Poetry

The Toll of His War

by

Katrina Parker Williams

Wearing his Marine uniform proudly and honorably,
Henry Pritchard headed Stateside
from the Vietnam War in March of 1970
to his hometown in Town Creek, North Carolina.
There was no parade. There was no celebration.
There was no family waiting for him.

He boarded the Greyhound bus in Camp Lejeune,
The bus driver didn’t want to cause problems,
so he told him he’d have to sit at the back of the bus.
As he made his way toward the back,
he passed empty seats and seats filled with angry passengers
who seemed to question, with their cold stares, his patriotism.

“How many women and children did you rape and kill over there?”
their eyes seemed to inquire, Henry looking at them
hoping to see some signs of appreciation
for his risking his life for their freedoms.

As he passed one elderly white man,
he felt the sting of spit hit the base of his neck,
the moistness burning into his flesh like a branding iron.
His pale face flushed a bright red.

“Sit down, Marine,” the bus driver commanded,
having watched the incident from the rear-view mirror
and wanting not to cause any trouble on his route.
“At the very back, Marine.”

Henry advanced forward to his seat
directly across from a Negro man of about thirty.
The man watched Henry curiously,
wondering what he was going to do to the old man,
hoping he’d jump up and beat the shit out of him.

The Negro man thought to himself,
“The most hateful thing you could do to a human being
is to spit on him like a dog. Don’t you agree, Soldier?”
As if Henry could read his mind.

Henry just stared out the window of the bus
as it made its way down the road toward Rocky Mount, North Carolina.
The Negro man pulled out a handkerchief
and passed it to Henry, tapping him lightly on the arm.

Henry looked at the man. This was the first act of kindness
he had received since arriving back in the States.
Then he looked down at the hand holding the handkerchief
and noticed the Negro man had only one leg.

Henry’s eyes asked, “How?” The man mouthed, “The War.”
Henry could hardly keep a tear from racing from his eyes.
He took the handkerchief gratefully and turned back toward the window,
wiping the spit from his neck, the loss of the man’s leg
reminding Henry of toll of his War.