| General Fiction posted October 20, 2021 |
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The bus ride that never ends.
Almost Home
by Yardier
John sat patiently in the bus parked curbside at the Travis Airforce Base main terminal. The cool night air was a surprising relief from Vietnam’s heat and humidity that John had not considered in his, ‘when I get home’ thoughts. Comfortable, yet unsettled, John tapped his foot absentmindedly as he thought, Let's go, come on, let's go. The bus did not care, of course, what its passengers thought or desired. It simply transported the livestock per contract, and tonight the livestock was soldiers returning from Vietnam. It would soon carry John and its weary load to the San Francisco International Airport, where they would disperse for flights of freedom back to their hometowns.
The nondescript bus bathed by parking lot lighting welcomed the boarders with an open door illuminated by a soft green light. The boarding step and aluminum diamond-plate walkway at their feet was their yellow-brick road in reverse. For most, it was the first time since they left for Vietnam a year earlier they wore black shoes and a khaki uniform. They were uncomfortable in their stateside attire, but gone were the jungle fatigues and muddy boots. The contrast was obvious; yesterday, they were in the 'Nam. Today they were back in the world in an air-conditioned bus. Their uniforms had changed, and so had they.
Soldiers, some nervous, some weary, welcomed the sound of the diesel engine as it idled like a determined workhorse ready to pull plow. They boarded and shuffle-stepped down the aisle as if an internal dirge dictated the cadence. Featureless, except for battle ribbons illuminated by the green night-light, the soldiers respectfully, almost religiously, searched for an empty seat.
Always looking for a place to be, John thought. It seemed that as the war wore on, the desire to find a private spot to rest grew with intensity, and the paradox of wanting less space, a corner, or hole, grew with it. Any place would do if it were quiet and secure. Always moving down the line, shuffling… is this it? Is this place my place… can I rest here?
John sighed.
Not wanting to disturb the already seated dark silhouettes, shuffling soldiers quietly stowed their duffle bags overhead then sat blending into the darkness. Wanting to sit alone, some soldiers had to face the fact they would have to sit next to somebody they didn't know, but brothers, nonetheless. Up and down the bus, brief flickers of lighted cigarettes illuminated expressionless faces. A year earlier, when they first arrived in Viet Nam, duty and honor fueled their energy. Now, distrust and defiant resolution smoldered just behind all-seeing and cautious eyes of young men who felt betrayed by their country.
Humidity, jungle foliage, and red earth plus the Green Machine and time, mainly time, though; the multiplicand of all factors, was responsible for smothering a soldier's hope and reason. Throw in a few firefights, mortars, and tripwire, and the matrix could not be more apparent. They could not escape the equation emphasized on the big blackboard of life; humidity squared and divided by jungle green to the earth's red power and multiplied by the shed blood of America's soldiers equaled minus ten on the binary scale.
There would be no correction, nor would there be an eraser. The equation was complete.
As John and other soldiers sat in the darkness trying to avoid one another, they became a collective unit of minus twos, threes, and sometimes fours. The higher minus units, five and above, rode another bus to the Veterans Hospital in Oakland. The minus tens, previously tagged and bagged, had already been shipped in plain coffins to a cold warehouse somewhere out of sight, out of mind.
What was the point? John continued to tap his foot and brood. All that time and we find out we had been dealing with minuses all along. We are lucky, I guess, to be a zero. At least we still have our arms and legs. Come on, let’s go. Let’s get out of here while we can.
A soldier, maybe a minus two, leaned into John's darkness, searching, more like feeling, to see if the seat was in a secure area. But he wouldn't need those instincts anymore, not here in the world. Those skills would gradually fade away while the echoes of having mastered them would remain in his back pocket until the day he dies.
The soldier didn’t speak; he didn’t have to, didn’t want to. Everything that needed to be said had been packed carefully into his duffle bag. He sat next to John with the duffle bag on his lap and held it to his chest as if it were a small child. As he adjusted his arms around the bag, his shoulder briefly touched John’s. It was a light touch, a dull touch that neither one acknowledged. Not anymore. There would be no more stepping aside or apologizing. They were what they had become. They did not find it necessary to explain why they were now different. They expected respect but would not beg for it. They stood their ground for a year without excuse. Now they were going to stand their ground for the rest of their lives.
The driver, eyes illuminated by the instrument panel, adjusted the rearview mirror. He glanced down at the black-and-white tachometer registering solid, uncaring let's go forward revolutions per minute, then looked back in the mirror to check his passengers. John’s eyes met the driver’s and for a moment sensed the driver’s ambivalence as he closed the door and put the bus into gear. As the bus began to move, John turned away and looked out the window at a billboard advertising a sensuous blonde in a revealing black dress. Leaning letters announced: FEEL THE VELVET. He struggled with the then and the now as the blonde on the billboard seemingly smiled at each soldier. If her allure enticed anyone, it was not noticeable. Unexpectedly, as the bus turned onto the highway, John became scared, as scared as his first patrol a year ago. He wanted a flak jacket and helmet in a secure place surrounded by steel ballistic plate. He closed his eyes as the bus rumbled and picked up speed, forcing him to acknowledge a loss of some sort. Was it before him or behind him?
