Squad honors 40,000th veteran
Fort Sam cemetery volunteers put ‘hearts and soul’ into final salutes
For members of the Monday Squad, the memorial service at 11:15 a.m. at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery had the look of just about any other, especially given that they already had honored six veterans that morning.
But the ceremony for Army Sgt. José Rubén López was different in one way: He was the 40,000th veteran the Memorial Services Detachment has helped bury since its creation nearly 30 years ago, and the 10 veterans who made up the squad knew why it mattered.
It hasn’t been routine at some national cemeteries for decades, but veterans buried at Fort Sam receive all the military honors they are due, including three M1 rifle volleys with the brass shell casings sealed in a box and a bugler playing taps. For three months, last year’s coronavirus lockdown kept it from happening here as well.
The detachment is a nonprofit volunteer organization, and its commander, retired Navy Chief Petty Officer Loreto “Manny” Mendoza, said 40,000 burials was a “pretty significant” achievement.
Without the detachment, 40,000 veterans would have been laid to rest at Fort Sam without honors, “and it’s just not America, America in Military City, USA,” he added. “Every veteran should receive full honors.”
At Fort Sam, the nation’s
ninth-largest national cemetery, the volunteer squads have become a familiar sight, a part of funeral services for active-duty troops, reservists and retirees, including Medal of Honor recipients, since 1991.
The armed services had cut back on providing honors for veterans around 1988, though they didn’t completely stop the practice.
Even at an average age of 72, the detachment’s 107 members are a tough bunch, rendering honors on 100-degree summer days or in driving rain. It recently offered a final salute during San Antonio’s record freeze, which brought snow to the city twice in one week.
Concerns over the potential spread of the coronavirus, at least as high a risk for the honor guard members as anyone else in attendance, prompted it to stand down after sharply restricted funeral procedures were put in place last year by the Department of Veterans Affairs.
The detachment, however, still did 1,587 burials in 2020, more than usual, because it stepped in for active-duty honor guards after the restrictions were lifted.
The organization now forms smaller squads of just 10 volunteers, five of them firing rifle volleys rather than the usual seven. Mendoza said the detachment searched hard to find buglers so there could be one for every team to provide a live rendition of taps, rather than a recording.
Providing honors the old-fashioned way is a point of pride for the members.
“We have five different squads, Monday through Friday. All of them are very tight and, of course, we all think we’re the best squad,” retired Army Lt. Col. Mike Kinkade said, laughing. “But it’s truly a band of brothers. We have very diverse backgrounds and rank, the branches of service and experiences. “We have a lot of Vietnam vets within our organization,” said Kinkade, 72, of San Antonio. “Our youngest person, I think, is 41, the oldest is in his 90s, we’ve got at least four females, and it’s just a very diverse group. And we really focus on the only thing that’s of importance, and that’s to honor the veterans.”
The detachment’s parliamentarian, adjutant and webmaster, he played the Army Song as the service for López began and then taps after the shots rang out.
José Rubén López was one of a dwindling number of World War II veterans and one who had the rare experience of fighting both in Europe and Asia. A native of Laredo, he died Jan. 17 at a veterans home in Floresville but had lived most of his life in Crystal City.
There, López and his wife, Carmela, owned and operated The Tavern, a popular restaurant where he had worked as a dishwasher, cook and waiter.
A migrant farmworker as a kid, López volunteered to serve in the Army in 1942 and joined the 10th Mountain Division, which fought the Nazis in the Italian Alps. He had never seen snow but adjusted quickly, training in the Rocky Mountains to ski, snowshoe, climb and build snow caves to survive.
At 24, López took command of his rifle squad on April 27, 1945, after its leader was killed near Garda, Italy. The soldiers overran enemy positions to get into the town, then engaged in another firefight to drive the Germans out.
“He continually exposed himself to the greatest danger and demonstrated the finest leadership ability in accomplishing this vital mission, which enabled the advance to continue,” a citation for a Bronze Star stated.
López earned a second Bronze Star to the Philippines, and a Purple Heart, late in the war. But he rarely talked about combat.
Juan Ramon Palomo, a retired columnist for the now-defunct Houston Post, called López a civic leader, business owner and war hero.
“Make that quiet war hero, for he was not one to boast or to display his military medals at the drop of a hat,” Palomo, 74, of Houston told about two dozen mourners.
As he talked of López fighting the Japanese, a voice in the distance called, “Attention!” and the Monday Squad prepared to depart. Kinkade called the López funeral “a once-in-a-lifetime honor for me,” but they had four more services to attend.
That isn’t unusual. The cemetery often has 22 burials a day, with the squads rendering honors for as many as half of them.
Retired Air Force Master Sgt. Steve Shaffer said the detachment here was modeled on a unit at Fort Snelling National Cemetery in Minneapolis. It’s even larger than Fort Sam, where more than 169,000 veterans and their relatives are buried, and Shaffer said the detachment there had logged more than 75,000 services when he visited two years ago.
“We started out very humbly and progressed as we’ve gone through the years,” said Shaffer, 63, of Live Oak, who presented the flag to his wife, Linda, at her father’s burial in 2019.
“The guys on Monday that I’ve dealt with over the years, it’s an honor to them for doing it. They may moan and groan a little bit about the aches and pains and stuff like that, but they’re right up there when it’s time to do their job.”
Ken Ashworth, a Navy corpsman in Vietnam from 1969 to 1970, found the detachment a good place to volunteer when he joined more than five ears ago.
“We will do our presentation, and as soon as we play taps you can hear the sobbing, and that just makes it more personal,” said Ashworth, 74, of San Antonio.
“You see it in their faces, you see it in their eyes, you see it in the messages they send of gratitude afterwards,” agreed retired Air Force Chief Master Sgt. Deb Parsons, who serves on the Friday Squad with her husband, Wayne, a retired Air force master sergeant.
“Some didn’t know the whole story of their loved one’s service and this kind of brings everything full circle for them,” she added.
Retired Air Force Chief Master Sgt. Gene Kuwik, the Friday Squad leader, said those in the detachment see it as “almost like an extension of their military service.”
“They feel like they’re still serving this great nation, which they truly are,” said Kuwik, 83, of Universal City, who served in Vietnam from 1966 to 1967.
“They may be in their late 70s and 80s, but they’re marching like they’re 18 years old and they put their heart and soul into it.”