On our way home from Chicago, on our way home from DemocracyFest, we were at a rest stop along Interstate 65 in Indiana. Approaching the building along with my son and me was an older African American gentleman. Small talk ensued as we stretched our legs. I had twisted my ankle and driving was uncomfortable, to say the least. He has just driven a thousand miles and had another thousand miles to go.
He as on his way to pick up his grandson who was coming home from Iraq… finally. His grandson had been a helicopter pilot. But, as a result of being shot down twice while there and other traumatic occurances he refused to fly – anywhere. I’m sure his grandfather was so glad just to have him back in one piece that he would have driven anywhere to see him home. Grandpa had been in Vietnam. He heard the stories that his grandson told him about Iraq. Half the kids his grandson served with didn’t come home, or didn’t come home in one piece. Soldiers were committing suicide (he mentioned slashing their own wrists) to try to get out of the nightmare. Many, he said were coming back “unstable” and would never be right again. He said it sounded “just like ‘Nam.”
On the way back to the car my son said “I wish that war would just be over.” I count how many years there are until he’s of draftable age (less than 2 presidential administrations) and I wish the same thing.
