by Kenyon Kemnitz (Rainbow Community Care)

LAKE MILLS, WI – Inside a room at Lake Mills Health Services, a hand-drawn welcome
banner hangs across the doorway, covered in bright colors and child-sized signatures. It
is a vibrant contrast to the low-key, slow-paced routine of a nursing home. But the
artwork is nothing compared to the whirlwind 18-hour adventure this past April that
earned such a celebration. At nearly 98 years old, Korean War veteran Al Weber was
perfectly content to let history march on without him.

Quiet and deeply reserved, Al repeatedly shot down the idea of traveling to see the
national monuments in Washington, D.C. When the topic of the Badger Honor Flight
came up, Al would gently but firmly brush it off. He was nervous about his physical
limitations, worried about navigating a crowded city, and content staying within his
familiar routine.

From Al’s perspective, his military service was simply a duty he had answered decades
ago—not something that required a grand tribute or public fanfare. He dedicated six
years of service to his country, including two years of active duty in the Army—stationed
in Korea from 1952 to 1954—followed by four years in the reserves. Before he
deployed, his family made a simple, somber request.

“My dad and uncle told me, ‘You better come back,’” Al recalled, the memory still
bringing tears to his face years later. “On those hard days, when I wasn’t sure we’d
make it, I remembered those words. I said, ‘I’d come back,’ and by God, I brought every
part of me home.”

Al kept his promise, returning to Wisconsin two years later. He viewed himself not as a
hero, but as a modest guy who had returned to his roots.

“When I first met Al, he didn’t like talking about his military experience,” said Nicole
Sommerfeldt, his hospice social worker at Rainbow Community Care. “When I brought
up the flight each time, he said, ‘I am not worth all that fuss.’ I told him he was beyond
worth it.”

Shattering that shell didn’t require an army, only a dedicated care team, a little loving
persistence, and a kindred spirit named Brian Benisch. A fellow veteran who served
seven years in the Air Force and flew relief helicopters during the Gulf War, Brian had
been visiting Al weekly through Rainbow’s veteran volunteer program. Soon, they
formed an effortless bond. They shared military stories, and cracked jokes that only
those who have worn the uniform could truly appreciate.

“His body is 98, but Al could easily be 50,” Brian said. “His mind is 100% and he’s not a
grumpy old man. He’s just a wonderful soul.”

When Nicole noticed their natural connection, she hatched a plan with Rainbow nurse
manager, Amanda Raduege. Beyond offering encouragement, Brian volunteered to
serve as Al’s guardian for the grueling 18-hour marathon. Putting his trust in a friend
who had become a lifeline, Al finally took a massive leap of faith and said yes.

What followed wasn’t just a fast-paced, cross-country itinerary on Badger Honor Flight
Mission 64. It was a profound transformation that completely flipped the script on what it
means to enter hospice care, proving that life’s final chapter can be defined by vibrant
adventure rather than passive retreat. But synchronizing that journey required a village.

Behind the scenes, the Rainbow staff balanced rigorous clinical planning with deep
emotional support. Amanda served as the clinical anchor for the mission. Initially, there
were discussions about postponing Al’s flight until May, but Amanda advocated for
keeping the timeline the same. “Let’s be better safe than sorry,” she insisted, noting that
utilizing his current window of physical strength was essential. She coordinated with the
Honor Flight’s specialized medical team and ensured that every potential health variable
was addressed long before takeoff.

Meanwhile, Nicole helped ease the family’s anxieties about such a major trip by
highlighting the authentic friendship between Al and Brian. Knowing their loved one was
in the care of a fellow veteran and backed by Rainbow gave them the confidence to
greenlight the trip.

On the morning of the flight, Brian arrived at 3:30 AM, expecting to find Al slowly waking
up. Instead, Al was already dressed, sitting in his wheelchair, and buzzing with
anticipation. At a time when most of the world was still asleep, the duo set off into the
dark Wisconsin morning. Amidst the rush, Al requested a simple breakfast: a cold
carton of milk for a momentous day ahead.

From the moment they reached the Dane County Regional Airport in Madison, the day
was anything but ordinary. They were met with the sights and sounds of a hero’s
departure: fire trucks flanking the roadway with a massive American flag suspended in
the air, a roaring American Legion color guard, and crowds cheering before the sun had
even risen.

Al had spent weeks worrying about his stamina, but the kinetic energy of the
environment acted as his medicine.

“He got more energetic as the day went on,” Brian recalled. “He just got better and
looked happier and younger as the day unfolded.”

“I kept going because I knew I had to,” Al said. “The kids and everyone else shaking my
hands gave me a burst of energy.”

The Honor Flight was packed with over 80 veterans, but Al was the patriarch of the
group. As the most senior veteran on board and one of only three Korean War veterans,
he was a living link to an era of conflict that most Americans only know about from
history books. Throughout the day, Al was accompanied by his own personal medic, an
EMT named Travis, who remained glued to his side, providing a continuous blanket of
clinical safety and companionship.

Al and Brian’s itinerary was packed with monuments, each evoking a different layer of
history and reflection. At the towering Lincoln Memorial, instead of giving it a quick
glance, Al sat silently, carefully reading every single word of the Gettysburg Address
carved into the stone walls. At the expansive Franklin D. Roosevelt Memorial, he
paused at every turn, reading the speeches of the president who had guided the nation
during his own youth.

