His dog tags swayed gently against his shirt as he gingerly made his way down the plane’s aisle. Stopping at row 19, he nodded his head. “I’m in the middle,” he tells my friend Jill. She owns the aisle seat, 19D, for this American flight from Miami to Nashville. I occupy the seat across from her, 19C.
Earlier, we were waiting to board our plane when a gray haired man stopped and shook the hand of the young man sitting across from us. I caught a snippet of the conversation. “I was in Afghanistan,” he said. The man moved on and the soldier’s head dropped, concentrating on his smart phone.
In his early twenties, brown hair cut close, the only clue he is military are his dog tags and the sand colored camouflage backpack leaning against his chair. His clothes are new, the tennis shoes sparkle white, shirt and jeans crisp. Absently he rubbed his leg and I notice a dark blood stand above the his right knee.
“How long have you been back?” I asked him.
“Two weeks.” His eyes are wide. He is overwhelmed by the brightness of this life, the crush of humanity, the white noise of peace. “I was in Afghanistan” he said again.
“Its hard coming back, isn’t it?” I asked because, although I have never fought in a war, I am a military brat who lived overseas for an extended time and suffered culture shock upon my return.
“I’m use to fifteen hour days on patrol, ” his hand moved down his leg again, “five hours of sleep, one meal a day.” He massaged the area around his knee. “I was there for sixteen months.” He searches my face for understanding. How can you chat with somebody about the weather or the Knicks game or what kind of cereal you want to eat when all that has been important for the last year and a half is to fight to to stay alive?
“It looks like you might be bleeding through your pants.” Its obvious he was in pain.
“Ah, no. It did that when they first patched me up. Wouldn’t wash out.” He motions from his upper thigh to below his knee. “I got banged up.”
“Did you ask for a seat with extra leg room? So you can stretch it out?”
“No.”
And now he is points to the middle seat by Jill. While she convinced him to take her seat, I made my way back to the stewardess organizing the galley.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah, there is a soldier in 19D with a leg injury. He’s heading to Ft. Campbell. I thought if you had an empty first class seat, it would be nice to upgrade him.”
“Is he in uniform?”
“No, but he has his dog tags.”
“The gate agents usually upgrade them if they are in uniform.”
“He isn’t the type to ask.”
“Thanks, we’ll see what we can do.”
Thank goodness times have changed. My father was career Air Force and served in Viet Nam. Flying home to attend his stepfather’s funeral he was seated next to cute college girl. Enjoying conversation that didn’t revolve around war, he was enjoying her company. At some point, my father, who was in uniform, mentioned he was coming from Viet Nam. A short time later, the girl gathered her purse and excused herself to go the bathroom. When she didn’t return he became concerned, called the stewardess over, and asked her to check the bathroom to make sure the girl was okay.
“She requested a seat change,” the stewardess replied. “She didn’t want to sit next to a murderer.”
Just before our flight is about to take off, the first class steward approached the soldier across from me and offers him a seat in the forward cabin. He retrieved his camouflage backpack from the overhead bin and limped slowly forward pondering his good luck.
Although I will continue to hate middle seats, if I ever get stuck in one again, I will think about that injured soldier who wouldn’t complain about a middle seat because he had been in worse. Much worse.
Brought tears to my eyes. You’ve blessed me in so many ways, yet your writing ability continues to astound and delight me. Your style is subtle, sensitive, and direct; well-balanced and engaging. Never stop writing.