The piece has received recognition in the National Veterans Creative Arts Festival.
“Just call me Dick,” he said when I first met him. I smiled, and told him that would be easy to do, as my dad was also named Richard. His watery eyes appeared to change color as we talked; a blue color when he was happy, fading to light grey when he was in pain. As a housing case manager, I checked on him about once a month. Dick was born in 1926. His frugal nature appealed to me; a single plate, bowl and fork rested on a drain mat in the immaculate kitchen. “I re-use everything. I can squeeze a quarter until the eagle screams,” he offered with a smile. He served in World War II with the U.S. Marine Corps. When I told him I also served in the Corps, his eyes went a little cold. His lips thinned out and his brow furrowed. “Women in the Marine Corps,” he grumbled while shaking his head, while I tried to hide the burn of anger in my gut. In subsequent meetings, he stated his opinion that women have no place in combat. I smiled, and told him about my experiences; throwing grenades on Mt. Fuji, firing the Squad Automatic Weapon and .50 cal machine gun. He shared WWII stories, and I told him about serving on the USMC Rifle/Pistol team, firing M16s at 1,000 yards. I never argued about women in combat, but I hoped he would see that women are capable.
One day, Dick showed me his personal Bible. Devout faith shone through his blue eyes. He said, “Discernment is a gift from God. That gut instinct, telling you something isn’t quite right. Maybe it’s a person that strikes you as ‘off,’ somehow. You have to pay attention to that. When you don’t, it’s offensive to the Lord. Who are you to override His gift?” I thought about men whose creepiness I ignored, and the resulting consequences. I nodded my head, but kept quiet. Another time he suggested, “Each problem has twelve options for solving it.” His raspy voice dropped to almost a whisper as he explained, “Most people can come up with three or four solutions, but if you get quiet, pray about it, and be patient… you’ll find that you have twelve options.” I talked and laughed about this, and I promised to try it.
Eventually I asked him, “How did you end up joining the Corps?” He shook his head and said, “Well that was a bum deal. I don’t tell anyone, because I feel bad about it. I was sixteen, and headstrong. My buddy and I were supposed to be watching these sheep up in the mountains. There were about a hundred of them. We had enough money for some hooch, so we’d been drinking moonshine. We were skinny as rails, so it didn’t take much. While we were carrying on, the sheep got onto some railroad tracks. The train came, and it hit some of them. It was just awful; a real bloody mess.” Tears slid down his wrinkled cheeks as he relived these moments, but I don’t think he noticed. He continued, “My dad was strict. He kept a family through the Depression, somehow. This was unforgivable.” He sighed loudly, and it took him a couple of minutes to continue. His cloudy blue eyes were grey, with ghosts dancing in them.
He cleared his throat and said, “So… I hate to tell you, but we took off our vests and hats, and a few other things. We threw them in the blood and mess, so our families would think we were dead. We high-tailed it out of there because it was all our fault.” He took a sip of water, before he could continue. “Well… then I needed someplace to be. You know? A job. A recruiter found me, and there you go. I lied about my age, and they didn’t care too much because of the war.” He rested again before continuing, “I’ll never feel right about those sheep. I was so ashamed.” His tears continued in a stream. He continued, “It was nigh on ten years, before I went back to explain things to my family. I let them think I was dead all that time. My father forgave me, and that’s a lot more than I deserve. The Corps taught me some good, and some bad things. I’ll never regret it.”
One of the last times I saw him, Dick said “I hope I didn’t offend you, when I said women don’t belong in the Marine Corps. You see, I’m an old man. You’re too precious to have seen and done some of the things you told me about. I was raised that women should be coveted and protected.” This time, it was my turn to cry.
Dick died about a year after I started working with him. I helped him get housing and a VA pension, but he offered me hope and a new way of looking at life. His stories live long in my heart.