But it wasn’t just the stone and bronze that moved them, it was the people. At the World
War II Memorial, a large group of middle school students from Monroe, Wisconsin,
swarmed Al’s wheelchair, lining up by the dozens to shake his hand and thank him for
his service.

An unexpected emotional centerpiece of the entire mission awaited them at the Korean
War Memorial. They were greeted by the South Korean Ambassador to the United
States. Whenever he is informed a Korean War veteran is visiting, he makes it a
personal policy to travel to the memorial to deliver the gratitude of his nation face-to-
face.

The ambassador knelt beside Al’s wheelchair, gripped his hand, and thanked him on
behalf of his country and the millions of citizens whose freedom was secured by
American service lines. He then presented a sample Medal of Honor, starting the
process to get Al’s formal discharge papers updated so he could receive the award at
home.

Moments later, a touring group of 50 South Korean nationals spotted Al. Recognizing
him as a liberator of their homeland, they surrounded him, bowing in deep respect,
taking turns shaking his hand and posing for photos. Al even found himself
as the center of attention for young men and women on their way to prom,
who paused to take a treasured photo with the veteran.

For a man who had spent nearly a lifetime minimizing his service—as merely keeping
communication lines running under dangerous “hairy” conditions—the overwhelming
outpouring of international gratitude was staggering.

“I thought I looked kind of goofy,” Al said softly. “You wouldn’t think people would care
that much about it after all this time. I’m just a little old farmer.”

“You didn’t look goofy, Al—you looked proud,” Brian said. “Think about what you did for
all those people. That was the honor you deserved all along.”

With tears in his eyes, Al looked up at his volunteer and said, “I would have never got it
if it wasn’t for you.”

“You’re the one that let me take you,” Brian replied.

The emotional highs of Washington, D.C. were merely a prelude to what awaited them
back in Wisconsin. The flight home featured the traditional Honor Flight ‘mail call.’
Rainbow staff had spent weeks gathering a collection of personal cards and letters,
finally surprising him with a massive stack of heartfelt messages.

When the plane touched back down in Madison around 9:30 PM, Al was among the first
veterans off the aircraft, giving him an unobstructed view of the spectacular scene.
The entire terminal had transformed into a wall of ecstatic sound. A massive crowd
stood six to eight people deep on both sides of the hallway. A live band played,
cheerleaders held signs announcing the plane’s arrival, and the air was thick with flying
confetti and American flags.

For many veterans of Al’s generation, who returned quietly to their homes and jobs in
the 1950s, there had never been a public homecoming. History had simply marched on.
But that night, the crowd was determined to give him the welcome home he had
rightfully earned so long ago.

As Al was wheeled down the center of the roaring corridor, he reached out to shake
every hand that extended toward him. He was entirely in the moment, absorbing the
love of a community that recognized his sacrifice.

Suddenly, through the sea of unfamiliar faces, Al spotted his hospice family—Nicole,
Amanda, and other Rainbow staff—waving signs in the crowd.

“He looked up and realized Amanda and I were there,” Nicole said. “He was like, ‘Oh! I
know you! Why are you here?'”

The warmth of the crowd also extended to its youngest members. Amidst the cheering,
a little boy in a Green Bay Packers outfit wandered over, completely captivated by the
elderly veteran, and sat right on Al’s lap to join in the moment.

“The parents didn’t tell him to do that,” Brian said, still in disbelief. “Just absolutely
amazing.”

But the most beautiful face waiting at the end of that long, loud line belonged to his wife
of 70 years, Maxine. Despite her own health struggles, she braved the late hours and
chaotic crowds alongside family to witness Al’s triumph.

‘My wife for 70 years, Jesus God,” Al laughed. “Holy crap, that’s enough to serve twice,
isn’t it? But I made it. It was a very long day, but worth all of it.”

Today, welcome-home banners crafted by children from Heather’s Family Care in Fort
Atkinson, proudly decorate his door. Al lights up the moment anyone asks about his
experience, eager to share his story with staff, residents, and visitors.

A few days later, Nicole surprised Al with another batch of artwork from her daughter,
Willow, and her classmates at Lil’ Hawks Academy. Each card serves as a powerful
reminder that Al’s service is remembered and honored by the next generation.

“It was a day I will never forget,” Brian said. “I loved watching Al enjoy every minute of
it.”

“I won’t ever forget either,” Al replied.

The beautiful bond between the two veterans didn’t end when the plane landed. Brian
continues his faithful weekly visits, often bringing his dog along to sit by Al’s chair.
Whether they’re cracking jokes or flipping through the photo album Brian and his wife,
Terri, compiled from their trip, the two men share a rare, effortless friendship they both
view as a crowning blessing in their lives.

“Something just clicked with him and I early on,” Brian said. “It’s a very special
connection and I don’t know if I’ll ever have it again. I get just as much out of it as he
does, and it makes my day.”

When Rainbow’s care team looks at Al today, they see a man who is the definition of
gallant, brave, and honorable. He went into hospice facing the end of his story, but
through the dedication of those around him, he turned his final chapter into a reminder
that life’s best moments can come at the very end.

For a man about to turn 98 in July, the full magnitude of his service has finally come into
focus.

“The older I get, the more I see how involved I was,” Al said. “When I was just a kid, I
didn’t realize the bigger picture. But seeing them say thank you now, as an adult—it
means so much more.”

For any other veteran hesitant to make a “fuss” over a trip like this, the retired farmer
has some simple, direct, and honest advice.

“You’re a damn fool if you don’t go,” Al said with a wide grin. “It’s a beautiful trip.”