Glory Days: A Novel

Chapter 2

2

            When we arrived at the bus station it was a far-out scene.
            So many boys; some crying, some quiet, others standing around in a daze, all of them unsure what they had gotten themselves into or what the hell to expect. I suppose they all know by now.
            Lord Christ, my brother does.
            A majority of these young men had been drafted into the Army right out of high school with the unfortunate draw of their social security number. They were taken from their homes, from their families, right out of their beds, out of the fields. They were trained, armed, and shipped off to some godforsaken country thousands of miles away to go fight and kill the Viet Cong. Against their will. But not my brother. He wanted to be a Marine. He enlisted for this.
            My father parked the car and we all got out. I quickly ran around to the trunk to get Jim's duffel bag as he greeted a few of the boys he knew. Most of the young men were there with their families; a few had their girlfriends or buddies there as well to send them off. As far as I could tell no one was alone. There had to have been close to a hundred boys, give or take a few, and they were all going into the service to fight in Vietnam.
            My sister was oblivious of what was going on and stayed in the car with Margie, but I was fascinated by all the commotion and in awe of the older boys. Where were they going? Were they going to fight? Were they actually going to be given guns and kill people?
            There were some soldiers in fatigues loading baggage into a bus that had a placard in the window that read "Marines." I assumed this was my brother's bus. Next to his bus there had to be half dozen other buses that had "Army" placards on them that were parked, engines idling, sending a black cloud of exhaust into the chilly afternoon sky.
            Soldiers walked around barking orders at the enlistees as they got on the buses. Why are they screaming? Why are they in such a rush? I wondered to myself. One of the soldiers was even black and he was yelling at a white boy to get into the bus! It was very tumultuous with all the shouting, bags getting loaded into the buses, kids and gear and families and crying and mothers and fathers and sons being sent off to war.
            I turned around just in time to witness my father giving Jim one of the biggest bear hugs I had ever seen. They stood in the middle of that large crowd of insanity and hugged each other, man to man, father to son...and my poor mother stood next to them, crying softly, her hands resting on her oldest son's shoulder, touching him, willing him to stop, to not leave, but he had made a decision; he was a man now.
            Jim then moved to my mother and hugged her. She kissed him on the cheek and whispered something to her eighteen-year-old son, who stood at 6'3" and all muscle...captain of the football team, with so much promise, so much hope, with scholarships to go to college and be the first Brady to get a higher education. But he turned it all down to be a soldier in the Marines, just like his father. Tears flowed from her eyes as she buried her face into his chest. She was the only person in our family who had ever given birth to someone, given life to someone, watched it grow, watched it blossom. She had never taken life. She didn't fight in Korea like my father; she didn't fight in World War II like my grandfather. She was the only one who understood the true outcome of war. My brother didn't cry and neither did my father.
            Damn my father. With that goddamn smirk on his face. So proud!
            I could practically see him thinking to himself that all these other kids were drafted, and my brother, his Jim, volunteered to fight. He wasn't a pussy! He raised his son properly: To be a man. His son was a fighter! A true American! A Brady! A Marine! And he was off to kill those goddamn Commies! He was going to bring the fight that the older Brady started in Korea and Jim was going to end it single-handedly. Just land in Vietnam and start blowing away all the Commies and end this war in a day and be back home in time for supper. Yup, my father had it all figured out.
            When Jim was done hugging mom, he came over to me and bent down. I was only four years younger than he was, but he still stood a good five inches taller than me.
            I looked up into his crystal blue eyes and his perfect tan complexion, from hundreds of hours of playing outdoors. He smiled and his teeth were white and straight, he was such a good-looking kid, the prototypical all-American boy – tall, strong, handsome – and now he was going to be a Marine.
            "Listen, you take care of Mom and Dad," he said to me softly, poking me in the chest with a strong finger. "You're the big brother now, look after Suzie too, OK?" he rubbed my hair. "Don't make me come back here and kick your butt!" he playfully punched me in the arm.
            I didn't hug him.
            I should have. I should have wrapped my arms around him and never let him go. I should have never let him get on that goddamn bus. I didn't even shake his hand.
            "I will," I managed to squeak out. I felt a well of tears building up so I quickly turned away. It hit me that he was actually going away, that my big brother was leaving us.
            Leaving me.
            Then he went over to the car to say bye to my sister. He leaned in the window and said something to her and ruffled her hair. She didn't look up from Margie, she was off in her own world.
            My mother was still holding on to my father's arm as a crutch. She looked as if she could have fainted right there on the spot, while my father beamed at Jim with that big smile on his face, so proud, so very, very proud, and stupid.
            Without saying goodbye to Jim I walked around to the other side of the car and got in the backseat. I sat next to the window to watch all the boys climb into the buses and go off to Vietnam.
            Then it hit me: I was no longer in the middle.
            They began loading up the "Marines" bus Jim was assigned to. My father shook his hand and gave him another hug. Jim then hugged mom one final time and I heard him tell her that he was going to come back after basic training. He turned and waved to me and my sister. I waved at him through the window, in the backseat of that '66 Ford Mustang, cherry red with chrome wheels and leather interior, brand new, right off the lot.
            Jim got in line with the rest of the kids – draftees, recruits, soldiers, enlistees – and made his way on to his bus, disappearing into the sea boys.
            My parents stood on the tarmac in that cool fall sun with the rest of the families and friends and girlfriends and loved ones, and watched as the buses finally loaded up with the remainder of their cargo. They stayed until all the buses had safely left the depot and drove off down the street, leaving a haze of fumes and black smoke in their wake; but funny enough, this was the safest those boys were ever going to be.
            Jim never did come back after basic training.
            Instead he stayed with his friends in the Marines, afraid that if he came back he would break mom's heart again, which I can't blame him for.
            That was the last I would see of him for almost four years.
            That was the last time I actually saw Jim.
            What came back was not Jim.