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Recently I rode to Philadelphia from Lancaster. After 50 miles, I knew I was going to be late, so I rode to a station and caught a local train. I had to walk to the end of the first car
with my bike. After ten minutes, I stood and turned around
to adjust the bike. A guy two seats away
traveling with his grandson. When I sat back down he said, “When did you serve?”
He saw the tattoo on my right leg. I
told him when I served.
He told me he was a Marine in Vietnam, 1969-70. He pulled
his t-shirt to the right at his neck to show me two scars on his shoulder where
he was shot. He told me briefly about the fire fight, about getting hit twice and the medics carrying him away from where he fell. His grandson, who was about 20 smiled as his grandfather told the
story. Clearly, he had heard before how
his grandfather was wounded, but he liked that Grandpa had someone to talk to
who was also a veteran.
In telling me the story of his getting wounded and going
back into combat, he said several times, “Best year of my life, worst year of
my life.” That got a smirk out of his grandson who clearly heard that phrase a
lot. Then the Marine said, “Wait, you re-enlisted and went to Iraq? You must have been……”
“…..56,” I said. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
He
laughed. The grandson laughed with us. Then the conductor called the stop and
they got up to leave. Both waved as the
walked up the aisle. He was proud of
those scars and clearly had vivid memories of getting wounded. But he served in
an unpopular war. I hope there are
people thanking him for his service and listening to his stories now. I’m glad I got to hear his story and
see his grandson’s face as we talked.
