More than 850 Americans have been killed in Iraq and Afghanistan since last Memorial Day. For many of their loved ones, the day's meaning has been transformed. This Memorial Day will feel like their first.

Memorial Day 2005: America is at the park, in the water, around the grill. At a walleye fishing tournament in Dubuque, Iowa, a lawn mower race in Hillsborough, N.J., a techno-music festival in Detroit. Dania Jai-Alai near Miami offers free U.S. flag magnets, while supplies last.

There are countless sack races, eating contests and tugs of war, endless sales on everything from RVs to bikinis. All patriotic T-shirts are $5 at eight Sears stores in greater Phoenix, while supplies last.

This is how most of us spend Memorial Day, an occasion for remembrance that morphed, through years of peace, into beer, ball, boats and barbecue.

But three years of war have revived the holiday's original meaning. Today, for the families of two young Air Force officers, the gateway to summer will become a portal to grief. In Iraq, Derek Argel and Jeremy Fresques — both Air Force Academy class of 2001, both commandos, both promoted this day to captain — prepare to fly off on a classified mission. In Fort Walton Beach, Fla., Capt. Argel's wife, Wendy, sits down at the computer as their 10-month-old son, Logan, plays on the floor. She wants Derek to have an e-mail from her when he gets back. The television shows scenes of parades and cemetery services. In the e-mail's subject field, she types, “Memorial Day.” In nearby Destin, Fla., Capt. Fresques' wife, Lindsey, also an Air Force captain, joins the annual “Gate to Gate” road race at Eglin Air Force Base. She and other runners drop carnations at the base Veterans Memorial as they jog past. Right; Debbie Argel-Bastian and her son, Derek Argel

In Yuma, Ariz., Fresques' father, Nick, has gotten a call from his wife, Sherry, asking him to come home early from work. After all, it's Memorial Day. In Santa Barbara, Calif., Argel's mother, Debbie, enjoys a poolside martini in her father-in-law's backyard.

All are patriotic Americans who have relatives at war. Still, for them as for almost everyone else, Memorial Day is 90% recreation and 10% recollection. Before the day is over, that will change forever.

More than a dozen communities claim to be the birthplace of Memorial Day, including Waterloo, N.Y., (designated as such by Congress in 1966); Columbus, Miss. (recognized by the Library of Congress in 1958); and Boalsburg, Pa., where in 1864 three women started a tradition of decorating Civil War soldiers' graves with flowers. On May 30, 1868, Union veterans first officially observed Decoration Day. Over the next century, a succession of wars swelled the importance of what became known as Memorial Day. In 1971, Congress divorced Memorial Day from May 30, making it the last Monday in May. By 2000, the day's original meaning had become so subsumed in the festive three-day weekend that Congress passed the national Moment of Remembrance Act, asking for a moment of silence at 3 p.m. Pictured; Derek observes a moment of silence with his son, Logan

Years of peace also took their toll. For many, Memorial Day was old men walking around in funny hats and outfits wearing obscure ribbons and medals — forgotten heroes of forgotten wars.

In Farmington, N.M., where Jeremy Fresques grew up, his mother mostly recalls the kids' baseball games and soccer tournaments. His father sums it up: “Memorial Day was a picnic.”

In Lompoc, Calif., where Derek Argel grew up near Vandenberg Air Force Base, Memorial Day was different. The main street was lined with flags. Hundreds of people gathered at the cemetery. A clergyman read the names of the war dead, Scouts placed a flag on every veteran's grave and a bugler played taps.

Derek's grandfather was a career Marine who fought in World War II.

In the sixth grade, Derek wrote that on Memorial Day, “We should put the flag out at our homes, and go to the service at the cemetery. On this day we show respect to the veterans who risked their lives or were killed protecting our freedom and flag. I am happy to see them put a little flag on my grandfather's grave.”

In Iraq on Memorial Day 2005, Fresques, 26, and Argel, 28, have made captain. However, there's no time for a promotion ceremony. Because they're on a mission, they're not even wearing their new silver bars. A promotion “would have been the last thing on their minds,” says Col. Kenneth Rodriquez, their group commander. “These guys were very mission-focused.”

Only a few cadets from each Air Force Academy class are selected to wear the red beret of the Air Force's Special Tactics unit. They're called Combat Controllers, a dry term for shock troops trained to land in hostile territory, set up and protect landing fields, and direct aircraft into them.

Argel: water polo star, 6-5, 210, 4% body fat. Wanted to go to the Air Force Academy so badly he attended two prep schools after high school to get in. On a whim, entered academy boxing tournament, having never boxed before, and made the finals, losing a split decision. Set so many records in commando training he had to lug a hunk of driftwood as handicap.

