Final Approach
Slouched in the bar in Concourse B, in the midst of
strangers speaking a Babel of indecipherable languages, my mind drifted back twenty
years:
"Daddy, there is a
monster under my bed."
"Let me have a
look. Nope, nothing there."
"I'm 'fraid of the
dark"
"Everyone is
afraid of the dark."
"Even you, daddy?"
"Even me."
Unsurprisingly, the connecting flight that would
eventually take me to Dulles International was delayed, leaving me alone with
my misery among throngs of travelers.
Memories, flushed by the three $11.00 bourbons that I had swigged
down, swirled, engulfing me:
"You have to step
towards the pitcher, son. If you pull
back you take your eye off the ball."
"Dad, I'm no good
at baseball. I can't hit."
"Don't give
up. Everything is hard in the
beginning. You are ten, you will get
better."
"I am afraid of
the ball."
"Everyone who
plays baseball is afraid of the ball."
"Even you, dad?"
"Even me."
Snippets and snapshots of time that passes exponentially faster,
accelerating towards the end, like a stable horse heading back to the barn.
"Dad, is grandma
in heaven?"
"I don't know,
son. I hope if there is such a place,
she would be there."
"Am I gonna
die?"
"Not for a long,
long time."
"I am afraid of
dying."
"Everyone is
afraid of dying."
"Even you, dad?"
"Even me."
The flight was finally called to board by someone much
too close to the microphone, reminding me of the baffling bus station
destination announcements. I erratically
staggered up the jetway, boarded the flight, not acknowledging the vacant,
spurious, smile of the flight attendant. She had obviously been practicing that simper since she
was referred to as a stewardess. I plopped
down in 18F. I was oblivious to the cacophony
of the preflight ritual: ceremonial
storing of items in the overhead bins and the obligatory emergency instructions
should our pilot choose an unlikely water landing in the heartlands. My mind continued to relive our too few precious moments together.
"Dad, I just got
called up to the majors."
"Fantastic!"
"There is
something I need to tell you."
"You got me season
tickets?"
" I am joining the
Marines at the end of the season."
"Why?"
"It is something I need to do. Only for a
couple of years. Baseball will still be here when I get back."
I
am not sure if the haze that partially obscured the skyline silhouetted against
the Rocky Mountains was due to the perpetual Denver smog or Jack Daniels. I
dozed off or passed out after the drink cart purposely passed me by, the cheery
flight attendant micromanaging my methomania.
Sober now, though a state trooper would not agree, I
trudged down an identical jet bridge, skipping baggage claim as I had hand carried
the few things I had hurriedly gathered for the trip. The middle man in a trio of uniformed men
was holding a small sign with my surname on it.
Uncomfortable, but sincere, pleasantries
were exchanged and I was led to a spotless and shiny navy blue Crown
Victoria with a placard containing four
stars. It is my experience that a Crown
Vic never brings good news. It was a
quiet ride to Arlington, as I was hung-over, and suffering from a time lag of years, rather than hours,
I barely heard the
words read from the Citation to Accompany
the Award of the Medal of Honor to Staff
Sergeant Brian Gehrig Johnson, USMC. My
mind was still replaying flashes of his life.
It was the last time I
saw Brian. He had come home for the
weekend and it was a moderate Sunday
evening, a welcome break from the oppressive Pueblo sweltering summer . We had grilled steaks and he quaffed
ice-cold beer, and I sipped my customary
over sweetened iced tea, my twenty year
chip securely in my pocket. I knew he
was struggling with something that he wanted to say:
"What's up
Brian?"
"Dad, our unit is deploying to the Middle East. I have to report tomorrow."
"Why didn't you
tell me?"
"I didn't want to
upset you. You know how you get."
"Son, I'm afraid
for you."
"Every warrior is
afraid."
"Even you?"
"Even
me."
I will never forget the acrid aroma of the gunpowder and
the sad sweetness of the bugle as the officer bent to hand me the triangulated
flag:
"Mr.
Johnson, I am sorry for your loss.....our loss. There are a dozen Marines, maybe more, that
are alive because of his sacrifice. I
was... am, his commander and I asked to
be the one to present this to you. Your
son was the most fearless man I have ever had the honor to serve with."
I nearly collapsed the
flimsy, folding chair as he snapped to attention and saluted me:
"Semper fi, Mr.
Johnson."
I stood up, unsteadily, and, though I had never been
in the military, returned his salute and said in a fissured voice, "Semper
fi."
