Anchor Struck

My parents, wife Suzy and son Chris met me at LAX the morning after I got back to the world. Chris, who had just started to toddle when I left, now ran everywhere, as two-year-olds are wont to do. I was so gaunt that my mother didn’t recognize me. We went out to breakfast. As I was getting out of the car, I sank back into my seat and started crying. “They’re kicking our ass over there!”, I sobbed. Suzy and my parents looked at each other at a loss for words. I quickly regrouped and we went on to eat. Then we drove to my aunt’s home in suburban Lomita, where Suzy and I left Chris with my folks so we could catch up on our carnality. A few days later we rejoined them for the requisite pilgrimage to Disneyland.

The drive back to Kansas provided ample time for me to decompress and talk in general terms about my experiences overseas. I had shared some fairly graphic stories with Suzy in my frequent correspondence, including the “Hey God, Where Are You?” letter in which I unloaded a fusillade of frustrations with the war. Suzy shared it with my folks. It upset my mother so much that she wanted to share it with her pastor.

By the time we got back to my parents’ home in Kansas, I was starting to feel more like a human and less like cannon fodder. From there Suzy, Chris and I drove to Louisiana to visit her family. We rented a U-Haul trailer, packed it and headed to Albany, Georgia, for my last seven months in the Marine Corps. Civilian life was on the horizon. Things were looking up.