Extending his tour in Vietnam had meant an early discharge for Corporal John Bennett. He had decided before he left Vietnam to surprise his family back in Los Angeles. His mom and dad knew he was scheduled to rotate back to the states, but they didn’t realize he’d be coming home so soon. 

Since he still had a few months left to finish the two years he had been drafted for, his parents thought he would be stationed at Ft. Lewis, Washington. He hadn’t told them he was only processing out there, and that in less than forty-eight hours he would surprise them by showing up on their front porch, Honorable Discharge in hand.

          When he was handed his discharge papers and travel pay, he also received a warning. “Some military personnel traveling in uniform have been harassed, spit upon and had dog shit thrown at them at civilian airports. It might be better to change into civilian clothes before leaving the base.” Since the warning was unofficial, most Vietnam returnees chose to travel in their dress uniforms; they had earned their medals and wore them with pride. 

Waiting to board his flight at Seattle/Tacoma Airport, Corporal Bennett got lots of dirty looks from some of the civilians, but no one made any smart-ass remarks. Every time anyone looked at him and the others in uniform waiting for flights, they stared back. None of the longhairs wanted any trouble because the odds were too even for them.

          When he got off the plane at Los Angeles International Airport, John Bennett was once again the recipient of dirty looks and obvious animosity. Being so close to home, he chose to ignore it, focusing instead on how nice it would be back in the old neighborhood with people he had known for years. His neighbors would be proud to see him in uniform, he thought, a man who had served his country. 

Since he wanted to surprise his family, he couldn’t call them to pick him up, and a bus would be too slow and crowded with longhairs, so he flagged a taxi. When the cab driver dropped him at his parent’s house, he said, “Son, it might be best to lose that uniform; the antiwar crowd has stirred up some hard feelings toward soldiers.”

          “Thanks, but I’m home now; all my problems are over,” he replied.

          After knocking at the front door several times, Bennett realized his dad’s car was gone from the driveway. “Probably took mom shopping or something,” he thought. Going around to the back door, he found the spare key under a potted plant where it had always been. Once inside, he dropped his bags in his old room, slipped his war trophy into his belt, left a note for his folks, and went out to look the neighborhood over.

          Walking around, Bennett realized things had changed a lot since he’d been gone. No one said, “Welcome home.” He seemed to draw a lot of dirty looks as he walked around in his dress uniform with the combat ribbons on his chest. Stopping in at Manny’s corner bar, he sat down and ordered a draft beer, he looked around but didn’t see any familiar faces. The place had a different feel to it. There was a new owner, new bartender, and a different crowd altogether.

          Sitting on a stool downing one beer after another and getting hostile looks from the longhaired crowd, Bennett suddenly found himself getting homesick for the military. He managed to ignore the dirty looks and snide remarks, even when he heard the words, “Baby Killer,” from somewhere behind him. But when the hippie looking bastard who said it walked over and spit on his uniform, something snapped inside his head. Reaching his right hand under his dress coat, he gripped his war trophy firmly as he slowly turned the stool to face the crowded bar room.

          When the police arrived a short time later, John Bennett was sitting and sipping his beer. The nine-millimeter Russian made pistol he had taken off the body of a dead North Vietnamese Army Officer was on the bar in front of him. An empty clip lay beside it. Standing behind the bar, face white as a sheet and eyes glassy, the bartender looked like he was going to be sick. 

When questioned, the bartender said, “It was like he was somewhere else, never said a word, just shot anything that moved. Only thing that saved me, I was so scared, I froze, couldn’t move. For some reason he only shot at people who were moving, maybe he thought they were a threat or something. He was as calm as if he was just shooting targets at a fair.”   

 John Bennett never said a word when he was taken into custody.  He had become just another casualty of the distant war..