THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE

Time was, long, long ago, when it was bad form –as well as rare –to see anyone wearing a hat while dining publicly. That time is far distant now — and I’ll add that the ettiquette is rightly suspended in the case of veterans –especially war veterans.

And thus it was that ….

Morning sunlight was spilling into The Golden Bear breakfast place this morning when I spotted a black cap on an old head. That cafe is in a little strip center on Starkey Road. I’d had my one egg (suddenly a little more expensive), sausage links, grits, toast and coffee and was on my way to the cashier when I saw, in the second booth by the front windows, a decidedly elderly man wearing –yes –one of those black veteran’s caps — a real nice one, too. It seemed newer and more regal to my eyes than most such caps, perched tall on this vet’s otherwise humble, white-haired head.

Here was the special part — the cap was emblazoned with WWII VETERAN. You see that disignation only rarely now and therefore are more inclined to take more serious note of it and the person under it. The WWII on this particular cap struck me as unusually big and bold. But that might just have been the big, bold impression it made on me. Yes, it was a nice cap. Very nice.

As I passed his booth, I could not fail to offer the accustomed saluation (thank you for your service)– especially to a soul so modest in appearance yet so rightly proud of having lived long enough to realize that, as his and his fellow WWII veterans’ days dwindle down, there is nothing immodest about celebrating one’s role in America’s last clearly victorious, least politically frought, dubious, and inconclusive military adventure.

I laid my hand gently on his frail shoulder as I greeted him with the accustomed saluation. He smiled but seemed startled, perhaps, too, uncomprehending, not hearing me right, perhaps wondering, do I know this person? ( I think I saw a hearing aid). I glanced toward his white-haired wife sitting across him. She’d heard me right and was smiling gratefully. There were two clear, thin plastic oxygen tubes running to her nose.

I then held my hand out, the vet grasped and shook it, looking up at me through glasses. I doubt I was the first person to accept his black cap’s invitation to honor him with a hello.

I was abidingly curious and thought it appropriate to ask only one question: “What outfit were you with?”

He didn’t get that. I should have said, ‘what branch?’But I was looking for something specific, like 25th Infantry Division or 1st Marines. That would have told me what action he might have seen.

I asked again, louder, maybe changing “outfit” to “what company?” — which was even less clear or precise.

But he said, quetly, “Navy”

And that was that. Mutual smiles, another warm glance toward his misses and the encounter was over.

But, out in sunlight, my head was awash in –the Pacific, the Coral Sea, The Philippines, Linguyen Gulf, Layte, Guadalcanal, Guam, Saipan, Tinian, Sarabachi Bay, The Battle of the Atlantic — Pearl Harbor.

So I wish I’d had time to ask him –where were you, what ship or submarine? Which campaigns?

Of course, he might have spent his time at a desk in Newport, or Pearl, or like the poor sailors in that WWII saga Mr Roberts, have been unhappily stranded far from the action while their beloved commander finally broke free of the boredom and all the shipboard military nonsence and finally been dispatched to the action, only to be quickly killed in action. (That’s a designation you see so often where war veterans, especially decorated ones, are concerned: K.I.A..

But it doesn’t matter where our vet was. No, it really doesn’t. Our veteran at breakfast on this March morning had been there in some fashion, been part of it, was proud of it, and was still with us.

Yet still, I say to our breakfast vet — and his equally frail wife (who’ve gone back to their home by now), be proud, be at peace and, for as long as possible, be in good health. You answered the call. From some vantage point, you witnessed and outlived that horror. I wish we’d had more time to talk.

Thank you for your service.