“Thank you for your service” is what they say now. Thank you for doing whatever it was we thought you should be doing at the time—before we changed our minds— before we decided it was pointless.
They never said it back then.
***
The hippies shout Ho,Ho,Ho Chi Minh.
The serendipitous Texan in the White House lifts his dog by the ears and tells off-color jokes to like-minded whiskey advisors.
Walter Cronkite grows visibly weary of the body count.
***
Safe in the Huey, side door open, feet dangling above steaming treetops, they leave alive, shouting and shooting at the moon.
In Da Nang, they line-up for mandatory haircuts and shaves. They shower long and hot and hold clean towels to their noses and breathe deeply. They put on fresh boxers and white t-shirts and snappy fresh fatigues and swaddle rotting feet in clean athletic socks and stuff them into stiff polished boots.
And when they are done they appear young and unbroken.
At the airport, they shuffle their feet and slap-hug goodbye. Semper Fi, Brothers forever. Never forget T.J and R.L and J.B. and Billy Chicago.
And Preston Washington. That fucker died for us.
One by one, they check their tickets and walk off to be swallowed by the corridors.
Fly back home. Fly to a new home. Fly where you will, Uncle Sam has your back. Now, if you look down, you may spot a heavy train, chugging slowly, your baggage aboard, arriving shortly.
***
The three Marines on the Pan Am flight to San Diego applaud when the plane touches- down on American soil. Two of them hurry off to connecting flights.
The last Marine has the Beach Boys in his head and no family worth worrying about. He fancies a life with a Disney girl in a house near the beach with a surfboard rack and an outdoor shower. He takes a cab to the waterfront and walks with hope past shops and restaurants and people with downcast eyes. A long haired, tie-dyed, university type confronts him yelling “Murderer”and spits on his service medals. An automatic combat reaction puts him down.
“Welcome to my world, it’s the color of blood and mud.”
***
Welcome home. You must get yourself some civilian clothing as soon as possible. There’s a Goodwill down the street. Things are a little unstable right now, public opinion and all. Here’s a number to call if you’re having trouble readjusting—you can’t just go around punching people in the face. Nightmares are common, there are medications. Come back anytime, but make an appointment, please. Semper Fi.
The last Marine finds a tattoo parlor and takes off his second-hand Surfin’ USA T-shirt, his face unflinching as the artist works from shoulder to bicep, engraving the motto “Semper Fidelis” and under it, initials and dates:
T.J. 12/5/66 R.L. 3/21/67 J.B. 6/31/67 B.C. 8/12/67 P.W. 9/1/67
The last Marine stops outside to count his remaining cash. He decides it’s enough to call Preston Washingtons’ mother tomorrow if he can get quarters and find the number.
End
It was a different time. I was a teenager, and didn’t have a clue. Just remember the nightly “body count” on the evening news. I have known people who experienced it, and it never leaves them. It was a different time, but war never changes. Thoughtful story, Jim.
Terse and powerful. So much emotion packed in, even between the lines. Very moving, Jim.