There were only three people in line in front of the ATM machine at the Bank of America in Dallas. It was mid-afternoon, and the heat had chased all but the most resilient indoors, hoping to avoid the last approach of summer day misery.
Two more people showed up, patiently waiting their turn to extract or deposit money from the impersonal banking machine.
One of these recent arrivals was a black man, heavy bearded with broad shoulders and strength of arms. He wore a black cap with the US Marine logo on the face and bill, while a red t-shirt with Camp LaJune across it covered his beefy torso.
There was another person there to get money from the machine. He was a white man, wearing a maroon-colored Dr Pepper shirt, and had on a Nissan cap. He was stooped of shoulders and had a stomach that completely filled that maroon t-shirt. He wasn’t particularly big or even fat, but even the casual eye could perceive he was long past his prime.
“You a Jar Head,” said the Nissan-capped man.
“You want to make something of it?” asked the bearded man.
“Figured you were by the fear in your eye and the ‘whoosh’ sound in your voice,” said the Nissan man.
“And what were you in?” asked the marine. “Probably an Army grunt or Air Force pussy. Did you have those stooped shoulders and beer gut back then?
“Man, you would never have passed a Marine physical.”
“Yes, I was Army--Combat Engineer! We always went in fast, killed all the bad guys so the Marines could come in, make hot chocolate and shop at the PX.”
“Man, what are you talking about,” said the marine. “I have killed more gooks, stomped more ass than a whole division of you candy ass Army guys.”
The two men got their money in silence and stepped to the side near the machine. More people had joined the line, but no one approached the machine. All eyes were on the two men and all ears were open.
“I was in the boonies for nine weeks before my unit came in,” said Army. “I have been gut shot, butt shot, stabbed twice and that was just on my first tour.”
“Man, look here,” said Marine, as he pulled up his shirt. “The round came out through here, but not until after it had shredded my spleen and blew up my stomach.”
Army pulled up his Dr Pepper shirt, and said. “I got it here in the stomach near the liver. Went out here, near the kidney. I am not going to show you my butt wound.”
“You were probably trying to run or hide in a hole when you got shot in the butt,” laughed Marine.
“Actually the butt wound was from a friendly,” said Army. “Probably some upchuck Marine way back in the rear thinking my white ass was Charlie.”
The two men were now face to face and the conversation was growing louder.
“I got patched up on a flat-top in the Gulf, and did R and R at Pearl” said Army. “When they brought us home through LAX, we had to change into civvies, and sneak out the terminal. Out front there were signs that said we were ‘Baby killers’.”
“I rode the bus home from Dallas,” Army continued. “My mother didn’t recognize me at first when I got off the bus. I weighed 97 pounds.”
The Marine’s voice softened. “I know, brother. My old lady left me. I found her shacked up with a homey used car salesman who was 4-F. I spent months at the VA getting counseling. I lost my wife, house, and car. I lost everything.”
“I was near the DMZ,” said Army. “And later, the highlands. We fought regular RVN. For about three months we supported the Marines trying to protect several Montignard villages. We had firefights nearly every day. I never killed any babies, but I saved some. And I sent a few of those SOBs to hell. Nobody really told me they appreciated me until three years ago when General Tommy Franks came to Dallas promoting his book. The last time I had seen Tommy he had called me “Sir.” That day, he shook my hand, gave me a big hug, and said ‘welcome home LT.’ Things seemed to get better for me after that,” concluded Army.
“I noticed you are limping,” said the Marine. “Have you hurt yourself?”
“Just getting old and fat,” said Army. “Right after Tet in ‘68, we jumped into a hot LZ. My backpack weighed about 90 pounds. I hurt my knee then, but only recently has it been bothering me.”
“I know,” said Marine. “I can not sleep at night because of my back and neck that I got hurt in Nam. You still have dreams?”
“Not so much now” said Army. “God’s blessing, a great family, and living in the greatest country in the world have made life good for me. But I will tell you, I am not too happy about the government right now.”
“You are a good man, Army!”
“And so are you, Marine.”
The two men hugged. Army whispered, “I am proud of you, Marine.”
“ I love you, man,” said Marine.
“We were really good once, weren’t we Marine?”
“We could really kick ass,” said Marine.
The two men parted, walked a few more feet and looked back at each other.
“So long, you Army puke,” yelled the Marine.
“Goodbye, you candy ass Marine,” responded Army.
Both of these men, like countless others across the pages of America’s history, had faced death, and though emerging scarred had managed to survive. I was proud to have been a witness to their exchange. Tens of thousands never made it home from Viet Nam. They lie buried in water- covered fields and hidden valleys across the landscape, while others rest in cemeteries here and in foreign lands. Some still walk among us. Unknown and unpretentious, except when they unexpectedly meet. We owe so much to them for what they have given to us. These are great men. This Band Of Brothers.
Durhl Caussey is a syndicated columnist who writes for papers across America. He may be reached at this paper or at dcaussey@sbcglobal.net.