As I sat in my car, I hit repeat dozens of times, too many to remember. It was about 3:30 p.m., which gave me about a half hour before I needed to be inside. Meticulously, I ran my polish rag over my trumpet, making sure it matched the shine of the buttons on my uniform. I glanced to make sure my tie was tight and that my name tag was still in place. Four o’clock rolled around, so I stepped out of my car and went inside. The ballroom was straight in from the front doors, so it wasn’t hard to find my way. Not 10 feet into the building, I was intercepted by an older gentleman, a smile across his face. “Michael, I’m glad to meet you. I can’t explain how much this means to the family that you’re here.” I didn’t know the family. I only spoke with this man over the phone briefly, but as out of touch as I felt, I just walked into someone’s life, prepared to send it off.
Chief Warrant Officer 4 Daryl Francis Osberg was an Illinois and Texas Army National Guard helicopter pilot. Thirty-two years of service, including tours in Vietnam, CWO 4 Osberg, Daryl, was also a grandfather, a brother, a son and of course, a loving dog owner. His son, Jason, the next person I met, followed in his footsteps as a Blackhawk pilot for the Illinois National Guard. He was very disciplined but approachable, and gave a firm handshake. I sat with him, his wife and the gentleman who greeted me, Dennis. As dinner was served, stories were traded, and I began to learn more about Daryl, feeling that I was a part of his life just as the many people that were in that room today. I heard war stories, silly memories and I had the pleasure to meet the people he touched.
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As dinner concluded, in the back of my head, I knew it was about my time. Everyone knew. I stepped out, grabbed my trumpet, warmed up outside the ballroom and made my way back in, trying to hide myself. I repeated the song in my head and quietly hummed it under my breath. Then, as Dennis asked everyone to stand, I stepped forward and raised my trumpet to my lips.
Time stopped, nothing seemed real and emotions couldn’t be captured in words. As I write about this now, although it was four years ago, I still remember the faces, the voices and just how difficult it was seeing those who were just laughing and remember, trying their best to not cry.
"Taps" is something that musically, is very simple. It is only 24 notes. The 24 most difficult notes. So apt to evoke emotion, I made the mistake of keeping my eyes open while playing. Watching old vets stand at attention as their brother was being sent off with those 24 notes shook me to my core. The last note rang, and I put my horn slowly to my side and solemnly raised my salute to his son, Jason.
I stuck around for a little longer, traded my phone number and email with some of the people there and thanked them just as much as they thanked me. That was my first volunteer playing of "Taps" as a member of Bugles Across America. Since then, I’ve made it my duty to do what I can and provide "Taps" to every one I can. Funerals, ceremonies and memorials never get any easier. Four years later, at the Air Force Academy, I stood on Spirit Hill in place with the Cadet Chapel, the only illuminated building on the campus that night. In an absolute blizzard, as my fellow classmates lined the Terrazzo and stood quietly, the shots from the firing party echoed, and then it was my cue. I raised my horn, closed my eyes and just thought about how much these 24 notes mean, and who they stand for.
In memory of CWO 4 Daryl Francis Osberg, US Army.
Day is done
Gone the sun
From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky
All is well
Safely rest
God is nigh