He didn’t know.
He tried to will his way back, way further in, way back on his boat, patrolling the Mekong, reading his tachometers, and listening to the predictable diesel engines. But he could not return there, nor could he leave. Like so many soldiers on the bus, he began to cocoon in on himself for relief and security. Without weapons, razor wire, or perimeters protected with Claymore anti-personnel mines, it was the only thing they could do as they drew closer to home.
And they were almost there. It had existed in their minds and dreams for three hundred and sixty-five days. They had one more hour on an unsecured highway with fifty miles of vehicles driven by who knew who. Soon they would be at the San Francisco International Airport, and then they would be protected. One more flight, and they would be home safe with family and friends.
They were almost there when suddenly, without warning, the bus hit an uncaring dip in the road, jerking the soldiers' heads.
John opened his eyes.
Some soldiers rubbed their necks.
No one protested.
Story of the Month contest entry
John sat patiently in the bus parked curbside at the Travis Airforce Base main terminal. The cool night air was a surprising relief from Vietnam’s heat and humidity that John had not considered in his, ‘when I get home’ thoughts. Comfortable, yet unsettled, John tapped his foot absentmindedly as he thought, Let's go, come on, let's go. The bus did not care, of course, what its passengers thought or desired. It simply transported the livestock per contract, and tonight the livestock was soldiers returning from Vietnam. It would soon carry John and its weary load to the San Francisco International Airport, where they would disperse for flights of freedom back to their hometowns.
The nondescript bus bathed by parking lot lighting welcomed the boarders with an open door illuminated by a soft green light. The boarding step and aluminum diamond-plate walkway at their feet was their yellow-brick road in reverse. For most, it was the first time since they left for Vietnam a year earlier they wore black shoes and a khaki uniform. They were uncomfortable in their stateside attire, but gone were the jungle fatigues and muddy boots. The contrast was obvious; yesterday, they were in the 'Nam. Today they were back in the world in an air-conditioned bus. Their uniforms had changed, and so had they.
Soldiers, some nervous, some weary, welcomed the sound of the diesel engine as it idled like a determined workhorse ready to pull plow. They boarded and shuffle-stepped down the aisle as if an internal dirge dictated the cadence. Featureless, except for battle ribbons illuminated by the green night-light, the soldiers respectfully, almost religiously, searched for an empty seat.
Always looking for a place to be, John thought. It seemed that as the war wore on, the desire to find a private spot to rest grew with intensity, and the paradox of wanting less space, a corner, or hole, grew with it. Any place would do if it were quiet and secure. Always moving down the line, shuffling… is this it? Is this place my place… can I rest here?
John sighed.
Not wanting to disturb the already seated dark silhouettes, shuffling soldiers quietly stowed their duffle bags overhead then sat blending into the darkness. Wanting to sit alone, some soldiers had to face the fact they would have to sit next to somebody they didn't know, but brothers, nonetheless. Up and down the bus, brief flickers of lighted cigarettes illuminated expressionless faces. A year earlier, when they first arrived in Viet Nam, duty and honor fueled their energy. Now, distrust and defiant resolution smoldered just behind all-seeing and cautious eyes of young men who felt betrayed by their country.
The nondescript bus bathed by parking lot lighting welcomed the boarders with an open door illuminated by a soft green light. The boarding step and aluminum diamond-plate walkway at their feet was their yellow-brick road in reverse. For most, it was the first time since they left for Vietnam a year earlier they wore black shoes and a khaki uniform. They were uncomfortable in their stateside attire, but gone were the jungle fatigues and muddy boots. The contrast was obvious; yesterday, they were in the 'Nam. Today they were back in the world in an air-conditioned bus. Their uniforms had changed, and so had they.
Soldiers, some nervous, some weary, welcomed the sound of the diesel engine as it idled like a determined workhorse ready to pull plow. They boarded and shuffle-stepped down the aisle as if an internal dirge dictated the cadence. Featureless, except for battle ribbons illuminated by the green night-light, the soldiers respectfully, almost religiously, searched for an empty seat.
Always looking for a place to be, John thought. It seemed that as the war wore on, the desire to find a private spot to rest grew with intensity, and the paradox of wanting less space, a corner, or hole, grew with it. Any place would do if it were quiet and secure. Always moving down the line, shuffling… is this it? Is this place my place… can I rest here?
John sighed.
Not wanting to disturb the already seated dark silhouettes, shuffling soldiers quietly stowed their duffle bags overhead then sat blending into the darkness. Wanting to sit alone, some soldiers had to face the fact they would have to sit next to somebody they didn't know, but brothers, nonetheless. Up and down the bus, brief flickers of lighted cigarettes illuminated expressionless faces. A year earlier, when they first arrived in Viet Nam, duty and honor fueled their energy. Now, distrust and defiant resolution smoldered just behind all-seeing and cautious eyes of young men who felt betrayed by their country.
