The lack of transport had been met with boos from the Vet marchers. Some felt it undignified for an American soldier to be put on display, pushing himself in a wheelchair before a throng of spectators. Parade officials had responded that, to show your independence, even in a wheelchair, had more dignity in it than riding on any tracked or wheeled personnel transport. And so they walked in pockets, gabbing among themselves, waving at children along the curbs, smiling when they could, but always remembering the things they had seen in Vietnam, always remembering the friends whom they had left behind to continue the fight.
The mixture of manifold colors, crowd cheers, John Phillips Sousa marches blaring from the Columbus High School Marching band, the smells of cotton candy and snow cones, the chattering of children, sticky with shaved ice treats and salt water taffy, their faces peeled into smiles, lifted both Dan and Chuck’s spirits as they walked along the parade route with their fellow Nam veterans.
Dan unslung a knapsack from his back and unzipped it. He reached inside and brought out two paper bags of salt-water taffy.
“You kidding?” Chuck said as Dan offered him one of the bags.
“In my home town, there is only one reason to come to a parade: to catch candy. Don’t you know that in every child’s mind anyone who marches by and doesn’t throw something—taffy, licorice, jujus—is worthless?”
Chuck took a bag of taffy, shaking his head.
The two men moved closer to the curb where they could walk within tossing distance of the spectators. Dan took a double handful of taffy out of his bag and held it up with a smile. Kids peeled out of the crowd like insects from an overturned stone. They shouted, raising their hands, sidestepping along in time with Dan and Chuck, poised not to miss even a single opportunity for the taste of processed sugar. With a baseball pitcher’s cock of the arm, Dan let the candy fly. It arched like a swarm over the crowd of kids and snicked down on the ground like rain. Children dived for it, scooping it up, shoving it into their pockets and their mouths.
“I don’t know how people can feel justified bringing kids into this world,” Chuck said, reaching into his bag of candy and taking out a heaping handful. He threw it to a different throng of kids, who had seen the value in Vietnam Veterans after all as they chased the skittering pieces of candy.
“This isn’t the Mekong Delta.” Dan spread his hands. “This is main street America. The only wars these kids fight are in their backyards with popguns and plastic helmets.”
“They teach them young, don’t they?”
“You know, I think that someday, if I can work out all the junk in my head, I might settle down and try to have one of these little pot lickers.” Dan waved at a freckle-faced boy who sat on top of his father’s shoulders. The kid smiled and waved back.
“Not me,” Chuck said.
“Hey, lighten up, it’s a good day.”
“Not as long as I have friends overseas dying.”
“I think I’ve heard enough about your war today.”
“It’s your war too. And anyone who has been over there knows what we are fighting for. Communism is an infection.”
“I and Joe McCarthy agree.” Dan threw another handful of candy into the crowd. Children clambered for the colorful bits of taffy, spanned across the street like jacks. “But I’m talking about things that are much smaller than Communism. I’m talking about making a place in this world now that we’re back from all that blood and hell.”
Chuck looked at the ground. Cracks recently filled with tar webbed across the street like a giant black widow had been at work. He looked up at his friend. “How do you do that?”
“What?”
“You know, put it all behind you?”
Like this. Dan opened his mouth into a watermelon-slice grin and threw another double-handful of taffy into a clambering choke of children. Chuck laughed and reached into his bag. He withdrew the biggest handful yet and flung it in a fan over the crowd.
Chanting broke out from further up the parade rout. At first one voice shouted, then many more joined the mantra. “Hell no, we won’t go, hell no, we won’t go…”
“Here we go,” Chuck said, spotting a huge throng of parti-colored Nam protestors. He unwrapped a piece of saltwater taffy and tossed it into his mouth. As he and the rest of the Nam marchers neared the crowd of what must have been two hundred protestors, he chewed on the candy. It was licorice flavored. He wished he had picked strawberry; he didn’t care for licorice.
Chapter 11
Tension grew as the Vienam veteran marchers neared the choke of NRPL protestors. Hundreds of hippies had gathered, decked out in tie-dye, wild color, and glazed eyes. Many of them held signs, rough cardboard plaques with slogans squiggled across them in manic, red paint. Their chant, “Hell no, we won’t go,” grew into a roar as the distance between vets and NRPL closed.
A half-dozen miscreant protestors peeled out of the mob and moved across the road towards the veterans, pumping their fists, shouting their mantra so brusquely that spittle pipped from their mouths and dotted the ground.
“Isn’t it illegal to desecrate a flag?” Chuck nodded towards the leader of the group of NRPL troublemakers, Schecky Lewis, with filthy hair, wearing an American flag that had been cut up and fashioned into a pair of pants.
“They have the same freedom of speech we do,” Dan said. “Lets hope they don’t cause any trouble.”
“They will; they always do,” Chuck said.
“Well if it isn’t the baby-killers,” Schecky shouted as he, Arnold, and a handful of others closed on the Vietnam Vet marchers. Someone deep in the veteran ranks barked out a curse at the hippies.
Dan noticed Chuck crunching his hands into balls and biting his bottom lip. “Just ignore them,” Dan said, “They aren’t worth your time.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“How many baby’s you kill in Nam,” Schecky spat the words like acid at nobody in particular. “How many girls you rape?”
“Shut your mouth,” a Nam marcher shouted.
“I got something to show you,” Schecky said and drew a small piece of paper from one pocket and a Zippo lighter from another. Both Dan and Chuck recognized the slip of paper as a draft card.
“Go back to your hole, you ass,” another of the Nam marchers shouted.
“Watch your language, sir,” a young mother yelled from the sidelines.
“That’s right,” Schecky said. “Watch your language. And while you’re at it, watch your murder, your rape, and your looting.”
“This is going to get bad,” Chuck said.
“Not if we don’t let it,” Dan said.
Schecky held up his draft card and flicked his Zippo alight. “You ain’t never going to make me into no baby-killer.” He touched the flame to the card. The slip of paper went up almost before Schecky could pull his fingers away.
“We don’t want you anyways,” one of the Nam vets shouted from deeper in the throng.
“Well that goes both ways,” Schecky said. “Why don’t you all do your country a favor and go back to Nam. Or better yet, why don’t you take those baby-killing guns of yours and put them to your own heads—put yourselves out of our misery.”
“That’s it,” Chuck said and cut towards Schecky, stolid steps, ice in his eyes.
“No,” Dan said, but he knew he couldn’t stop his friend.
“I’m going to take those red, white, and blue pants and shove them up your ass,” Chuck said.
The