Fallen soldiers honored at Georgia National Cemetery in Cherokee County
This is the weekend we remember the Americans who paid the ultimate sacrifice in service to their country.
People gathered at the Georgia National Cemetery in Canton on Saturday to honor those who died in battle.
All of the headstones in the cemetery are decorated with an American flag.
James Walters served in the Navy Reserve. His brother answered the nation's call and he gave it all.
'Never, never, never ever forget to say a prayer for all of those who died in combat,' Walters told Channel 2's Bryan Mims. 'I was three years old when my oldest brother was killed in Korea, 7 August, 1952.'
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Walters says whenever taps is played, he sheds a tear.
The ceremony's speaker, Major General Dwayne Wilson of the Georgia National Guard, knows well what sacrifice looks like. To him, it looks like his father, who was killed in Vietnam.
'So I watched my mom and my grandparents live lives in pain without him,' Wilson said.
The ceremony was quiet and intimate.
The Sons of the American Revolution, dressed in period clothing, fired rifles in tribute.
After the ceremony, people quietly walked among the headstones and flags.
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It's hard to sleep — not just because of the heat, but because I can't stop thinking about what this place had once been. The next morning, we walk down the center of the airstrip as the sun rises over the valley. Once one of the busiest runways in the world, it now lies silent. Tall grass sprouts from potholes left by artillery strikes. The crumbling control tower is only half its original height, and the hangars at the far end sit abandoned — rusting reminders of a war long past. As I walk along its length, I notice the absence of signposts, statues or any form of commemoration. Despite the airstrip's historical importance, there's nothing to mark it. Among those who operated out of Long Tieng during the war were the Ravens, a secret group of active-duty Air Force pilots who volunteered to serve in Laos. Their primary role was to act as forward air controllers (FACs), flying low behind enemy lines to identify and mark targets for US Air Force bombers. 'They were just kind of taken off the books,' Carter says. 'They operated under a different cover.' The Ravens wore civilian clothing and were issued US Embassy ID cards. In some cases, Carter notes, pilots were also issued US Agency for International Development (USAID) identity cards. The Ravens often flew in pairs — an American pilot in front and a local Hmong 'backseater' who communicated with ground forces. But they weren't alone over the skies of Laos. Pilots from Air America, a secret CIA-owned airline, also operated in Long Tieng; they flew in crucial supplies to the base and conducted daring search and rescue missions to recover downed pilots deep behind enemy lines. 'I landed there pretty much every other day,' Neil Hansen, a pilot stationed in Laos during part of the war, tells CNN. Hansen worked for Air America between 1964 and 1973 and detailed his experience in the book, 'FLIGHT: An Air America Pilot's Story of Adventure, Descent and Redemption.' 'I was flying a C-123, bringing in munitions, supplies and fuel for 'the little birds,' which would then distribute it to other sites,' Hansen recalls. As part of his mission, he also transported 'CIA customers.' During one flight in 1972, Hansen was shot down over the Plateau de Bolevan in southern Laos. 'After getting my crew out and bailing out, I watched the C-123 fall out of the sky and explode,' he says, noting he was rescued by Air America helicopters shortly after. About 100 meters west of the airstrip stands a two-story house that once served as the headquarters of General Vang Pao, the leader of the CIA-backed Hmong army. From this remote compound, Pao worked closely with American operatives to coordinate a covert war, marshaling thousands of Hmong fighters while receiving US air support, weapons and humanitarian aid in return. Set behind a tall fence and overgrown garden, the house still feels separated from the rest of the village — distant, guarded. A sign on the front door, written in English, reads: 'No entry without permission.' It's the only English sign we've seen in the entire village, and it stops us in our tracks. With no one around, we circle the property, peering through dusty windows, unsure whether we can get inside. An older man in weathered military fatigues appears nearby. Without saying a word, he approaches, slowly dangling a key in front of our faces. He doesn't speak English, but types out a number on his phone. We nod and hand over the cash. A moment later, we're inside. The house is not what I expected. I'd imagined a preserved time capsule, cluttered with mementos or forgotten artifacts — but the rooms are eerily empty. No furniture, no decorations, no posters or portraits of the general. In the foyer, dozens of artillery shells are stacked neatly in one corner, with several mortar rounds resting nearby. It's surreal to see these instruments of war arranged with such quiet precision. Through a translation app, the man warns us not to touch anything — some might still be live. Upstairs, a single wooden desk and chair have been placed near a panoramic window facing the airstrip. I sit down, imagining General Vang Pao and CIA officers in this very spot, directing B-52 bombing runs on communist strongholds. The war — so vast, so devastating — had largely been coordinated from this small, simple room. It was almost impossible to reconcile the scale of the conflict with the modesty of this setting. We climb up to the roof. From there, the view stretches across the old airstrip and into the mountains that once shielded Long Tieng from attack. Today, the village is quiet. A few people walk slowly down the main road. Stray dogs nap in the sun. It's hard to believe that tens of thousands of people once lived here. Today, the impacts of the intense US bombing campaign on Laos are still being felt. Of the 270 million sub-munitions dropped on the country, an estimated 30% did not detonate, according to the Mines Advisory Group (MAG). These unexploded ordnances continue to kill, injure and hinder development across the country, according to MAG. Around the hills of Long Tieng, villagers still rarely venture off established roads and trails to avoid unexploded munitions. Full US-Laos relations were restored in 1992 and since 1995, the US has invested more than $390 million in a Conventional Weapons Destruction program aimed at addressing the legacy of the war. However, questions remain about future US funding of explosive ordinance clearance in Southeast Asia following the Trump administration's widespread suspension of foreign aid. 'I fell in love with Laos,' says Hansen. 'I look back on my time as exciting and a place where I could immerse myself in the culture. I was fulfilling a purpose where I knew I was accomplishing something that was needed.' Back in Long Tieng, children riding scooters zoom past my friend and me, their tires bumping over the broken concrete that once launched warplanes into the sky. I now understand why the community gravitates toward the airstrip whenever they can: it's one of the few open spaces cleared of unexploded ordnance. A rare place where children can play without fear of becoming another casualty of a war that ended 50 years ago. The legacy of a secret conflict — barely remembered back in the United States.
