I have no intended message for this piece. My intention was simply to record what I saw and heard. What stories do you have on the same topic? or what did these stories make you think about, if you’re willing to share, I would enjoy reading your response.
I
I’m at Sweet Tomatoes having lunch with my Grandpa and his best friend of seventy plus years, Leonard. For some reason we’re talking about the war in Iraq. Maybe it’s because lately I’ve been watching more and more people I know enlist. My Grandpa starts talking about how back in his day there weren’t any support groups for veterans; his tone is unsympathetic. He doesn’t get why today’s vets seem to need the meetings.
In response I say, “Well today no one here really feels like we’re at war. Maybe part of the reason returning soldiers didn’t need support groups back then was because everyone at home knew what they’d been through.”
At this my Grandpa, snaps his head up, “Nobody knows what it was like over there.”
II
“Congratulations man. I’m proud of ya’!” says the burly man who I’ve only just surmised is my friend’s Uncle.
“Actually I hadn’t even told her yet,” my friend says, indicating me with a gesture of his hand.
“You enlisted?” I say, “When?” I am completely shocked. Two weeks prior he’d been talking about moving to San Francisco and maybe we should get a place together.
His Uncle makes his exit soon after this awkward interchange and my friend proceeds to tell me all about his decision to join the army. He’s not an overzealous “Go America!” patriot, so I am curious as to why he’s made this decision.
A fellow writer, he explains to me:
“I figure this way I’ll get some experience out there in the world. Make some adventures. Get an education. I’m not getting anything done around here,” he says his voice trailing off a little. In its absence I can see the pain he’s got neatly tucked away.
We have this conversation looking out over the heart of the downtown we’ve known all our lives. I wonder if he realizes he won’t be escaping the problems that he faces here. No matter how far he flees from this little town, the problems in his heart will still be stowed in his baggage.
III
“I read all of this patriotic shit and I just laugh.”
My teacher nods his head.
“Kids these days go over there thinking it’s going to be some kind of adventure. I sound like a parent, but it’s all those video games they play today. I mean when I was a kid, the games were just goofy. Today there are these realistic-looking, complex war games and kids think that’s what it’s really like—but it’s not.
“When I went over there in ’96 all we had to worry about was Bosnia. And these guys make the commitment and then get mad when we get called to duty, they forget what they’re signing up for. I feel bad for saying it, but for me it’s 10 more years and I get my pension; this is my job, not some patriotic glory trip.
He pauses here, as if to catch his breath.
“Then these kids come over there asking me when they get to shoot someone. And I’m lucky, I fly. They don’t realize how lucky we are that we fly at night so they don’t see us.
“Some kid came over—a replacement. And as soon as he got there he was asking when he’d get to shoot people—all enthusiastic like. Within two days we’re up in the air and he gets shot through the sheet metal. Kid went home in a box.”
IV
It’s afternoon and I’m driving to work. I’m listening to music and my driving ability is set on auto-pilot. After a while I realize that the intersection I’m at is at a dead halt.
To my left, in the other lane, a bunch of motorcycles are riding by, going unusually slow, many of them flying a blue and yellow flag I’ve never seen before. Then I see it: a hearse. I see all of the rest of the cars in the procession, a fire truck, some officers who escort the caravan—the whole procession takes about 5 minutes to pass. Somewhere during it, I turn off my music in honor of the fallen soldier, to create silence in his honor. By now, I’ve figured it out. The riders are the Patriot Guard and someone, who might have sat next to me at a high school football game or helped my mom out to the car with her groceries while at his high school job—someone whose path crossed mine became a soldier and I am a witness to his final travel from airport to grave.
Day 3