A Soldier’s Homecoming
The powerful thrust of jet engines drove me deep into my seat as the plane rose into the Georgia night. It was July 15, 1969, and only 35 minutes remained of a journey that had begun two days earlier and a world away. First Lt. Hugh Weldon, Infantry, United States Army, was coming home from Vietnam.
As I stared vacantly at the disappearing Atlanta lights, I realized I was different from the fun-loving youngster who had reversed this route a year earlier. Thanks to an unrelenting tropical sun, my skin was darker. And I was more subdued- a hair-raising episode or two had impressed on me the merits of a low profile. Finally, baby fat had given way to a leaner body.
This trip had been the focus of my life for the past year. Like every soldier in every war, those of us in Vietnam had but one overpowering desire: to go home. We spoke of home in reverent terms and built it up to mythical proportions. We called it The World.
The World was a place where people slept in real beds, took hot showeres every day and didn’t have to keep their stell helmet, flak vest and M-16 rifle within lunging distance. In The World, buddies had nothing better to do than pack sandwiches and go hunting together, and all the pretty girls smelled nice and wore dresses.
For a year we dreamed, discussed and planned on going home. To start a conversation all you had to do was ask, “Hey, what are you gonna do when you get back to The World?”
If you’ve never come from a war, picture it like this: all your life you’ve dreamed of being rich. Of course, you knew there was not much chance of its actually happening, but it was fun to daydream. Then, out of nowhere, a huge inheritance and your dream comes true. But after you’ve concentrated on the dream so long, to separate it from the reality is tough- and disorienting. That’s what coming home from a war is like.
There had already been one culture shock. That morning, while I was passing through San Francisco International Airport, it struck me that nobody had a gun. It would be a piece of cake for a few Viet Cong to slip up to the terminal doors, blow them and enter unopposed.
I sat nervously, eyes glued to the door, and worked out what I’d do if they showed up before I could get out. I knew i was being silly. But my eyes never left the door. Yeah, you could call me disoriented.
It was 10:30pm when the plane finally touched down in my hometown of Columbia, S.C. Sometime during the long glide in, I had started crying softly. Here was this infantry officer, his chest covered with combat and service-award ribbons, crying. Fortunately, nobody was watching.
As we pulled to a stop, I regained control. I walked to the front of the plane and peered out. Behind the security barricades stood a small group of people staring at us.
With a deep breath, I stood straight and stepped onto the stairway. The five people behind the barricades went nuts. I froze momentarily, then groped my way down the stairs and began to recognize faces. There was Mom, scanning me as she went through the age-old checklist: two eyes, two arms, two legs, no scars or wounds.
Dad stood beside her, arm around her waist. His expression said, He looks fine, but I wonder… From experience in World War II, he knew there was more to homecomings than meets the eye.
My two rotten little brothers were the most animated. But somehow they seemed less rotten, and certainly less little.
Next to them was the stuff of every soldier’s dreams. She was wearing a red-plaid skirt and waving wildly. I was tired, but I wasn’t dead- now that was something.
Then it hit me. Every soldier who had viewed The World as some thing or place was wrong. It never was hot showers, soft beds or hunting trips.
The World was the people –our loved ones- who wrote us, prayed for us and waited for us. They were what was important. And my world was standing behind the barricade 25 yards away.
With that understanding came the end to a long year. I was with the people I cared for and, once again, everything was as it should be. My war was finally over.
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