At last, a homecoming

The flight was silent.

On board, 86 veterans of World War II rested.

Their day with Honor Flight Chicago began with a 6:30 a.m. flight to Washington, D.C., and featured stops at four war memorials before returning for a 7:10 p.m. flight from Dulles International Airport to Midway International Airport.

Some veterans, like Glenn Ward Jr. and Rich Parker, sat together discussing the day. Others, like Aaron Cushman, slept.

Sitting next to Cushman was Keith S. Brin, his companion for the day.

Brin, the Lake County circuit clerk, was among the members of the Lake County court system who worked with Honor Flight Chicago’s Operation Locate A Hero to find World War II veterans for the flight, the group’s 56th since 2008.

He sat next to the sleeping Cushman, swapping stories in a whisper with the other volunteers.

Two vets in the rear of the plane played cards. When they shuffled, it was the loudest sound on board.

That silence gave way to the booming voice of Read Boeckel, an Honor Flight Chicago board member who addressed the veterans from the front of the plane.

It was the first of two surprises that would form the basis for the veterans’ memories of the June 4 trip for the rest of their lives.

“When you were all away from your loved ones, besides waiting for the war to end and going home, what did you look forward to?” Boeckel announced. “Mail call!”

At the mention of those two words — which they hadn’t heard in about 70 years — veterans throughout the plane suddenly sat forward.

“We have mail for every World War II veteran on this plane,” Boeckel said. “When you hear your name … put your hand up and we’re going to walk an envelope down to you. Here we go.”

Eighteen volunteers filled the aisles, creating an assembly line of 86 manila envelopes traveling throughout the plane. Most of the letters were from relatives — children and, of course, grandchildren, the latter written in crayon and marker with colorful drawings of hearts and flags.

There were also letters from Illinois residents, strangers writing to strangers.

Veteran Joseph Mauger flipped through his letters, reading the introductions of each before excitedly turning to the next:

“Dear World War II hero. On this special occasion, we thank you for the great personal sacrifice you made for all of us …”

“Dear World War II veteran. I want to offer you a sincere thank you for saving the world from tyranny …”

“Dear World War II veteran. You and I don’t know each other but I wanted to take the time to tell you that you are my hero …”

The envelopes kept coming. Veterans were weeping, grinning, shaking their heads in disbelief. Sonny Brichta sat in his seat, reading his letters. Tears welled in his eyes.

“I’m feeling very emotional right now,” he said. “This was a beautiful, beautiful day. … It’s a very nice thing that they have done.”

Near the front of the plane, Ward and Parker held their envelopes. Both men were smiling.

“I’m surprised by all of it,” said Ward, exhausted. “It’s like, what’s the next move? I thought it was all over, and now we’re getting packages.”

Parker opened his envelope and read a Congressional Record entry from U.S. Rep. Michael B. Quigley.

“I’m going to be in the Library of Congress!” Parker said. “You can’t duplicate what I’ve had today. I always joke that I am 106. If I do live to be 106, I’ll always remember this. I’ll go to my grave remembering this.”

Parker, the youngest veteran on the trip at age 83, suddenly felt 15 again. That’s how old he was when he joined the military by lying about his age.

“Each and every one of us is living in the past,” he said. “Today brought the past back.”

Ward, still clutching his envelope, kept thinking about the strangers who lined up to greet the veterans 10 hours earlier at the National World War II Memorial.

“My gracious, the people were lined up like they were paid to be there,” he said.

“That was, to me, just mind-boggling. And they were sincere. They stopped and grabbed us and thanked us. They made me believe that they wanted to pay us respect for being present during World War II.”

Parker gestured to Ward.

“Guys like this,” he said. “Although none of us knew one another ... we had a kinship. Just the camaraderie that you have with all these people together, and the people who volunteered to make this all possible, you can’t duplicate it.”

After getting the letters, the veterans sang “God Bless America” as the plane descended. Ward and Parker joined in.

