It’s been almost forty years since the old man in a wheelchair was a young sailor. Way back when, he bled and dodged bullets in some Southeast Asian jungle, in a country he hadn’t even heard of before enlisting in the United States Navy.
As a young sailor, he thought he’d be on some ship far from shore while ground forces hashed it out with rifles, bayonets and hand grenades. Instead, he ended up as a corpsman attached to a Marine Corps infantry unit.
Like all corpsmen assigned to Marine Corps units, the sailor was affectionately called “Doc.” Doc was a warrior as well as medic. He gritted his teeth and fought alongside the grunts when needed, and ended up losing a leg while fighting his way to save a fallen comrade.
Doc lived life the best he could after coming home from the war. He was confined to a wheelchair and still carried some grenade shrapnel in his body, which had a tendency to shoot pain up his spine from time to time. And when those little bits of metal weren’t reminding him of the war, the dreams would never let him forget.
A few years ago, the old man came down with cancer. It slowly started eating away at his liver. He fought the cancer tooth and nail, but it kept coming back. Just a couple of months ago, his doctor at the Veterans Affairs hospital broke the news: it was only a matter of time before the cancer would kill him.
The former sailor took up residence at the VA hospital where he waited for the cancer to do what thousands of Viet Cong bastards couldn’t do. While there, he met another veteran, who was similarly diagnosed. They were veterans of different wars, currently being tortured by the same enemy.
The two men craved an occasional drink, to numb their anxiety and make the passage of time easier to endure. The hospital staff wouldn’t allow it. Why they couldn’t drink, in the face of imminent death, didn’t make sense. But instead of arguing with the nurses and doctors, the two vets quietly went AWOL from the hospital in their wheelchairs.
Today, the two men in wheelchairs bought a bottle of rum, a few cans of cola and some paper cups from a liquor store. After finding a quiet spot near the entrance of an alley, they mixed their rum and Cokes and drank to the many friends who never made it back. “At least we’re gonna die at home,” said the former sailor.
The two veterans were in the middle of their fourth round when they were interrupted by a couple of cops driving through the alley. The patrolmen got out of their car and approached the wheelchaired vets. NGUYEN and CHANG were engraved on the cops’ nameplates. “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Officer Nguyen. “What are you drinking?”
“I’m not going to lie to you, officer,” replied the former sailor. “We’re having some rum and Cokes.”
The cops looked young. Too young to remember the war that claimed his leg. “Are you aware that drinking in public is a misdemeanor?” asked Officer Chang.
Chang pulled out a ticket book and started writing a citation. Sure I know you’re not supposed to drink in public, thought the former sailor. They won’t let me drink in the hospital so I’ve got to drink in an alley like some fucking bum. I’ll be damned if some slope with a badge is going to lecture me about drinking!
Although the former sailor was angered that the young cop would be so eager to scratch out a ticket for a couple of dying vets, he maintained his composure and calmly stated his case to the two policemen. Nguyen looked at the hospital bracelets on the old men’s wrists and the hospital gowns underneath their coats, then asked, “What branch of the service were you in, sir?”
“Navy. I was a corpsman.”
Nguyen signaled for Chang to stop writing in his ticket book. “I was a Marine. Our corpsmen were always as good as Marines in my book.” He motioned to his partner to start heading back to the patrol car. “Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen.”
Before the two cops started walking walking away, the fomer corpsman extended his hand to the former Marine. They shook hands. Emotion filled the old sailor’s eyes. “Semper Fi, Marine.”
Semper Fidelis. Latin for “Always Faithful.” Motto of the Marines. The old man earned the right to those words as a young sailor who fought and bled alongside his Leathernecks.
“Semper Fi, Doc. And be careful out here. This alley isn’t very safe.” The two patrolmen got back into their car and drove past the two veterans.
Doc. No one had called him that in years. The sailor smiled at the Marine and raised his cup to him, thinking of all the Marines who used to call him “Doc” and who still haunted his dreams. “I’ve seen worse places, brother. Much worse.”
Tags: cancer · drunk · marines · military · navy · police · veterans
