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The Cam Ranh airfield was attacked on the night of March 3rd, and the runway took about 15 mortar rounds, but no planes were damaged. The scary part was that the mortars were launched from inside the peninsula, though no one seemed to know where the enemy had breached our security. There were only two possibilities, however. The VC had either come by land and crossed the northern perimeter completely undetected, or they had made a water landing on the bay or ocean side, the most likely explanation. In any event, everyone was on edge for a few days after that, since our perception of Cam Ranh as an impenetrable fortress had been summarily dashed by this one quick hit. Though we didn't have very accurate measurements, we pay clerks put together a crude map that revealed the airport was seven miles from the 92d, the supply depot was one mile, the ammo storage area was five miles, and the wharves two miles. As we saw it, we weren't close enough to any of these locations to take a stray round, so the only way we could get hit at the office or in the barracks was if the VC were deliberately aiming at us. Compared to these other targets, a bunch of pay clerks was not an attractive alternative in our view, so we felt somewhat more secure in our safety. Of course, it was the old story, no one could be sure of anything these days. I, especially, was nervous about the many possibilities available to the VC, since I was less than 30 days to DEROS, and I knew it would be just my luck to get killed when I was that short. This thought kept running through my mind on the night of March 5th, when I was assigned again to stand guard on the USAID bridge. Fortunately, I survived the night. To take our minds off the fear of dying, the army during this period was showing us movies such as Tobruk, The Dirty Dozen, and Bonnie and Clyde. In disbelief that the temperature could soar in early March, we sweated through 95 degree days and waited for the other shoe to drop, regarding the battalion's move. We had heard nothing further on the relocation since the 29th of February. Then, on March 8th, we were given an update by Altman when he came on his run from DBT. "March 11th," he said, cryptically. "Okay," Bradley said, "March 11th. What is March 11th?" "That's when the 14th moves out," Altman said. "We have two guys in headquarters company with a DEROS of April 2nd who are not going because they're too short." When I heard these words, my pulse quickened measurably. "Really?" I said. "I guess that means I'm not going either." "Wrong," Altman said. "Chief Walls says you're too valuable to leave behind." "Damn, damn, damn," I screamed, beating the desk in cadence with my fist. "That's crazy--and--and--it's not fair." "Hey, take it easy, big fella'," Bradley said. "I think the man is pulling your chain." I looked at Altman, and he grinned. "Altman, you cretin, why do you always make everything so difficult," I said. "I ought to brain you just on general principles." I knew why Altman played these silly head games. It was the only enjoyment he derived from life, little puke that he was. Anyway, after my adrenaline subsided, I was as happy as a child, knowing I could finish out my days in the relative safety of Cam Ranh Bay. What a load off my mind that was. The next day Altman drove me to DBT so I could do my clearance from the battalion. I turned in most of my field gear, except for my M-14, and checked out at S-1, S-2, and the chaplain, as required by regulations. Things were all abustle at the 14th, with men running here and there taking care of last minute arrangements or packing final things for shipment. I made it a point to say goodbye to Sergeant Garvey and Chief Walls, the only two people I had dealt with at all during the last five months. Except for them and Altman, all the others were just so many strangers to me now. When I shook Chief Wall's hand and said goodbye, I had the feeling that he wished I were going north with the battalion. I wasn't sure how he conveyed that to me, except that he squeezed my hand and his eyes had a slightly sad and helpless look. Maybe it was simply the turmoil of the relocation that made him seem so melancholy. When Altman dropped me off at the barracks in Cam Ranh, I told him in parting to keep his "powder dry." He smiled and stuck his thumb up in the air before speeding away. As I watched him disappear, I took great satisfaction in knowing I would never see the far side of the bay again, for that place had acquired in my mind an air of danger since I had taken up residence in Cam Ranh. That was silly I knew. After all, I had lived in DBT for six months without mishap. Yet any place in Vietnam that made me feel as twitchy as I had been there today was not a good place to be, not a safe place. Later that night I resolved to write my wife and tell her about my reassignment to Ft. Hood, even though I hadn't reached a decision regarding the attendant logistics, whether to go alone or to take her along. I certainly felt more comfortable delivering the bad news in writing, rather than in person, face to face. I wrote home, saying in part: Short!!! I'm getting so short that, while making a phone call yesterday, I fell into one of the holes on the dial, and it took me ten minutes to extricate myself. There is a large group of short-timers here at the 9-deuce, 25 of us in fact. Though I only found this out recently, we all graduated from Ft. Harrison together, and we all have a DEROS of March 22, 23, or 24. Most must have been in the other five classes because I don't remember them being in mine. The majority of the 25 are RA's with about 15 months left in service (sounds