Читать книгу Allied Zombies for Peace - Craig Nybo - Страница 17

Chapter 10

Someone blew an air horn at the back of the parade route. Like cattle, hundreds of men from wars spanning across the first half of the 20th century moved. The Vietnam Veteran marchers sauntered in clumps, some in full dress uniform, others with nothing more than bandanas and brazen tattoos to mark their pride as American G.I.s. Due to the unrest Officer Greer had caused during the 1967 parade, event officials had encouraged liaisons for the Vietnam Vet marchers to exclude weapons as part of their presentation—this exclusion was not imposed on World War I Veterans as there seemed to be no controversy over a half-century-old war.

Not only had the veteran march organizers complied—they too didn’t want controversy in lieu of recent, violent protests against the war—they stripped the parade marchers of all vehicles. Usually Nam vets rode like knights on top of traditional Nam transports such as the majestic M113 armored personnel vehicle, more tank than transport. The National Guard hadn’t even provided their usual half dozen Ford M151 MUTT jeeps. It was either walk or nothing. Those who couldn’t walk, pushed along in wheelchairs.

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.