Yesterday, my brother and I went to IHOP to get our free Veteran’s Day breakfast. Being my brother, he had to question me when I said there was only one choice that was free for Vets, but our pretty waitress confirmed that I was right.
My brother is a Navy vet, a Seabee, who enlisted in 1973 while the Vietnam War was still going on but the draft had ended. I followed him the next year when I graduated from High School, though I went into the Air Force.
Our father, John Bruce, had been in combat in Korea and won the Bronze Star and a Unit Commendation when his company was surrounded for 30 days by the Chinese. They survived, otherwise I wouldn’t be here to write this blog.
Going to IHOP on Veteran’s Day means that you talk to other Vets from other branches. Glenn and I talked to a woman who had served in the Coast Guard. On Veteran’s Day all branches are brothers and sisters.
It’s a strange and wonderful experience walking into a restaurant knowing that most of the diners are former military. We are different ages, colors, genders, orientations (the coast guarder was a lesbian), faiths…yet we share that bond of having given a portion of our lives to the defense of our country.
For men like Glenn and me, it’s even more special. In 1973 and 1974, joining the military was not favored by men of our generation. I recall when I appeared at the door of one of my friends from high school wearing my dress blues, she said “Mark, what happened to you?” As if I’d appeared without a limb or something.
Yet today when I mention that I am a Vietnam-Era Veteran (I was not sent to Vietnam but I served during the war), most guys my age get a little misty-eyed and say, “I wish I had served.” The reply I don’t give (because it’s rude, even if true), is “What stopped you?”
I know what stopped them. They wanted to go to college or stay home and chase girls and make money and live the sweet civilian life. Okay, nothing wrong with that. You made your choice, my friend. But don’t try to steal even an ounce of honor by pretending that you would have served if you thought of it.
Sigh. I promised I wouldn’t get bitter. And I’m not. Actually, I’m proud that I served my four years in the Air Force, even if it was distinctly unheroic. I was a radio operator and never came within a thousand miles of combat, unlike my father.
I did not earn any medals except, maybe, the good conduct medal. But I’m okay with that. At least I went in during a time when my country really needed me. I can say that when my country called, I said yes.
As did my brother. As did my father.
I got nothing to regret.
