back.
But back where? More with every walk, this does not feel like home. I want to
be
home, without a doubt. But I just can’t seem to find it.
The last morning, I stand on Peters Hill, looking out over the city of Boston, ready to head back to the ship of
Boston.
I’m anxious now to go. I never thought I would say that. The people I have met have all been polite, but nobody is giving me any of that “go get ’em” stuff like in the movies.
Instead, they say:
“Just come home safe.”
“Keep your head down.”
“Don’t be a hero.”
That last one came from Mrs. Lahar, my sixth grade teacher, who now lives in a retirement home halfway between my house and my old school.
I laughed at first. “Don’t be a hero? Mrs. Lahar, you were the one who taught me about heroes. You were the most gung-ho history teacher I ever came across, before or since.”
She nodded, then pointed a long finger at me with the same old authority. “There are a lot of causes to die for, Morris. Come home from that pointless and immoral war and find one.” Then she kissed me on the cheek. “And try and keep an eye on that idiot friend of yours while you’re there.”
She was walking away when I tried to pull us both out of it. “You mean Beck, of course,” I said.
She stopped, turned, and looked as if I had just torn a scab off her.
“What a waste,” she said sadly.
So all I can think of now, as I look at the skyline of my lifelong hometown is, I don’t belong here. I don’t understand this war — or any war, now that I’m in the middle of one — but I understand I’m supposed to be somewhere and this is not that somewhere right now. If Beck, Ivan, and Rudi are in Southeast Asia, then Southeast Asia is where I belong.
How can that be
pointless and immoral,
to fight for one’s friends? It can’t be. It can’t.
I’m headed back two days earlier than originally planned, because I’ve been called back. Something is up, and I’m not sorry to go and find out what it is.
Ma, sensing some of what is in me — sensing, of course, all that’s in me — is torn to shreds but also not blubbering when I break away from the visit’s final hug.
“Do what you need to do,” she says. “Get it done, and then come back to me. All of you, just do your jobs and get home.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and head down the road five pounds heavier. I can at least carry the scent of home, the essence of it, as I go. It is the scent of meatballs, basil, garlic, and spring onions. And of Pond’s cold cream, Chanel No. 5, and Alberto V-O 5 hairspray.
I just hope it’ll all be the same when I return.
I get a shock when I report.
“Reassigned?” I say, reading the notice on the big board at the naval station at the South Boston Shipyard.
The USS
Boston
is no longer my home. Seems that it’s not just the Terrier missiles that are suddenly surplus to requirements.
The notice tells us to report to the mother ship one last time to collect personal belongings, say good-byes,and read the new assignments that have been posted. There is a list of names on this notice, probably ten percent of the ship’s crew, who will be moved.
I wonder if it’s a coincidence that every one of the guys I bunk with is being transferred. Except, of course, Vera, who transferred himself. I’m thinking it’s not a coincidence. Is there such a thing as a suicide virus?
I get to the ship, make my way down to The House. I pass under the 8-inch cannons, detouring for one last sight of the Terrier guided missiles, which the war has left behind but still look ready to come off the bench and get in the game.
All the other guys are already there when I reach sleeping quarters. There’s a lot of laughing, head-slapping, shoulder-punching. Hugging, crying, any of that stuff is just not on the menu.
The Navy appears to have reassigned us in twos. Seven is playing his guitar, all packed and sitting in his rack, encouraging Huff to get a move on so they
But back where? More with every walk, this does not feel like home. I want to
be
home, without a doubt. But I just can’t seem to find it.
The last morning, I stand on Peters Hill, looking out over the city of Boston, ready to head back to the ship of
Boston.
I’m anxious now to go. I never thought I would say that. The people I have met have all been polite, but nobody is giving me any of that “go get ’em” stuff like in the movies.
Instead, they say:
“Just come home safe.”
“Keep your head down.”
“Don’t be a hero.”
That last one came from Mrs. Lahar, my sixth grade teacher, who now lives in a retirement home halfway between my house and my old school.
I laughed at first. “Don’t be a hero? Mrs. Lahar, you were the one who taught me about heroes. You were the most gung-ho history teacher I ever came across, before or since.”
She nodded, then pointed a long finger at me with the same old authority. “There are a lot of causes to die for, Morris. Come home from that pointless and immoral war and find one.” Then she kissed me on the cheek. “And try and keep an eye on that idiot friend of yours while you’re there.”
She was walking away when I tried to pull us both out of it. “You mean Beck, of course,” I said.
She stopped, turned, and looked as if I had just torn a scab off her.
“What a waste,” she said sadly.
So all I can think of now, as I look at the skyline of my lifelong hometown is, I don’t belong here. I don’t understand this war — or any war, now that I’m in the middle of one — but I understand I’m supposed to be somewhere and this is not that somewhere right now. If Beck, Ivan, and Rudi are in Southeast Asia, then Southeast Asia is where I belong.
How can that be
pointless and immoral,
to fight for one’s friends? It can’t be. It can’t.
I’m headed back two days earlier than originally planned, because I’ve been called back. Something is up, and I’m not sorry to go and find out what it is.
Ma, sensing some of what is in me — sensing, of course, all that’s in me — is torn to shreds but also not blubbering when I break away from the visit’s final hug.
“Do what you need to do,” she says. “Get it done, and then come back to me. All of you, just do your jobs and get home.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and head down the road five pounds heavier. I can at least carry the scent of home, the essence of it, as I go. It is the scent of meatballs, basil, garlic, and spring onions. And of Pond’s cold cream, Chanel No. 5, and Alberto V-O 5 hairspray.
I just hope it’ll all be the same when I return.
I get a shock when I report.
“Reassigned?” I say, reading the notice on the big board at the naval station at the South Boston Shipyard.
The USS
Boston
is no longer my home. Seems that it’s not just the Terrier missiles that are suddenly surplus to requirements.
The notice tells us to report to the mother ship one last time to collect personal belongings, say good-byes,and read the new assignments that have been posted. There is a list of names on this notice, probably ten percent of the ship’s crew, who will be moved.
I wonder if it’s a coincidence that every one of the guys I bunk with is being transferred. Except, of course, Vera, who transferred himself. I’m thinking it’s not a coincidence. Is there such a thing as a suicide virus?
I get to the ship, make my way down to The House. I pass under the 8-inch cannons, detouring for one last sight of the Terrier guided missiles, which the war has left behind but still look ready to come off the bench and get in the game.
All the other guys are already there when I reach sleeping quarters. There’s a lot of laughing, head-slapping, shoulder-punching. Hugging, crying, any of that stuff is just not on the menu.
The Navy appears to have reassigned us in twos. Seven is playing his guitar, all packed and sitting in his rack, encouraging Huff to get a move on so they
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