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He drove through town, watching people come and go from the shops—some old, some new, descriptions which applied to both the shops and the people.
He considered stopping by Jackson’s on his way home just to see what he might find. The store carried a little bit of everything and reminded him of what a mercantile might have looked like back in the early years of the century. A shopper could find everything from tin cups and mining equipment to kerosene lamps, old pickle crocks, tin advertisement signs, and barrels full of penny candy that now cost a nickel.
Levi drove through town, waving at people he recognized. At least here, in his small hometown, no one spit on him or called him a devil or any of the other horrible things that had happened to him when he’d first returned to the States and ventured from the hospital where he’d been recuperating. Some of the names he’d been called had been so vile that his ears still burned just thinking about them.
It had boggled his mind to see people who proclaimed themselves to be peace-loving turn so violent at the sight of someone from the military. It seemed the moment they caught sight of his uniform, they felt it their duty and right to list all the many ways he was a terrible person instead of making him feel like his sacrifice and service had meant something, that the lives of his friends who had died hadn’t been in vain.
Levi sighed as he shifted into high gear and headed toward Boise. He listened as John Denver sang about country roads taking him home. That song had been an anthem of sorts to Levi during the days of his recuperation. All he’d wanted was to drive the country road that led to the home where he’d grown up.
Now that he was back in Star and on the farm, he sometimes questioned if he should have stayed away. His parents, mainly his mother, acted as though he was broken beyond repair. He didn’t know if it was true or not, but at times, it sure felt that way.
Although he was only twenty-six, there were days he felt twice his age. It wasn’t just the aches and pains in his body but the seeping wounds in his soul that made him feel mature beyond his years.
No one could go to war and return with their innocence and naivety still intact. No one.
Determined not to let the darkness of his experiences in Vietnam dim the pleasure of driving his new pickup on such a beautiful spring day, Levi rolled down his window, breathed in the scents of fresh rural air, and released a long breath.
It was definitely far too nice to spend the day dwelling in the past. Nothing he could do now would change a thing. It wouldn’t restore his hand or his mind. It wouldn’t bring his friends back from the dead, so there was little point in dwelling on the “if only’s.”
Levi drove past the Idaho State Capitol in Boise before he turned and headed to the VA Hospital. The doctor wanted him to come in every six weeks for a checkup just to make sure his wounds were healing properly and, Levi thought, to gauge his mental state.
As he headed toward old Fort Boise, where the hospital was located, he recalled his history lessons about the fort being abandoned before the First World War and loaned to the U.S. Public Health Service to care for the soldiers returning from the war. After Congress passed a hospital bill in 1922 providing health care for veterans, the Public Health Service Hospital turned over operations to the Veterans Bureau on an indefinite lease, and the Veterans Hospital was founded.
“Boy, Miss Emma would give me a gold star today,” Levi said with a sardonic grin as he pulled into the parking lot and found an empty spot on the far side of the lot. He had two good legs on which he could walk and wouldn’t dream of taking a space someone else might need closer to the door.
Levi dreaded these appointments. Not because he wasn’t healing, but because of the pitying glances and sympathetic looks the medical staff offered. He didn’t want or need anyone’s pity. In some ways, it bothered him more than the anger of the protestors ever had.
Inside the hospital, he removed his cowboy hat and held it in his damaged hand, hoping the missing parts of it wouldn’t be as noticeable beneath the brim as he checked in at the front desk, then made his way upstairs to see his doctor.
In the waiting room, he gave his name and pertinent information to the woman at the receptionist’s desk, then took a seat with a handful of other men who looked equally as displeased to be there. A man in the corner of the room looked rough, like he’d been sleeping on the street. His clothes and skin were filthy, and his stench filled the space with a stale, ripe odor.
Thankful there were empty seats on the other side of the room, Levi sank onto one of the chairs and impatiently waited, bouncing one leg until the older man sitting next to him tapped his knee with a rolled-up magazine.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like what innards I have left to not be shaken to death before I can get out of here.”
“Sorry, sir,” Levi said, chagrined. He sat up straighter in the chair and tipped his head politely to the man. “What branch did you serve in, sir?”
“Marines. World War II. Ever heard of the Bataan Death March?”
“I have, sir. It was a horrible thing.”
“It was like living in a nightmare, but I’m glad I survived. I think my wife was too.” The man grinned at him.
Levi held out his hand to the former soldier, grateful when he shook it. “Thank you for your service, sir.”
The older man nodded. “What about you? Just back from ’Nam?”
“Army. Returned stateside about nine months ago. Spent some time healing up before they let me come home.” Levi gave the older man a studying glance, wondering if he was nearly as old as he appeared or if the terror he’d endured during the war had aged him prematurely. “I have to come in periodically so they can poke and prod me.”
The older man chuckled. “Same here. Lieutenant James Jepson, but my friends call me J.J.”
“Nice to meet you, sir. Sergeant Levi Gibson, but my friends don’t call me anything because most of them are dead.” Levi had no idea why he’d spoken so bluntly and wished he could reel the words back in.
J.J. lifted a gnarled hand and patted Levi on the shoulder, not in sympathy, but in commiseration. “I’m sorry, son.”
“Thanks, sir.”
“James Jepson!” a nurse called, standing in the doorway that led back to the examination rooms. “James Jepson!”