like a personal problem to me). Eight men went out to the 22d Replacement Battalion tonight to catch an 8 A.M. flight home tomorrow. Two of them were so excited that they didn't sleep at all last night. I am advised there are 10 flights per day back to the U.S. The 92d is having a party at Howell Beach on Sunday, March 17th, but I've decided not to go. Not that it wouldn't be fun, mind you. It's just that I can't bring myself to do anything outside my tight, little daily routine now because I'm so close to leaving. I get anxious even thinking about a party at the beach. God knows something terrible would happen to prevent me from getting out of here on time. I'm so paranoid about accidents, I look three times before I cross the street these days. I read an article in the Army Times a couple days ago that said there is talk of extending some of the active military in certain MOS's if President Johnson has to resort to a call up of the army reserves. The article didn't say what MOS's are involved, but I hope mine isn't one of them. I received my reassignment orders recently, and it looks like I may be going to Ft. Hood, Texas. Now, I know this could create some problems, but I don't want you to worry about anything. As soon as I get home, I'll send a telegram to the personnel office at DOD in Washington and request a hardship reassignment closer to Oakland. I'm confident everything will work out okay. Must go to bed now because we're having another red alert practice at 5 A.M. They want us to fall out and be in formation within three minutes or less. Never happen G.I. I'll write soon. Love you. I wasn't at all "confident" that I could arrange to have my reassignment changed, but for now it seemed like the right thing to say. On March 11th at 7:30 A.M., the 14th Engineers moved out of DBT, lock, stock, and barrel. At least that was the assigned time, and by midday we had received no contrary reports. Wagner told me he wanted to box up all the battalion pay records the next day, but I suggested he wait until we had firmer information about his move to Da Nang. After lunch I was given my port call sheet that informed me I would be taken to 22d Replacement on the 21st of March, with my departure time some 18 to 36 hours later. I wished the date had been earlier, since the current time frame put me right down to the wire on my DEROS. As I was pondering this development, Bradley came to me in a dither about a red border document given to him by Sergeant Barker. "They want me do deduct $200.00 from this E-4 in C company for an uncollected travel advance he received after basic training," Bradley said. "Trouble is, all his money is going home on an allotment, and he's only drawing $75.00 per month in cash. If I deduct forty or fifty dollars each month, it'll take four months or more to get it all back, and that won't leave him much spending money. Otherwise, I have to do all the paperwork to decrease his allotment for two months and then change it back again. What should I do?" "Let me see that," I said. I stared at the paper for several minutes, thinking. "When does this guy rotate back to the U.S.?" Bradley rifled through the man's file and found a document, after which I could see him counting mentally, as well as on his fingers. "Ninety-five days," he said. "That's cool," I said, wadding the red border document into a ball and throwing it in the wastebasket. "They can get their stinking money back when he returns to the states. In the meantime, if anyone asks why we didn't deduct the funds, just say it was my decision to collect it later." "Aren't you afraid of getting in trouble?" Bradley asked. "Don't worry about it," I said. "Besides, what are they going to do, send me to Vietnam?" Bradley told me two days later that he had thought some more about the red border document, and he understood now why I had thrown it away. In my place, he said, he would have done the same. "I'm counting on that," I said, "since you're going to be in charge soon." Although they left several days later than expected, Bradley, Wagner, and Molinari departed by plane from Cam Ranh to Da Nang on March 15th, taking all the records with them. As they were going, I wished them God speed and a safe return home. Also, I gave Bradley and Wagner my Oakland address so they could, as Bradley put it, "probably not write to me anyway." Except for my corporeal presence, there was now no trace of the 14th Engineers at the 92d. That afternoon I was assigned to work alternately at the front desk in in-processing or in the computation section, as the need arose. My supervisors understood that I would be in and out of the office during the day because I needed to finish the clearing process before March 21st. I was actually in a sort of casual status, and I could have asked not to work at all, but having something to do made the days go faster. As it was, I could report to work in the morning whenever I chose, and to this end, I placed a sign on the foot of my bunk that read: Short-timer Sleeping Wake Only in the Event of a Nuclear Disaster. Every time I worked the front desk, I saw without fail one or two of my classmates from pay school coming through the door to in-process. These were the RA's who had taunted those of us assigned to Vietnam after they had received orders to report for duty in Europe or in the U.S. It warmed the cockles of my heart to have the last laugh on these upstarts. I usually said something to them such as, "Hey, how's it going. Nice to see you again. By the way, when's your DEROS?" These salutations inevitably elicited sneers of contempt that threw me into paroxysms of laughter that didn't end until my cheeks were wet with tears. I was not a popular