A Chicago Fire Department truck was on the runway when the plane landed. The truck sprayed it with a water salute, the stream arching high over the plane, splashing the windows as the plane reached the gate.

Cushman unbuckled his belt and walked off the plane and into the terminal. Brin was right behind him. Cushman reached the terminal and stopped.

Standing before him was a color guard. Six rows of sailors stood in their traditional dress whites.

Cushman’s knees felt weak at the thrill. He straightened up and was greeted by a sailor who accompanied him and Brin through the terminal. Other passengers waiting for flights out of Midway lined the walls of the terminal, applauding as each veteran arrived at the concourse.

A member of Honor Flight Chicago greeted Cushman and asked if he was comfortable walking instead of using a wheelchair.

Cushman smiled.

“I’ll make it.”

The man offered his hand to Cushman.

“Thank you for what you did.”

Cushman shook his hand.

“Thank you for what you did.”

He walked through the terminal, the sailor holding his arm.

Brin walked behind them, a look of exhaustion combined with exuberance. The terminal was lined with veterans of other foreign wars.

The World War II veterans accompanied the sailors through the terminal. A marching band led the procession. Bagpipes played. Passersby applauded and cheered.

Cushman and Brin reached the elevator on the second floor. The sound of music and jubilant voices wafted up.

The day’s final surprise was here.

Around 10 p.m. on a Wednesday night, Midway was filled with more than 2,500 people to welcome the veterans home.

When the elevator reached the ground floor, the doors opened and Cushman, standing in the front, stopped walking once more.

Revelers and supporters captured his view. They were clapping and cheering and smiling at him.

Tears appeared in Cushman’s eyes. He looked at Brin.

“Is this for me?”

“Yes sir,” Brin said. “Welcome home.”

An orchestra played patriotic hymns. Honor Flight volunteers lined up to shake the hands of Cushman and the other veterans as they stepped off the elevator.

“Welcome home, Aaron!” one said, reading his name tag. “Did you have a good day?”

He smiled at her, unable to speak.

“Good, good,” she said.

Behind the volunteers was the first row of civilian supporters. They waved and cheered. They saluted. They brought signs for loved ones and strangers alike.

“Welcome Home Pops!”

“Gene Lang is our hero”

“Welcome home Al Zoot. We love you!”

“Thank you for your sacrifice”

A group of children wore matching blue shirts reading “Got service?”

People waved American flags. A woman from Honor Flight exclaimed, “Come on folks! Let’s let ‘em hear it!”

Cushman shook their hands one by one. They kissed him on a cheek. His words bubbled out: “Thank you. Thank you.”

In a wheelchair, Steve Silosky rolled through the parade and shook his head.

“Wonderful,” he said. “This is unbelievable. Who gets up to do this nonsense? It’s enough already.”

His humility and faux-cynicism turned back to gratitude. He smiled.

“I feel great.”

Near the rear was Ward. His wife and three of his children led a group of family and friends in welcoming him. His daughter, Angela, hugged him.

“I’m so proud of you, daddy,” she said.

He smiled and choked up, his cane in his lap.

“I’m feeling great,” he said. He stared at the smiling faces. “You’d think I won the war.”

Standing near the wall away from the entrance was Brin. Cushman had left with his son, and Brin viewed the scene one last time.

“Look around!” Brin said. “How do you possibly convey this to anybody? Who would believe this?”

He likened it to celebrities getting mobbed in public.

“Life-changing experience for me,” Brin said. “We just need to share this with everybody.

“We have to get as many vets as we possibly can on this trip. There were vets on this trip who were reluctant to go. There wasn’t a single one who was anything but changed, ultimately down to their skeleton, from what they saw from this.”

Back in the procession, Brichta was walking slowly, nearly staggering, stunned by the turnout.

“Fabulous and fantastic,” he said about the parade. “Overwhelming, really.”

He wiped away tears and thought about the war.

“When I came home, alone …” he said, trailing off. He stopped, and smiled, and continued his walk.