December 15, 1967.
I boarded a C-130 at
the airbase in Quin Nhon, along with Sanino from Supply and McDaniels. It was a
quick hop over to Cam Ranh Bay, where we'd catch a commercial airliner for the
flight home.
Home. It still hadn’t sunk in yet.
They fed us lunch at
Cam Ranh Bay. We walked into the
mess hall, decorated with streamers and colored Christmas lights, and the first
thing we noticed was half-gallons of fresh milk in the center of each
table. Real milk. We hadn’t seen it in a year. I picked up a carton to see where
it was packaged. Hawaii. The States.
Roast beef, mashed
potatoes, peas, chocolate cake with ice cream. Paperwork. Sign
here. Sign there.
And then boarding
time.
I looked out the
window. The mountains loomed gray
in the distance, their dark secrets hidden behind a veil of silver mist. Missing limbs, pools of blood, gaping holes. Secrets that I locked away in my head,
that I folded and buried deep in my heart.
The engines revved and
the plane taxied down the steel runway.
A cheer went up as we
broke through the mist. I couldn't
speak. The mountains receded until
they were mere bumps on a carpet of green and gray.
We refueled at an Air
Force base in Japan, then it was a straight shot to Seattle. Early on December 16, we landed at Fort
Lewis, Washington.
The United States
of America.
I closed my eyes and
inhaled. Held the breath deep
inside of me. Let it out...