’t know how to explain, in the time it takes to swipe a credit card, what this weekend is really about.
Memorial Day isn’t for the ones who made it home.
It’s not for me. It’s not for old war stories or barbecue weekends or mattress sales.
It’s for the ones like Wells Bacon. Wells wasn’t on active duty when I met him in Baghdad. Neither was I. But that didn’t matter much in the part of the world we were working. You were either in it, or you weren’t. And Wells—he was in it.
In 2007, I flew into the civilian side of Baghdad International Airport, which, if you know anything about that part of the world at the time, wasn’t the preferred entrance. Most guys flew in on military flights from Kuwait, straight into the secure side. Not me. I came in on the regular side, in the middle of what was still an active war zone, and there was one man crazy and brave enough to come pick me up alone.
Wells Bacon. He was 72 years old. Let me repeat that: seventy-two. And I’m pretty sure he could’ve taken any man in Iraq in a bare-knuckle fight and not spilled his coffee doing it. He was stocky—built like a fireplug. Popeye would’ve looked at his forearms and said, “Damn.” He drove solo from the Green Zone to Baghdad International—about 7 miles of pure unpredictability—just to grab me. No convoy. No backup. Just Wells, a rifl e, and a gut full of grit.
He wasn’t there because he had to be. He wasn’t assigned, conscripted, or forced. He was there because he chose to be. Because after decades in the military, that rhythm of radio static, checkpoint calls, and diesel fumes was still his heartbeat. Some people retire on a fishing boat. Wells Bacon retired into war.
And he didn’t make it home. I won’t get into the how or the when. That part’s not mine to tell. But I will say this: when people ask me what Memorial Day means, I think of Wells.
I think of the people who keep showing up after the world stops watching.
I think of the ones who never needed a thank-you. Just a moment of remembrance.
So this weekend, I’m not asking you to cancel your cookout or skip the lake. But while you’re flipping burgers, maybe take a second to say a name out loud. Say his name.
Say Wells Bacon. Because Memorial Day isn’t about waving flags or posting memes.
It’s about remembering the kind of men and women this country was lucky to have.
And the heartbreaking truth that we don’t have them anymore.
