An Essay For Veterans Day

Today and tomorrow, I will post essays I have written to honor the men and women who served in the military or do so now as we celebrate Veterans Day on Saturday, November 11th. Perhaps reading the two will trigger some thoughts of your own and prompt you to write about it. 

My thanks to all veterans, including my husband who served in the Army many years ago.

An experience several years ago on an airplane sitting next to a soldier prompted this personal essay. 

Sitting By A Soldier 

On an April day in 2006, my mood matched the gray skies as I boarded the plane, located Row 25, and settled into my seat. I pulled a paperback from my bag and buckled the seat belt. Sighing, I stared out the window, still feeling sorry for myself after a cancelled connecting flight had interrupted a long-awaited trip two days earlier. My online writers critique group spent the better part of a year planning for a four day retreat. Eighteen of us would travel from around the world to complete the bond started online. My disappointment over missing the meeting and being stuck in Chicago for two days felt almost overwhelming. Now finally heading home, I served as hostess at a Pity Party with a guest list of one.

A deep voice interrupted my thoughts. “Morning, Ma’am.”

I looked up at a young man in civilian clothes but with that military air about him, buzz hair cut, clean shaven and polite. He stowed his gear and slid into the aisle seat next to mine. He leaned back and closed his eyes as the plane taxied faster and faster, then left the ground behind as it climbed above the clouds.

It wasn’t long before my seatmate asked me if I lived in Chicago, the city we were leaving.

“I grew up there,” I told him, “but now I live in Manhattan, Kansas.”

”I was stationed at Ft. Riley once, so I know about Manhattan and Junction City, too.”

We continued to chat about simple things and then moved on to the Iraq war. “This is a different kind of war,” he said.

I told him that I remembered how different things had been in WWII. I was a little girl then, but I’d been aware of shortages during those years. No tires for cars, no silk stockings for women. My mother always made sure she had our ration books along when we shopped for food.

“That’s what I mean about it being different,” he said. “This war isn’t affecting the people here in the US. They haven’t made any sacrifices.”

He talked about his tour in Iraq back in 2003-04 and his feelings about being career military. “When it’s time to re-up,” he said, “I’m never sure what I should do. Stay and get my full time in for the benefits, or get out and make my wife happy.” His hand tightened around the soda can the flight attendant had brought him earlier.

“It must be very hard on families right now,” I remarked. I wanted to offer more, but I felt at a loss as to what else I might say.

“People have no idea.  It’s hard on wives, on kids, and the guys over in the war zones, too. Only reason I re-upped last time is because my dad told me something just before he died. Said to stay in the Army, and every time I think of getting out, I remember that.” He was quiet for a few seconds, and then said, “I’ll be going back to Iraq again, but I don’t want to.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to respond to his admission, or even if I should make a comment to what seemed a very private thought.

He continued to talk about Iraq, described his idea of what should be done by the military. “We need to pull back and put our troops on the edges of the country, close down those borders, keep the foreign insurgents out.”  He told me how disheartening it was to hear about Americans who didn’t support the troops, who bashed the president all the time.

He appeared truly hurt by the naysayers, and I responded by telling him something I really believed. “Remember one thing each time you see a protester. For every one of them, there are two who care about you and support what you’re doing.” Did I have a scientific study or statistics to back up what I’d said? No, but the words came from my heart, and they came because I wanted to ease this troubled man’s mind in some way.

He looked at me quietly a moment before saying, “Thank you, I’ll remember that.”

My book lay unopened as we moved on to several other topics, some war-related and others not. Before I knew it, the pilot announced our approach to Kansas City. The young man reached over and offered me his hand. I slipped mine into his, warm and strong, and accepted a firm handshake. Still holding my hand, he said, “I’m not much of a talker, and I don’t know why I told you all those things, but thanks for listening. And I’ll remember what you told me.”

I swallowed hard and had to blink a few times so no tears would spill over. “I enjoyed our visit, too, and I wish you the best of everything.”

The wheels touched the runway and we taxied to the gate. Travelers gathered their belongings and filed off the plane. My husband welcomed me with his familiar smile and a hug, and we went to the baggage area to claim my rerouted luggage. As I handed the clerk the paperwork, I heard a familiar deep voice say, “So this is the lucky man.” I turned to see my soldier shaking my husband’s hand. I winked at him and waved as we left. My pity party of one had disbanded, leaving in its place a memorable flight for two.

As my husband and I drove home that day, I couldn’t help but wonder if the soldier and I were meant to cross paths, that our meeting was no coincidence. Did I need to hear all he’d had to say to realize my disappointment over my cancelled trip proved very minor compared to what he faced? Did he need to spill out his thoughts and feelings to me and receive a word of encouragement? Perhaps yes on both counts. I’ve kept him in my prayers, and I’ll remember this moment in time when two people of different generations touched each other’s lives.