Fresques: hard worker, deep thinker. Considered military academies because he didn't want to get a loan to attend University of Arizona. Joked that he chose Colorado Springs over West Point because female cadets were better looking; said the Air Force treated officers better. Found Jesus in his senior year at the academy. Upon seeing copy of Maxim, the men's magazine, on the desk of a superior officer, he said, “Sir, you aren't going to read that, are you?” Disqualified by eyesight for flight school, he became a communications officer. Applied for elite special ops unit after deciding that he'd “go crazy sitting at a desk.”

Argel, a rising star in Special Tactics, has decided to make a career of it. Fresques plans to leave the Air Force in 2006 and possibly go into real estate. Both will finish their tour in a month and go home.

“I'm definitely ready,” Fresques e-mails his parents on May 26. Three days later he writes in his journal that he's not afraid of dying, only “the process of dying.” He says his fondest desire is to be “raptured with Lindsey” into heaven to be with Jesus.

On Memorial Day, the two captains board the surveillance plane to scout potential emergency landing sites. Winds are calm, visibility unrestricted.

In the early afternoon, a holiday rooted in wars past is transformed by news from war today:

Four U.S. airmen and an Iraqi Air Force pilot were killed when their light plane crashed and exploded into flames 80 miles northeast of Baghdad. The plane went down about an hour after takeoff from Kirkuk. The cause of the crash was under investigation.

Wendy Argel is on an errand when she gets a call from her mother at home with little Logan. There are soldiers there to see her.

Wendy's father was an Air Force pilot. She knows what that means.

While she was writing that e-mail, her husband was dead.

A few miles away, Lindsey Fresques is bustling around her town house getting ready for a barbecue when there's a knock on the door. Four soldiers are standing there.

One is a major who attended her wedding, and the look on his face says this will be the worst day of her life. The carnation she'd dropped at the memorial had been for her own husband.

The young widows spread the sad news. Wendy reaches her mother-in-law in Santa Barbara. Debbie sinks to her knees. Her husband thinks she's having a stroke.

Lindsey calls Sherry Fresques, who again calls Nick at work. “Jeremy won't be coming back,” she explains.

In Iraq, where an investigation will later rule out hostile fire and mechanical failure, only a few personal items are recovered from the wreckage. They include a silver cross Jeremy had bought in Jerusalem and wore around his neck, and Derek's gold wedding ring.

Some of the human remains are burned too badly for identification. Later, these intermingled ashes will be buried at Arlington National Cemetery. The pilot will become the first Iraqi interred there.

Four days after the crash, a ceremony is held in a hangar at Hurlburt Field in Florida, where the four airmen were based. Each is awarded the Bronze Star. Each soldier is represented by combat boots, a rifle, a helmet and, of course, a red beret.

This year, for the friends and relatives of Jeremy and Derek, Memorial Day will be no picnic.

Nick Fresques: “It always meant something to me, but it wasn't a real important day. I didn't know anyone real close that even served in a war. Now that my son … Now it's completely different. Until something like this happens, unfortunately, it's hard to realize the true meaning of Memorial Day.”

Sherry Fresques: “It's a new experience for me, picking out what to put on your son's grave. I've selected two white roses, symbolizing purity, as well as a spray of red, white and blue stars that kind of reminds me of fireworks — Jeremy loved fireworks. And I'll probably put up this little flagpole. The flag's one of those sparkly ones.”

Wendy Argel: “Memorial Day is a big deal down here, but I know in some other places it's not. But we're living in wartime. I hope people remember that. It's not just numbers. One of those numbers happens to be my husband.”

Lindsey Fresques: “It reminds you that there really are people who make sacrifices. Jeremy and I used to think, ‘You go in and do your time, and then you get out.' So what happened makes the meaning and honor of military service a lot more real.”

Debbie Argel Bastian: “Memorial Day will always be difficult for me now, but it will also have so much more honor attached to it.”

For tough guys, Derek and Jeremy were never very aggressive around women.

Wendy basically picked up Derek, making eyes at him in a bar on St. Patrick's Day. Lindsey and Jeremy met when she was his superior officer and instructor in air traffic training school. Taking a cue from Top Gun, she passed him a note inviting him to dinner.

Now there's an overwhelming sense of what might have been. Derek was away for about half of his two-year marriage. Jeremy was overseas on his only wedding anniversary. Wendy wears Derek's ring around her neck. Lindsey wears Jeremy's cross around hers.

Last month, Wendy and Lindsey went sky diving, each for the first time, doing something their guys enjoyed doing. On Memorial Day, they'll be at Walt Disney World, where Wendy's looking forward to the roller coasters. “It's the adrenaline,” she says. “You can't help but smile.” Disney — “the happiest place on earth,” Lindsey says, reciting Walt's famous claim. But there's a touch of irony in her voice, suggesting that there are days when there are no happy places on earth, and that this Memorial Day could be one of them. Right; Wendy and Lindsey visit Arlington Cemetery and share a bittersweet moment.