Joe struggles to pull his pants up his skinny legs. He slips his suspenders over his shoulders, and stands quietly for a moment. Stepping closer to the wall, he peers at a framed case. Campaign ribbons, a purple heart, and two bronze stars are proudly displayed there. Slowly, he reaches to touch the glass in front of the purple heart.
“I’d give them all, if I could see you fellows again.” he whispers. When he glances in the mirror beside the framed case, he doesn’t see the old man standing there in his slacks and plaid shirt.
A young Sergeant, hat tilted on his head and dressed in an army uniform, smiles back at him. “Remember me?” the Sergeant asks.
Joe nods. “Today is veterans day. I remember all of you.”
“Dad are you ready to go get some breakfast?” his daughter calls from the hall.
“Yes, Sergeant.” he replies. “Marching orders.” he jokes, shaking his head and smiling at the mirror.
The image of the young man grabs his pack and rifle and stands waiting.
Joe picks up his cane and heads for the door. Leaving the house, he is struck once again by the difference between the reality of his current life and the world of his memories, especially those that are part of being called a veteran. He carefully settles into his seat in the car.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Pete climbing up the side of their light tank to reach the drivers hatch.
He can feel the warmth of the sun shining through the car window.
A different sun warmed his face when he sat on top of the tank next to Mike, his gunner. And it was not always warm, he thinks, zipping up his jacket.
His daughter drives toward the restaurant along a glass walled street of offices and businesses. He watches the reflections move and change.
Images of shattered buildings along deserted streets in a small village in France, pass silently by.
An ambulance overtakes them, with sirens wailing, and his daughter pulls over, slowing down.
A German airplane dives low, strafing and bombing. It’s attacking columns of his battalion’s tanks as they advance through a field.
The ambulance goes by.
Joe aims his tank’s 30 caliber machine gun, leading the plane. He holds down the trigger. The pilot is looking at him through the Plexiglas canopy. He never forgets those eyes.
“War is ugly,” he says to his daughter as they pull up to the restaurant.
She nods and smiles. “Dad, I love you” she says.
As they enter the café, it is full of lots of people, mostly young, drinking coffee and talking, or with their faces buried in cell phones or tapping away on their laptops. The waiter is smiling when he comes to the table to take their order.
Joe hears Bart, laughing, as he pulls out a chair and sits next to Strawberry. “You’ll never guess what Polack asked the First Sergeant. He wanted to know what we’ll have to eat when the war is over!”
“No rations please.” Joe says, smiling at his memory of Bart.
The waiter looks confused, then breaks into a grin and salutes Joe. “No rations for you SIR. And today your breakfast is free. Thank you for your service.”
First sergeant Goldstein tromps by and waves a hand. “Make it snappy guys, we’ve got to be moving in five.”
“Here you go, Dad.” His daughter sets a large mug of creamy cinnamon flavored coffee in front of him.
“Thanks” he smiles at her and takes a sip. “Great!” He savors the sweet spicy taste.
The bitter flavor of the instant coffee from the ration pack abruptly fills his mouth, and he closes his hands around a tin cup.
The waiter arrives with plates of steaming scrambled eggs, sausages, toast and fruit.
Joe looks down, seeing a ration tin, and grimaces. He hears Pederson muttering, “How’s a fella supposed to fight a war on this prison food?” Lencheski laughs. “The same way you survived eating that stuff in prison!” They all laugh.
Joe laughs too and takes a large bite of the hot scrambled eggs and sausage. As they finish eating, the waiter approaches and gives his daughter a bill for her breakfast.
“Time to move.” Goldstein calls. Joe watches his brothers-in-arms collect their rifles and packs and return to their tanks, peeps and half-tracks. Time to move on to the next battle.
His daughter holds the car door as he slowly climbs inside.
Joe winks at Mike as he settles next to the gunner. He reaches to yank open the breech of the 37 mm anti-tank gun and check that it’s loaded.
There is little traffic and they quickly pull out on the main street. The car is approaching the overpass for the expressway.
“Keep alert for snipers.” Joe whispers.
“What’s that Dad?” His daughter says.
“There it is.” Joe says, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears.
That terrible sound echoes in his mind. A German bazooka has fired on their column. On the tank ahead of him, First Sergeant Sutton and his gunner disappear in the explosion. His friends die again.
“War is cruel” he says.
His daughter gives him a concerned smile. They arrive at home. He opens the car door and stands up, pausing for a moment, his eyes drifting closed.
He hears the cheering of wives, sweethearts, family and friends on the day the boys came home. He sees Eunice, his wife, in front of him. Her beautiful smile tears at his heart. He reaches out to wipe a tear from her cheek and holds her close.
His daughter has taken his arm. They walk into the house, together. When he reaches his room, he stops to look in the mirror again.
The image of the young sergeant smiles back at him. “Salute.” he says, raising his arm.
“Salute.” says Joe, touching fingers to the brim of his cap. “I will never forget.”
“Well done soldier.” First Sergeant Sutton replies.
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