15/07/2025
Long read but so worth it.. Please hug a veteran today or shake their hand. ❤️
https://www.facebook.com/share/p/16uWXZtBwx/
“These days, people look at me like I’m just a tired old man—but they forget I once crawled through the jungles of Vietnam with bullets flying over my head.”
"Just a Soldier"
A reflection for those who remember what dignity used to mean.
I wasn’t always invisible.
Back then—I'm talking about 1968—you couldn't walk into a diner in uniform without someone nodding, quietly paying for your coffee, or giving you a firm handshake. Not everyone did, of course. But when they did, it meant the world.
Now? I stand in the pharmacy line behind some teenager arguing with the clerk about a TikTok coupon. No one makes eye contact. My cane slows me down, and people sigh like I’m the problem. They don’t know I once carried a buddy on my back for three miles through the mud with a shattered ankle and two bullets in my leg. I didn’t ask for a parade. I just wanted a little respect.
I was drafted out of Arkansas at nineteen. Left behind a girl who waited—then didn’t. My mom hung a photo of me in uniform over the mantle like I’d already died. I guess part of me did.
Vietnam was hot, wet, loud. You slept with rats and woke up praying your legs were still there. But you also learned things you don’t forget. Brotherhood. Grit. How to laugh during hell. I had a buddy named Frankie—loudmouth from Jersey, always had a harmonica in his shirt pocket. He didn’t make it out. Sometimes I still hear him playing under the trees.
When I came home, people didn’t know what to do with us. The country was tired of war, tired of death, and some of that tiredness turned into anger. We didn’t get the hugs and banners. We got silence. Or worse.
So I worked. Fixed trucks. Painted houses. Drove long-haul to keep food on the table. No pension, no benefits for a long time. The VA back then was a joke—lines out the door, paperwork lost in the mail. I had friends who never went back, who couldn’t deal with the wait, or the shame of asking.
And still, we endured.
My hands aren’t what they used to be. Arthritis is a cruel thing. Sometimes I stare at them and think, "These hands once loaded M16s in the dark, now they struggle with a jar lid." My knees creak like old wood. The back’s stiff from years under trucks and sleeping in strange motel beds with thin mattresses and thinner paychecks.
But the hardest part isn’t the pain. It’s the feeling that none of it mattered.
I remember when neighbors helped each other build fences. When a man’s word meant something. You didn’t need a lawyer for everything. We argued on porches and still shook hands afterward. Now, it’s all tweets and screens and screaming. Everybody’s offended, nobody listens.
The worst is when young folks roll their eyes. “Boomer,” they say, like it’s an insult.
They don’t know the hours we worked. The nights we went without so they could have more. They think we’re out of touch, but we remember a time when dignity wasn’t an app and truth didn’t change with the algorithm.
I live alone now. My wife passed six winters ago—cancer. She was the only one who knew how to quiet the jungle in my dreams. Some nights, I still wake up gasping, hands clenched, heart racing like a chopper overhead. The VA counselor says it's normal. Normal. Funny word for nightmares.
My daughter visits when she can. She’s got her own battles—divorce, debt, a son who barely looks up from his phone. I love her, but sometimes we sit in the same room and feel a thousand miles apart.
You know what keeps me going? The little things. The smell of coffee at 5 a.m. Watching the squirrels raid my bird feeder like it's Normandy. That one neighbor kid who mows my lawn without being asked. He doesn’t say much, but he waves every time. That wave means more than he knows.
And the flag. I still raise it every morning. Not because the country’s perfect—but because I believed in something once. Still do, deep down. Even if the news makes it hard some days.
There’s talk now—about cutting veterans' benefits. Again. About who deserves what. About shrinking pensions and raising the age for this and that. But I wonder: Would those same folks survive one night in the bush, soaked to the bone, with nothing but a wet pack and a fading radio signal?
We weren’t perfect. But we showed up. We didn’t hide behind screens. We didn’t ghost each other. We fought, bled, and built.
Now, we’re tired.
And we’re still standing.
If you’re reading this and you remember what it felt like to dance to Glenn Miller, to pull up to the gas station and have someone pump your gas and clean your windshield with a smile, to fix a toaster instead of replacing it—then maybe you know what I mean.
We’re the generation that buried our pain in silence, raised kids who forgot our names, and built a world that's slowly replacing us with machines. But we remember.
We remember when respect didn’t have to be earned on social media.
We remember when love was handwritten in letters, not emojis.
We remember the long road home from war—and the quiet that followed.
So here’s my ask.
Next time you see an old guy walking slow at the grocery store, don’t sigh. Don’t speed around him with your cart.
Say, “Good morning.” Hold the door. Maybe even ask him his name.
Because he might’ve once held the line so your grandkid could ride a bike in a free country.
Because behind the wrinkles is a story. Behind the cane is a man who carried more than you’ll ever know.
Because someday, you’ll be old too.
And when that day comes, I hope someone sees you—not just your age, but your journey.
From a tired old soldier,
who still salutes the flag every morning.
