Going Home
I don’t remember much about my last day in the Corps. I imagine we had an early formation perhaps followed by turning in our bedding before chow. I know somewhere along the line, I was dressed in my winter Green uniform there was a pile of papers to sign. I also remember signing my DD-214 and the 1st Lieutenant that also signed the document that encapsulated my military service in Vietnam and to the US Marine Corps.
I remember purchasing my airline tickets the day before and several of us split the cost and took a cab to the airport. Though my flight was to depart later in the day, I decided to check in as soon as I arrived at the terminal. I was told by the clerk that if I hurried, I might catch a plane which was already boarding headed to Atlanta. I simply asked directions to the gate. The clerk told me to go to my left and make a right turn at the next hallway and go all the way to the end. I was thrilled to be leaving the West Coast on my way back home. I wanted to be out of that airport as quickly as possible.
I hauled my seabag up and onto my shoulders and tightened the grip on my AWOL bag then began walking rather hurriedly to the hallway. When I saw the size of the hall I was blown away. It was huge and the end of the hallway was not in sight. I knew my pace had to quicken if I wanted to make this flight. I began running. Finally I arrived at the gate and offered my ticket. I asked if I was in time for the flight and they smiled and told me yes. I was still very much in a hurry mode when I dropped bags on the scale. “How do I get to the plane.” I asked. “Just go down that hallway,” she replied. At this point, I had never boarded a plane except by walking out on the tarmac and going up the ladder steps. I ran down this hall expecting to come to a door where I would go outside.
The hallway abruptly ended with me nearly knocking-over a flight attendant. She quickly recovered and after looking at my boarding pass, asked my seating preference. I wanted nothing to do with conversation so I asked for a seat by the window. She must have paid attention to the ribbons and medals on my uniform. Surely she must have seen thousands of men just like me. She noticed I was a bit shaky and took me to a window seat where the seats beside me would not be occupied.
As I had moved down the isle to my seat, I noticed lots of women and children on the plane. I saw only a few men and no other military. I became scared. How could I trust a flight that had so many incapable civilians on it? I didn't like being cramped up with so many people that I did not know.
When the plane had reached its operating altitude and after the captain had given us the flight briefing, an old woman came up and sat in the isle seat beside me. She at once began to talk to me but I was not listening or paying attention to her. Almost as quickly, a male flight attendant came to ask our lunch preferences. I had not spoken to the woman but I damn sure had not spoken to the man so I leaned over and told the woman to tell him that I wanted nothing to eat.
This is where things changed. She told the attendant that I did not want to eat but then she looked back around at me and asked me if I wanted a drink. I hadn’t thought of a drink until she mentioned it. “Yes, I would,” I replied. “I would like a rum and coke,” and she responded by turning to the attendant and placing my order.
Things had really changed in the year that I served in Nam. “What kind of man would take such a job as a flight attendant,” I wondered? While in the Marine Corps, I knew without question there was someone watching my back and likewise, I watched their back. Now I was concerned because there was no one watching my back and yet I felt a need to protect the people on this flight. I could see no way for this plane to land safely in Atlanta.
The liquor smelled very familiar as I poured it over the ice in the plastic cup. I then poured a small amount of the coke into the cup and drained the mixture in one long gulp. The drink refreshed my soul and brought me back to consciousness. The older woman saw the change in me and offered to keep them coming. I obliged and with that drink and the many drinks that followed we became involved in conversation.
For the duration of the flight, I was never without a drink. I know I spoke to her though I do not recall what I said to her. I mostly nodded and smiled as she talked. I do not know if she recognized I was getting drunk. The only thing I do remember was one question she asked, “I have a grandson in Vietnam in the Army, Do you know him?” To this day, I wish I had written down her name and perhaps kept in touch. I don’t know if I would have but it bothers me that I never made the effort.
With a four hour lay over in Atlanta, I decided to continue my drinking at the bar. I took a seat and a young waitress came up to my table. I requested a Budweiser. She looked at me like I was some sort of criminal and then she said, “Are you twenty-one?” Here I was, a US Marine Corps Vietnam Veteran and I could not drink a lousy beer! “Fuck you,” came from my lips before I could think of anything else to say as I moved away from the table and back into the terminal.
I was proud of the ribbons and medals I wore. I had served my country with pride yet, it appeared to me most of the civilians knew more about the medals than I did. The did not nod their heads and the did not speak. I am fortunate that no one spit on me or threw shit at me still; I was a lonely Marine moving around a strange terminal and no one gave a hearty damn about me.
I decided I was hungry at last. My last meal had been breakfast that morning at Camp Pendleton. With plenty of money in my pocket, I decided to treat myself with a steak. The restaurant was nearly empty and all I wanted was to be alone, eat a big meal and hopefully eat my meal in solitude. Looking back, I believe I was already beginning to experience and even go out of my way to experience isolation which was a term not yet used.
An old grey haired black man came to wait my table I had seen him from the corner of my eye moving skillfully around empty tables to get to my table. I barely acknowledged him as I quickly glanced the list of steaks and finally deciding on the most expensive.
I told the man my choice and he replied by saying, “Sir, would you like a before dinner cocktail?” I waived my hand without even looking up and replied, “I am not yet twenty-one.” “Sir, I didn’t ask if you were twenty-one,” he said. Now, I looked this man in the eye and saw the glint of a smile. “Hell yes! Bring me two rum and cokes.” I drank the first drink quickly and the second one slowly, savoring the taste. The old man waited from a distance allowing me to drink my beverage without interruption.
The old black man was skilled at his trade. My salad came first and he allowed me plenty of time to savor each mouthful of the rich greenery before bringing the main course. He was in no hurry and neither was I. I also noticed he never came up to me from my rear. All of his movements were from the front or my left front. He moved sort of like a glide around the restaurant.
“Sir,” he said, “would you like an after dinner cocktail?” “Hell yes, I said. Bring me two more of the same!” Again, I was left with my drinks to watch the planes come and go and to think about where I had been for the past year.
I left this man a generous tip because he treated me like a Marine and not someone too young to drink. He treated me like a man and that made me feel like I was home; truly home at last. As I reflect on this dinner, I am brought to tears remembering this man’s grace and compassion for a lost Marine. I never saw such a person ever again.
Cecil Pickler
March 20, 2014
