Two Air Force F-16 jets cut through the crisp November sky. The planes’ razor-thin wings were breathlessly close as they roared over the small southern city. Beneath them, thousands in the crowd gasped and then cheered. The planes’ afterburners screamed a deafening scream as the jets disappeared over the horizon. The annual Veteran’s Day parade kicked off in glorious fashion. A little boy named Sam vigorously waved his American flag. A Humvee drove past followed by Marines marching in Swiss-watch precision. All veterans were being honored.
Sam’s father had been a veteran, too. Earlier in the year, Sam had worn his clip-on tie as he watched his daddy lowered into the ground. At eight-years old, he understood the sacrifices the military made more than most Americans. Several Army soldiers marched past. His father Alex had been in the Army; a captain who died in a part of Afghanistan that Sam couldn’t pronounce. It was at that moment that Sam went from being an 8-year-old kid to an old man.
Sam’s grandfather looked down at him. The little boy looked so much like his son, Alex. Alex had been all-everything in school. The local Congressman agreed and like his father before him, had entered West Point, the Army’s military academy. There he blossomed, graduating in the top-third of his class. The grandfather watched the soldiers pass by with precision. He saw their closely cropped hair and their steely gaze. One of them could have been his son. The thumping of helicopter blades woke him from his daydream. A National Guard UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter flew low over the parade route. His heart thumped with the rhythm with the rotors.
A block off the parade route, in the shadows of a cold, dark alley, sat a man far removed from the cheers of the loving crowd. Kenneth Gibson’s thick, matted beard, hid the scars on his face. The scars on his outside, though, did not compare to the scars on the inside. He had seen too much in combat. He had been covered in the brains and blood of his best friends. The Battle of Hue was his breaking point. After that battle, his friends didn’t make it home. And truthfully, all of him didn’t either. Post-Tramatic Syndrome Disorder haunted him for the rest of his life. Alcohol and drugs numbed the flames of hell, but they couldn’t extinguish them. He sat alone, feeling the cold brick of the alley’s wall. The cheering crowd one block away had no idea he was even there. On this Veteran’s Day, he had been forgotten. He reached for the near-empty bottle and felt warmth as the cheap whiskey burned his throat. The light of the morning sky faded quietly into darkness.
When the parade had ended, the Sam and his grandfather walked back to their truck. Sam looked up at the city’s tall buildings. Never had freedom seemed more glorious. He gripped his small American flag proudly. It was a pride from the knowledge that all veterans were being properly honored. They headed south along the sidewalk and for some chance reason, Sam turned his head and saw a man lying on the ground. “GRANDPA!” Sam ran into the alley. Horrified, his grandfather ran after him into the darkness.
“SAM! COME BACK HERE!”
Sam came up to the man lying on the concrete and gagged. Kenneth smelled like alcohol, urine and death. The grandfather, a former medic, checked the homeless man’s pulse. “He’s still alive, but barely.” He pulled out his cellphone and dialed 911. Then he began to check the man’s coat for any form of identification. There he found a phone number on a yellowed, crumpled piece of paper: 1-630-555-2348.
“Hello?” the female’s voice answered in a sing-song fashion.
Hello, my name is Samuel Johnson. I found your number in the pocket of a man who we found in an alley. We’ve called the ambulance. He’s unconscious.”
There was nothing but silence on the other end.
Then she said, “I think you found my daddy. We’ve been looking for him for four years now. We had given up and though he was dead.”
“Where are you, ma’am?”
The lady on the other end noted the grandfather’s southern accent.
“Naperville, Illinois. We’re near Chicago. Where are you? My father is a Vietnam veteran by-the-way.”
The grandfather paused for a moment. “I am, too. I’ll make sure he’s well taken care of. Here’s my number. ” The grandfather gave the lady his information.
The daughter paused and said calmly, “I’ll catch the first flight. Thank you.”
Later that evening, Sam and his grandfather walked into the local VA hospital. They checked in with the front desk and headed down the hall. There was the daughter, her husband and two other couples. Kenneth Gibson’s family stood around a ghost. Sam and his grandfather stood in the back of the room and looked at the scarred face of the Vietnam veteran.
Five minutes had passed until the daughter noticed that they had company. “May I help you?”
“I’m the man who called. My grandson Sam found your dad.”
Her tired face lit up with a smile. “Thank you, Sam.” She walked over and gave the boy a crushing hug. “Thank you for bringing my dad back from the dead.”
Sam wished someone could do that for his father. He looked into the lady’s eyes and then said, “You’re welcome ma’am. You’re welcome.”
And on that cold, clear Veterans’ Day, those who had served their country were honored. Even a lost veteran who had been completely forgotten.
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