An old Vietnam veteran was sitting across from me in the VA waiting room. Like so many of us, he had arrived early and was patiently waiting his turn. Some habits never leave you. The military teaches you to hurry up and wait, and that lesson cuts across every branch and every generation.
He leaned forward in his chair with one arm resting on his cane, but his hands were doing most of the talking. Both of them moved constantly, shaping the story and emphasizing each point. It felt as if, if he stopped using them, the words might slow down too.
He talked about the sound. The reassuring sound of the aircraft as it came in overhead.
Then he said, plainly and without any theatrics, “They flew that G-D thing in low with suppression fire to get our asses out.”
There was no bravado in it. No attempt to impress anyone. It was simply how things had happened.
The man sitting across from him nodded and shared his own story about riding in a C-130 with the door open, feeling the wind rush through the aircraft with nothing between him and the sky. He said it was something you never forget. Right about then, my name was called, and I had to walk away. I knew we were just getting to the good part.
If you ever want to hear real history, you can find it in any VA waiting room.
No one is bragging. No one is exaggerating. No one is trying to top the last story. These men are not competing with one another. They are simply sharing memories with people who understand what those memories cost.
Later, while waiting at the pharmacy, another older veteran struck up a conversation with me. He told me that he would be turning eighty on March 2 and that he never thought he would live to see it. His walker was decorated with several small American flags, and across the crossbar was painted “F-22 Raptor.”
The F-22 is a modern stealth fighter that entered service decades after this man had retired. There was no chance that he had flown one or worked on one during his time in uniform. A younger veteran noticed the lettering and began explaining what the F-22 was, describing its stealth capabilities, its speed, and its advanced technology.
The older vet listened politely. I am not sure he caught the joke.
That walker, with its wheels and aluminum frame, had clearly been labeled as a stealth fighter on purpose. It was humor, pride, and identity wrapped into one small detail. It was his way of saying that he was still part of the team, even if his aircraft now rolled instead of flew.
That waiting room holds men who served in World War II, Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War, Iraq, Afghanistan, and everything in between. They come from different eras and used different equipment, but they all took the same oath and carried the same responsibility.
What you see there is not performance. It is not politics and it certainly is not posturing.
It is mutual respect.
It is men who recognize one another without needing introductions. It’s an understanding that passes quietly between people who have been places most of the country will never see.
Under fluorescent lights, sitting in plastic chairs, they continue to wait their turn.
They are still hurrying up and waiting.