An old man made his way through the airport. He shuffled and leaned heavily on the cane at his side. He stopped often, his lungs or his heart were not quite up to the challenge of traversing the airport quickly anymore.
The scars that man wore. He wore them like badges of honor. Surely, he had earned each and every one of them. That limp, that was likely the injury that nearly killed him so many years ago. Without a doubt that was the one that ended his career. That day, up to that blast, that bullet, that bad parachute landing, whatever it was that left him unable to even stand without both the cane and the pain, that was the last moment he lived without pain. Every step since that day was taken with pain, a lifetime for a march that nobody should have to march.
Still, all these years later, he can feel when he's being watched. He turns around and looks carefully until he meets the eyes of a young man, a young soldier. It may have even been a younger version of himself, for all anyone else could see.
The young troop, well muscled, fit, moving easily with power, speed, and grace that the old soldier hadn't had for decades steps forward to greet his elder.
“Sir, I recognize some of the unit flashes that you're wearing.” He looks into the greying steely eyes of the old veteran.
Even though this man is a friendly, even an admiring face, the old man stands defiantly in the face of the youth he himself misses so bitterly. “Yes.” It was a challenge more than a response to the greeting.
“I'd consider it an honor if you would let me help you with your bags.” The young soldier knew that he could not outright say that he wanted to see to the old codger's safety and escort him to his plane. Appealing to his military sense, however, might be the way to accomplish the given mission in the young soldier's mind.
As they made their way through the crowded terminal the younger man could now provide some measure of space around his elder. Accomplishing even that little bit seemed to make them both step a little lighter and stand a little taller in each others company.
“I was there, on Iwo Jima, you know,”
"I recognize the patch, Sir," comes the brief, respectful, awe filled response. "My grandpa was there, too. He never said much about it. Just that it was,"
"It was hell on earth," the old man cut in, almost wistfully. He straightened up, instantly regained his prior rigidity, "I was under the 4th Marine Division, son."
"Grandpa was 3rd Division, Sir. It would seem that you two shed blood in the same parts of the Pacific in more places than just Iwo." The young man was looking for the old man's terminal and through his memories. Remembering when his grandfather was around.
"That we did." The old soldier stopped suddenly. "Marine, this is my terminal. Thank you for handling the bags." He stood there looking at the young Marine before him and reveled in the memories of his youth as well as the strength of the Corps now. "That damned island was the last place I've been on earth without pain," he paused for a moment, "and I don't regret a moment of it, then or since."
"I wouldn't imagine so, Sir." The younger held out his hand. As the old Marine took hold, it was still an iron grip that was steady and sure. "Semper Fi."
The old man smiled proudly, "Semper Fi and give 'em hell in everything."
The young Marine jogged back to his terminal to catch his plane, thrilled to have met the old veteran. He considered the life of pain that wound must have given the old man and that there were no regrets. The young man found solace in having walked a few hundred yards alongside a lifetime crippling pain.
The old man stood proudly having found peace in walking next to the youth and strength he had a lifetime before. He said it and meant it, no regrets. He made a difference in the world.
The scars that man wore. He wore them like badges of honor. Surely, he had earned each and every one of them. That limp, that was likely the injury that nearly killed him so many years ago. Without a doubt that was the one that ended his career. That day, up to that blast, that bullet, that bad parachute landing, whatever it was that left him unable to even stand without both the cane and the pain, that was the last moment he lived without pain. Every step since that day was taken with pain, a lifetime for a march that nobody should have to march.
Still, all these years later, he can feel when he's being watched. He turns around and looks carefully until he meets the eyes of a young man, a young soldier. It may have even been a younger version of himself, for all anyone else could see.
The young troop, well muscled, fit, moving easily with power, speed, and grace that the old soldier hadn't had for decades steps forward to greet his elder.
“Sir, I recognize some of the unit flashes that you're wearing.” He looks into the greying steely eyes of the old veteran.
Even though this man is a friendly, even an admiring face, the old man stands defiantly in the face of the youth he himself misses so bitterly. “Yes.” It was a challenge more than a response to the greeting.
“I'd consider it an honor if you would let me help you with your bags.” The young soldier knew that he could not outright say that he wanted to see to the old codger's safety and escort him to his plane. Appealing to his military sense, however, might be the way to accomplish the given mission in the young soldier's mind.
As they made their way through the crowded terminal the younger man could now provide some measure of space around his elder. Accomplishing even that little bit seemed to make them both step a little lighter and stand a little taller in each others company.
“I was there, on Iwo Jima, you know,”
"I recognize the patch, Sir," comes the brief, respectful, awe filled response. "My grandpa was there, too. He never said much about it. Just that it was,"
"It was hell on earth," the old man cut in, almost wistfully. He straightened up, instantly regained his prior rigidity, "I was under the 4th Marine Division, son."
"Grandpa was 3rd Division, Sir. It would seem that you two shed blood in the same parts of the Pacific in more places than just Iwo." The young man was looking for the old man's terminal and through his memories. Remembering when his grandfather was around.
"That we did." The old soldier stopped suddenly. "Marine, this is my terminal. Thank you for handling the bags." He stood there looking at the young Marine before him and reveled in the memories of his youth as well as the strength of the Corps now. "That damned island was the last place I've been on earth without pain," he paused for a moment, "and I don't regret a moment of it, then or since."
"I wouldn't imagine so, Sir." The younger held out his hand. As the old Marine took hold, it was still an iron grip that was steady and sure. "Semper Fi."
The old man smiled proudly, "Semper Fi and give 'em hell in everything."
The young Marine jogged back to his terminal to catch his plane, thrilled to have met the old veteran. He considered the life of pain that wound must have given the old man and that there were no regrets. The young man found solace in having walked a few hundred yards alongside a lifetime crippling pain.
The old man stood proudly having found peace in walking next to the youth and strength he had a lifetime before. He said it and meant it, no regrets. He made a difference in the world.
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