Supplementary Blog 6/6/10 Sergeant

“817, 817 . . .”

“Redhorse. Just remember Redhorse. We were special ops. He’ll know.”

And now that he’s gone, I wish I had asked his name. I know he was born in 1937, he served in Vietnam (he was in Laos, but he’s not really allowed to say that), he lives in Florida, and he loves white water rafting. Reading, intent on delving into C.S. Lewis’ wisdom I was interrupted by his phone conversation with his wife. It’s raining in Jacksonville right now—he hopes they’ll be able to land. He’s just coming from Denver—visited his daughter, a registered nurse, who had a bowel blockage (that can be a very serious thing). He hopes this is the last time he’ll have to fly—he hates it. He’s not supposed to anyway. He still has shrapnel in his leg and face. Plus he can barely hear. Only ten percent in this ear—the right one. I had to suppress a laugh. The terminal was roaring with noise and I was speaking quietly, yet he could clearly hear me. He learns I’m from Oklahoma. Do I know the Will Rogers Turnpike? Why yes. I drive it almost every day. They have the world’s largest McDonald’s, in that city Vinita. The one over the road? That’s the one. And if I ever go to St. Louis I have to look for the floating barge by the Arch—it’s a McDonald’s too.

He’s glad to be coming home. Colorado’s not what he thought it was. Riff raff and crime. He likes peace. He’s lived in Kentucky, too. Never had to lock his doors. He called about his handicap sticker expiring. The woman greeted him and knew him by the sound of his voice. She said don’t bother with renewing it. Just get a Brillo pad and give that square a good scrub. He wrote in the new date as ’14.’ Goodwill wanted to know if he’d like to o back to Vietnam with them for a benefit. Hell no. His family thinks he’s not a good American for it, but he still hates the people over there. He can’t forget what happened. I said I didn’t think he was so bad.

I can’t relate to what he saw in that war, but I could feel the import of the tears welling up in his eyes. He was never close to his kids. They grew up while he was on duty. But he provided for them—college tuition for each one. And now when they’re sick, they call for Daddy. In all that time I sat next to him, thinking about his life and how hard things were for him to give so much up for his country, I never thanked him. He walked up to board his plane and wished me well. I returned the sentiment but nothing more. I know how he retired after 28 years of service, and how he worked in a coal mine to pay for his surgeries and for his family. But I’ll never know his name. Maybe this can be my thank you.