Humidity, jungle foliage, and red earth plus the Green Machine and time, mainly time, though; the multiplicand of all factors, was responsible for smothering a soldier's hope and reason. Throw in a few firefights, mortars, and tripwire, and the matrix could not be more apparent. They could not escape the equation emphasized on the big blackboard of life; humidity squared and divided by jungle green to the earth's red power and multiplied by the shed blood of America's soldiers equaled minus ten on the binary scale.
There would be no correction, nor would there be an eraser. The equation was complete.
As John and other soldiers sat in the darkness trying to avoid one another, they became a collective unit of minus twos, threes, and sometimes fours. The higher minus units, five and above, rode another bus to the Veterans Hospital in Oakland. The minus tens, previously tagged and bagged, had already been shipped in plain coffins to a cold warehouse somewhere out of sight, out of mind.
What was the point? John continued to tap his foot and brood. All that time and we find out we had been dealing with minuses all along. We are lucky, I guess, to be a zero. At least we still have our arms and legs. Come on, let’s go. Let’s get out of here while we can.
A soldier, maybe a minus two, leaned into John's darkness, searching, more like feeling, to see if the seat was in a secure area. But he wouldn't need those instincts anymore, not here in the world. Those skills would gradually fade away while the echoes of having mastered them would remain in his back pocket until the day he dies.
The soldier didn’t speak; he didn’t have to, didn’t want to. Everything that needed to be said had been packed carefully into his duffle bag. He sat next to John with the duffle bag on his lap and held it to his chest as if it were a small child. As he adjusted his arms around the bag, his shoulder briefly touched John’s. It was a light touch, a dull touch that neither one acknowledged. Not anymore. There would be no more stepping aside or apologizing. They were what they had become. They did not find it necessary to explain why they were now different. They expected respect but would not beg for it. They stood their ground for a year without excuse. Now they were going to stand their ground for the rest of their lives.
The driver, eyes illuminated by the instrument panel, adjusted the rearview mirror. He glanced down at the black-and-white tachometer registering solid, uncaring let's go forward revolutions per minute, then looked back in the mirror to check his passengers. John’s eyes met the driver’s and for a moment sensed the driver’s ambivalence as he closed the door and put the bus into gear. As the bus began to move, John turned away and looked out the window at a billboard advertising a sensuous blonde in a revealing black dress. Leaning letters announced: FEEL THE VELVET. He struggled with the then and the now as the blonde on the billboard seemingly smiled at each soldier. If her allure enticed anyone, it was not noticeable. Unexpectedly, as the bus turned onto the highway, John became scared, as scared as his first patrol a year ago. He wanted a flak jacket and helmet in a secure place surrounded by steel ballistic plate. He closed his eyes as the bus rumbled and picked up speed, forcing him to acknowledge a loss of some sort. Was it before him or behind him?There would be no correction, nor would there be an eraser. The equation was complete.
As John and other soldiers sat in the darkness trying to avoid one another, they became a collective unit of minus twos, threes, and sometimes fours. The higher minus units, five and above, rode another bus to the Veterans Hospital in Oakland. The minus tens, previously tagged and bagged, had already been shipped in plain coffins to a cold warehouse somewhere out of sight, out of mind.
What was the point? John continued to tap his foot and brood. All that time and we find out we had been dealing with minuses all along. We are lucky, I guess, to be a zero. At least we still have our arms and legs. Come on, let’s go. Let’s get out of here while we can.
A soldier, maybe a minus two, leaned into John's darkness, searching, more like feeling, to see if the seat was in a secure area. But he wouldn't need those instincts anymore, not here in the world. Those skills would gradually fade away while the echoes of having mastered them would remain in his back pocket until the day he dies.
The soldier didn’t speak; he didn’t have to, didn’t want to. Everything that needed to be said had been packed carefully into his duffle bag. He sat next to John with the duffle bag on his lap and held it to his chest as if it were a small child. As he adjusted his arms around the bag, his shoulder briefly touched John’s. It was a light touch, a dull touch that neither one acknowledged. Not anymore. There would be no more stepping aside or apologizing. They were what they had become. They did not find it necessary to explain why they were now different. They expected respect but would not beg for it. They stood their ground for a year without excuse. Now they were going to stand their ground for the rest of their lives.
He didn’t know.
He tried to will his way back, way further in, way back on his boat, patrolling the Mekong, reading his tachometers, and listening to the predictable diesel engines. But he could not return there, nor could he leave. Like so many soldiers on the bus, he began to cocoon in on himself for relief and security. Without weapons, razor wire, or perimeters protected with Claymore anti-personnel mines, it was the only thing they could do as they drew closer to home.
And they were almost there. It had existed in their minds and dreams for three hundred and sixty-five days. They had one more hour on an unsecured highway with fifty miles of vehicles driven by who knew who. Soon they would be at the San Francisco International Airport, and then they would be protected. One more flight, and they would be home safe with family and friends.
They were almost there when suddenly, without warning, the bus hit an uncaring dip in the road, jerking the soldiers' heads.
John opened his eyes.
Some soldiers rubbed their necks.
No one protested.
 Recognized |
#4 October 2021 |
Sometimes the shortest road for a combat veteran becomes the longest...
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