FORT HARRISON -- Two hours before the ceremony begins, Sgt. Jesse Edinger has already polished his shoes, shined his brass and tied his dark-blue tie.

Clad in his full dress uniform, he meets two of his peers at the Montana State Veterans Cemetery at Fort Harrison, where they fold and then refold the American flag.

As family and friends gather, the trio of soldiers practices precision turns and solemn salutes. They begin final preparations to see that Mary Lofthouse, a member of the Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service during World War II, receives an honorable burial next to her husband, who served in the Army in the same war.

"Not a lot of people like to do this sort of thing," Edinger confesses before the funeral, his snow-white gloves tucked inside his service cap. "There's a lot of pressure. You have to be the type of person who can handle the pressure and won't choke if something goes wrong."

Edinger, along with Sgt. Joel Vaccaro and Staff Sgt. Terry Biesemeyer, has been through this before. The three members of the Montana National Guard's Honor Guard perform at as many as five burials a week. In the past six months alone, Edinger has done this 78 times, setting a new Honor Guard record.

Members of the ceremonial detail, known for their silent, stoic presence at military burials, have grown in number in recent years under the leadership of Denny Lenoir, the state coordinator for the Montana National Guard Honor Guard.

When Lenoir joined the team in 2004, it included just 17 members who performed at 44 military burials. By 2006, however, members of the Montana team performed at 99 burials, then 294 the following year.

With the World War II generation dying off and Vietnam veterans growing older, demand for honor burials has increased. The Honor Guard now includes 99 Montana members. Teams are expected to perform at more than 550 burials this year and 800 next year.

"We had a 300-percent increase that first year I came on board," Lenoir says. "I did a complete overhaul of the program. I changed some things, from the type of person we were looking for to the type of training we do."

While growing the ranks, Lenoir has developed something of a sixth sense regarding those who make the grade. It appears in their posture, their character and their meticulous nature. It shows in their patience, timing and sincerity.

In the military, they call it "bearing." It is, Lenoir says, in the emotion they exude and the connection they make with grieving families.

"I'm looking for someone who's above and beyond, who stands out, who's not your average soldier," Lenoir says of his candidates. "When I have people come in and interview, sometimes I can tell right away they're not the type of person I'm looking for just by the way they carry themselves."

Vaccaro, a former rifleman in the Marines who wears a trimmed mustache, heard about the Honor Guard through a friend. Before today's burial, he stands tall and poised, watching the funeral attendees arrive.

They come in summer dresses and heels, suits and ties. They are grandchildren, bridge players and distant friends. Watching them mingle, Vaccaro acknowledges that each burial is unique -- a tribute to the person that was.

"Each service member has had his own story," he says. "Several months ago, we had a gentleman pass away who had been a prisoner of war in World War II in Germany. That one was fairly touching, just knowing a little bit about what he had gone through and the sacrifice he had to make."

Dark sunglasses are common at funerals, and on this day most in the crowd are wearing a pair. Yet the three members of the Honor Guard must watch through uncovered eyes. They stand aside, unmoving and silent.

Once the ceremony starts, there is nowhere to go if emotions get the better of them. They are guarded, sometimes tuning out the eulogy.

Biesemeyer, the senior member of today's detail, will receive the flag and present it to the family. He is a veteran in every sense of the word. Even so, he admits, it is easy to get teary-eyed or caught up in the family's emotions.

"You have a family member who's breaking down with grief over their lost loved one," he says moments before the ceremony begins. "Each person in the Honor Guard deals with it in a different way. Some show emotion and go quiet for a little while after the funeral. Others joke around to separate themselves from the emotion."

Some members of the Honor Guard have short tenures. There is a risk of becoming emotionally numb, or desensitized to death.

Some decide it is too much to bear.

Some realize it is not the job for them. There is no shame in admitting so.

"Each Honor Guard member has their own little thing that can trigger them off," Biesemeyer says, his face in the shadow of his service cap. "We always say that if it doesn't touch you right here in the heart when you're doing the ceremony, then maybe you're there for the wrong reason."

There is something magical in giving a family joy in a moment of sorrow. There is selflessness in showing pride and respect for a deceased member of another's clan.

Biesemeyer saw that respect firsthand during the burial of his uncle, a soldier who served during the Vietnam War. Watching the honor detail perform the ceremony convinced him to join their ranks. So he did, and he has served with no regrets.

"It's not about us," he says frankly. "It's about that deceased loved one. It's their day. It's their show. It's not ours."

No funeral is easy to attend. Yet some may be harder than others. Members of the Honor Guard try to explain the difference. There is no simple way to express it in words. Death is final, no matter whom it visits.

But while the passing of an older veteran leaves one with a sense of completeness -- a life fully lived -- the same cannot be said for a young soldier who died in battle. Such ceremonies place a solemn weight upon the shoulders and hearts of those who help lay them to rest.

"We've done funerals (for soldiers) from 18 years old to those well into their 90s," Lenoir says. "The younger ones are sometimes tougher because you're seeing a young set of parents, and there are young children involved. There's no way to take away the pain they're feeling."

Edinger agrees that a difference exists, at least in the emotions that surface during the ceremony.

When the team performs honors for a World War II vet, it is often a celebration of life. Many times, he says, there is laughter involved.

"They tell stories of the great life this guy has lived," he said. "When you're there for a 20-year-old, it's different. But really, it doesn't make a difference to us in the honors we perform."

Aspiring members of the Honor Guard must pass several levels of training, including history, ceremonial marching, flag-folding and military etiquette. They are members of a celebrated yet solemn team present during life's most challenging moments.

The three members here this day wear a regimental crest upon their collar. One wears cross pistols. The white rope around their left shoulders represents the nature of their work. The service stripes on their sleeves represent years of honest and faithful duty.

They don their uniforms several times a week. They are among the cemetery's most common visitors. It may be why they are so often accepted by grieving families, like the one gathered here today.

A heavy silence settles over the cemetery when the family gathers by the grave where Mary Lofthouse will be laid to rest next to her husband.

Before she passed, she saw the hummingbirds in California. Her sons brought her remains back to Montana in a U-Haul truck. This is where she wanted to spend eternity.

"It was very important to get the Honor Guard," said Jay Lofthouse, Mary's youngest son. "My father had it when he was placed out here. It was important, even for my younger daughter. She remembered it."

Shortly after 11 a.m., the four sons take their seat before their mother's grave. More than 50 additional family and friends close in around them. They form a half-circle around the marker sitting flush with the ground.

Off to the side, Biesemeyer and members of the Honor Guard come to attention. A rifle squad fires a three-round volley. The shots crack the air, sharp and crisp. A lone bugler sounds Taps.

And when the moment comes, the three soldiers present the folded American flag. Biesemeyer accepts it in a ceremonial passing before presenting it to Jay Lofthouse. He then offers a slow and steady salute.

One by one, the four sons step to their mother's urn. Its black finish glistens in the morning sun. They kiss their hands and place them upon the smooth porcelain. When it is done, there is time to reflect.

"This meant a lot to me," Jay says after the event, his voice full of emotion. "I'm definitely keeping the flag. My daughter wants some rifle shells. My brothers want some shells. My daughter collected the shells from my dad's interment here. I'm kind of looking forward to surprising her with the flag."

Reporter Martin Kidston: 447-4086 or mkidston@helenair.com