By: John Silva – October 2010
At thirty thousand feet, the airplane ride was tumultuous and violent. The storm tossed them around like a rag doll. The turbulence would die down for a while and then return with a vengeance. But, it didn’t matter… nothing mattered now. The war was finally over, and he was finally going home to Jane, his wife, and their children. For him and his country, the war had been a disaster. So many had been killed or had their minds and/or bodies mutilated, and for what? What had been gained? Did their sacrifice have any meaning? Other than the war mongers and bomb makers, did anyone care it had been a dreadful war. The fighting was horrendous.
Battles were won…and lost…and won…only to be lost again.
In the end, the relentless hordes from the North could not stop.
No matter how many they killed, they just kept coming, and coming, and coming.
Fear, boredom, depression, hopelessness and loss of conscience
produced addicts and monsters. MIA’s, reports of torture, tiger cages,
agent orange, severed body parts, and PTSD left lasting scars.
It was a nightmare that seemed like it would never end.
There were no ticker tape parades.
No honor guards. No twenty one gun salutes.
There was no hero’s welcome.
Instead, they were spit on.
As Jane patiently waited, she thought of the POW’s and those that suffered so much. She thought about all of the pain the war had caused. After they removed the flag from the coffin, they lowered the casket into the ground. And, with a salute… they presented the flag to Jane and her children.