guy, and on these many occasions, I prayed silently to God to forgive my hubris, saying: "O' Lord, take pity on thy poor deranged servant and smite him not for the fun he derives from the suffering of others, especially since he is so close to rotation. Amen." This always seemed to do the trick, for I never was struck down in my tracks. It occurred to me that I needed to buy a suitcase or satchel to carry my personal items, since I had to turn in my duffel bag at the 22d before I departed. So, on March 17th in the morning, I walked down the hill to go to the PX. On the way, I stopped by the personnel office at the 35th Engineer Group to plead with some clerks to push up my departure date from Vietnam. They listened sympathetically and agreed to do what they could, but promised me nothing, saying they had little control over these events, except in rare circumstances. They took my name, serial number, and DEROS and port call dates, and I thanked them for any assistance they could render. At the PX, I found an inexpensive suitcase which consisted of nylon fabric stretched over a rigid frame. It didn't strike me as particularly durable, but I only needed it for the one trip, and it cost a mere $12.00. As I left the PX, my guard was down, which made me vulnerable to the officer scum who prayed on unwary EM in order to fill their quota of delinquency reports. One nabbed me not 30 feet outside the door. "Haircut unacceptable," he said, ticking off something on his pad. "Boots unpolished, and--my God, look at that uniform. You're wearing jungle fatigue pants with a regular fatigue shirt. That's no good." The second lieutenant kept scribbling away. I reached into my pocket, and when he looked up from his notes, I handed him a dime. He opened his hand reluctantly to take it, and then he stared momentarily at the coin in his palm, trying to understand its meaning. "What's this for?" he asked. "That's so you can call someone who gives a damn," I said. This really spun him out, and he sputtered and turned all red, demanding to see my official I.D. I was now to be reported for insubordination in addition to the other offenses. When he returned my I.D., I thanked him and left, completely unabashed by his lunatic rantings. There was no doubt in my military mind that the army could ill afford to chase me halfway around the world to deliver this puling report. As I walked to the bus stop, I toyed with the idea of going by Mrs. Doan's, either to say goodbye to her and to thank her again for the dress, or simply to look at her through the door of the shop. In the end, I decided not to see her again, despite my desire to do so. For me, the fond memories I had of Mrs. Doan were easier to deal with than would be the woman herself, in the flesh, and I was better off to be content with those. As I trudged on, I realized that I didn't even have a picture of her, to remember her by. That was probably just as well though, for it would be impossible to explain to anyone who she was, in the sense that I knew her. Continuing to resist the impulse to change my mind about seeing Mrs. Doan, I reluctantly boarded the bus to go back up the hill, no doubt for the last time. The next afternoon I was working the front desk when a short, bewildered Spec-4 wandered through the office door and stood in the middle of the crowded waiting room, apparently trying to decide whether he should sit down, take a number, or turn around and leave. I recognized him immediately as Ted, my best friend and pinochle partner from pay school at Ft. Harrison and another one who had been assigned to Germany rather than to Vietnam. Loosing all self control, I screamed "Shooooooooort" at the top of my lungs, while waiving my fists around my ears. When I opened my eyes, everyone was staring at me with an alarmed expression, as though I were dangerous, but Ted, still across the room, was gazing directly into my face, and I saw the little light go on in his head as he remembered who I was. He closed the distance between us quickly. "You old pervert," he said, smiling. "I never thought I'd run into you in Vietnam." "It's a good thing you got here when you did," I said. "I'm so short I can hardly stand it. In a few days, you would have missed me completely." "You know," he said, "I tried every trick in the book to avoid being sent here, but nothing worked." "Relax," I said, "your time in country will go very fast, believe me." "Really?" "Yeah, especially if you get killed." When I said this he tried to hit me, but I parried the blow. We talked for ten minutes or so, and I learned he had been in Vietnam only five days. He was just passing through Cam Ranh on his way to Nha Trang, where he had been assigned to a finance detachment. I wished we could have spoken longer, but he had a vehicle waiting, which required him to leave as soon as he finished his business. Before parting, we exchanged addresses and mutual promises to write one another. Quite unexpectedly, on the morning of March 19th, two days before my official port call date, I was informed that someone from personnel would be picking me up at 7 P.M. to take me to the 22d Replacement Battalion. I spent the rest of the day packing and preparing myself to leave. Actually, I changed into my khakis and packed in ten minutes, then paced up and down the barracks' floor for hours, looking at my watch every five minutes. When the Chief returned from work at 6 o'clock, I went around to see him briefly to say goodbye. I could tell he was distressed at my leaving, and he asked if he could stay at my home in Oakland for a few days when he rotated in early September. I told him he was always welcome. My ride came at 7:15 P.M. in the form of a jeep. The