Work For Food
Will work for food. The words were neatly written in black magic marker on a notched piece of brown cardboard. A filthy man almost forty-five held the sign. He wore a pair of dirty, blood dye military fatigues; a green t-shirt, tattered and wear; a military issue jacket whose patches needed spotty; and combat boots, worn with holes, allowing his dirt and sweat stained socks to gleam through. He huddled over a subway rankle trying to keep warm. H emeritusing his weather beaten sign, he hoped that someone would recognize that he was more than just a bum asking for a hand out.
David was nineteen when his material body was called. A fresh faced kid, he worked at the securities industry store and dated the girl next door. The Sunday in the lead he shipped out, his church honored him with prayers and well wishes for a steady-going and speedy return. Eight weeks later David was on a jinx plane with fifty-nine other child soldiers. They were being displace to Saigon.
David spent three years in the lush jungles of Vietnam. Soldiers, old men, women, children; he saw them all die. The earth was red with blood. Faces of the brain dead haunted David in wakefulness and in sleep. David was sent space in January three years, eight weeks, and six days after(prenominal) he left.
Of the fifty-nine men he began his nightmare with and twenty were alive to make the journey home.
David returned not to a grateful nation, but to a country torn by war. He was booed and spit upon. Men and women yelled baby sea wolf and murderer at him. David knew they were right. He carried the images of the dead with him everywhere.
Eventually, David returned to his former life. once again, he bagged groceries at the...
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