I’m Fixing to Get Back to the World

(Editor’s Note: Ted Dunagan is taking a break from writing his column. For the next few weeks, The Monticello News will feature some columns that ran previously.)

I’m fixing to get back to the world.

Thirty-seven years ago, on April 30, 1975, Saigon, the South Vietnamese capital fell to communist North Vietnam. This was after 58,148 American servicemen and women died at the average age of 22.

“Getting back to the world,” was the expression everyone used when and if they made it out of Viet Nam and got back home. The war was just about over when they got out, but coming home wasn’t that easy because there were enemies to soldiers on the home front too.

They lurked outside of the airports and their uniforms included head bands and sandals. They usually had long hair and sometimes toted flowers and hateful signs calling soldiers baby killers. Their weapons were insults and spit.

As soon as I got off the plane I began looking for a restroom where I could get out of my uniform and put on some civvies. I had heard the stories and been warned, and somehow insults and spit were more intimidating to me than jungle rot and bouncing betties.

I changed into a T-shirt and a pair of Levi’s and unceremoniously stuffed my khaki shirt, bearing badges of honor, into my duffle bag, because I knew they would just be targets of spit if I didn’t.

When I stepped outside the terminal, I saw them, and they were eying me suspiciously. It was probably because of my short hair and the duffle bag. They began drifting toward me, accumulating spit as they came.

Just like the Calvary, my Uncle Robert arrived just in time to rescue me. He was a veteran of the Korean Conflict and had been one of six survivors of an entire battalion. I remember when he came home there was a parade with confetti, along with champagne and steaks.

He called out my name affectionately, gathered me up, and rushed me out of harms way just like that big bird had taken me out of the jungle just before the enemy descended upon me there.

I had unpacked and put everything away except the little wooden box that my last bottle of English Leather cologne had come in. I opened it and spilled its contents out on the bed while the lingering remnants of fragrance wafted old memories about. There were two items, all shine and colorful. They were my medals.

One was bright red, the color of blood, with three vertical white strips on each edge. The other one wasn’t really mine. It had once been a deep purple, but now it was faded and worn, kind of like the way I felt.

I knew it represented sacrifice and honor, and I had rescued it from a dark gutter where it had been discarded by some bitter and frustrated recipient on his way home.

I placed them both back in the little wooden box and gently tucked them into a drawer, hoping that someday someone would discover them and display them in a place of honor.

But not today, because I knew I wasn’t fixing to be nobody’s hero.