Tuesday, September 27, 2011

The Long Way Home

“Is there anywhere else you want to go?” my husband asked me this morning after I had dropped off a prescription and picked up a couple of items from Walmart. I looked at the time and saw it was still early, but since I had no other errands, I suggested we just go home.

“I’ll tell you what I want to do,” Howard said, “Go to Starbucks, have a cup of coffee and look at a guitar magazine.” Oh, no. I hated that. He could spend hours sitting by the magazine section in the supermarket where Starbucks was located. I usually went through the grocery aisles while he dawdled over his coffee.

“If you want to stop for coffee, let’s stop at McDonald’s,” I suggested. I knew he liked their coffee, too, and it was fun to people watch, occasionally running into someone we knew. He agreed. He got his coffee, and as I was getting a straw for my lemonade, I saw someone approach us. Turning around, I saw it was our pastor, who is a frequent patron and a fan of their coffee, too. Gesturing toward his table, he invited us to sit down.

Howard didn’t have to go to work until one, and it wasn’t yet eleven, so we welcomed the chance to chat with our minister and get better acquainted when he wasn’t busy shaking hands and greeting other church people. Pastor wanted to tell us about the football game of a 7th grader he and his wife attended the previous night, describing the youngster’s amazing performance and their surprisingly entertaining outing. Somehow the topic of military service came up, and Howard did a double take when the preacher mentioned being stationed at Fort Bliss, Texas.

“Fort Bliss! I was there for my basic training!” Howard exclaimed. “When were you there?”

“From October to December in 1956,” Pastor said. Howard’s eyes grew wide, since those were the exact dates he was there! When they recovered from their amazement at the coincidence, they couldn’t bring up memories fast enough. “Remember Castner Field and those tracer bullets?” one said. Oh, I’d heard all about crawling under machine gun fire, but here was somebody Howard could talk to who understood!

They recalled a certain drill sergeant both remembered, the food in mess halls, bivouacs and guard duty, each memory accompanied by delight and hearty guffaws. I was caught in the middle of a barrage of army stories with shots being fired from each side of me.

“Aren’t you glad I suggested McDonald’s?” I said when the clock finally made us leave and we were in the car headed toward home. Howard nodded with a half smile, still lost in reverie. I had heard things he had never talked to me about and saw a little of the 18-year-old youth who had put our courtship on hold when he left to fulfill his military obligation. “Me, too,” I said, knowing that there are some things only a fellow soldier could understand.

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