driver was a Spec-4 assigned to 22d Replacement. According to him, his personnel section had received a call from the personnel section of the 35th Engineer Group, who had asked that I be spirited out of Vietnam at the earliest opportunity. As a consequence, I was not to be processed in the normal manner along with the other departees. Instead, I would reside in the barracks of the personnel clerks at the 22d until a flight was available to take me home. When we arrived, I was given a bunk and introduced to several of my neighbors, and, although everyone was friendly and seemed to know why I was there, I still felt out of place. The man who had driven me said there was no way to predict when I would be leaving. It might be 24 hours, 36 hours, or even two days. He instructed me carefully, however, not to be gone from my place in the barracks for more than five or ten minutes at a time, except for meals, since the personnel clerks would need to find me quickly in case a seat on a plane became available at the last minute. I thanked him, and he left. I was as jumpy as a Chihuahua the whole evening, probably because I couldn't actually believe that I was getting out--that this year long ordeal was finally coming to an end. I bought a six pack of beer from a neighbor who had a large refrigerator, and I drank all but one can prior to retiring at 11 P.M. I tossed and turned for several hours, and all the while I kept thinking about what would happen when the time came for me to account for all the clothes and gear that had disappeared in the laundry or otherwise been misplaced. I remembered the supply sergeant in C company who had tried to charge his men for lost forks and spoons last September. Sleep finally came after 2:10 A.M., which was the last time I looked at my watch. I was deep in sleep when someone shook me awake rather briskly. At first, I couldn't remember where I was. "Quick, get dressed and bring your things," a young man said. By my watch, it was 4:58 A.M. and still dark outside. I pulled on my clothes as fast as I could and followed the PFC, who led me about one block, past several barracks and up to the entrance of a large Quonset hut, whose lights shown brightly through the windows. "This is supply, where you start your processing," the PFC said, handing me my personnel records. He shook my hand. "Good luck," he said. Everything was happening so fast, I hardly had time to think. "Hey," I said, "give my thanks to everyone who arranged this. I really appreciate the favor." "That's okay," he said, "us personnel types have to stick together." The Quonset hut was empty, except for me and a sergeant E-5, who turned to face me as I entered the door. When I approached him, a feeling of uneasiness came over me as I anticipated having to explain my missing gear. Without saying a word he took my M-14 and checked its serial number against the one shown in my permanent records. "One M-14," he said. "In pretty good shape, too." He locked the weapon in a wall rack and noted its receipt in my file. "Is that the rest of your stuff?" he asked, pointing to my duffel bag. "Yes, it is," I said. "All right, throw it into that box over there," he said, motioning toward a series of deep wooden bins build along one wall of the building. I hesitated for a moment. "The whole thing?" "Yeah, the whole thing," he said. "Just chuck it in there." After I deposited my bag, the sergeant returned my records and pointed to a line on the floor. "Follow the line," he said. In the next building I encountered some customs officers who apparently pre-cleared the returning G.I.'s for entry into the U.S. Again, I was alone in the room, and this led me to realize I was the very last man being processed for the flight I was to take. I was bringing up the rear, so to speak. Approximately 30 feet in front of the customs counter stood a 55 gallon drum bearing a sign that read: Last Chance Amnesty Deposit Contraband Here As I passed by this receptacle, I couldn't resist peeking in quickly to see if I could spot any dope or enemy body parts. Unfortunately, the barrel's contents were so far from the top that I couldn't identify anything at all. The army customs officer, who looked suspiciously like an MP, opened my nylon suitcase and shuffled around its contents momentarily before waiving me on through the doors behind him. As I passed through these, I entered a waiting room filled with about 100 or more G.I.'s, all wearing khakis, except for a small group who appeared to be wearing some sort of Special Forces uniforms. A Spec-4 stopped me and removed from my file a manifest type document that had my name highlighted in yellow. "Put your bag over there on the last dolly," he said, "but keep your personnel records with you at all times." After dropping my bag, I fell in behind the main group, and we waited as patiently as we could under the circumstances. Palpable excitement pervaded the room as a thousand wishes wished a thousand times verged on being fulfilled. Men chatted amiably and smiled, their faces filled with hope. After only ten minutes, the outer doors opened ahead of the group, and we shuffled slowly outside, where we boarded buses in the early dawn light to go to the plane. On the aircraft, a Boeing 707, I had a center seat on the right side about halfway back, just behind the wing. The men fell strangely quiet as we quickly settled in to await takeoff. I sat with my hands folded in my lap and repeated to myself every few minutes: "Please, God, I'm this close to leaving, don't let the plane get blown up on the ground." After what seemed an insufferable delay, but was probably only fifteen minutes, we taxied out to the runway. We braked while the engines revved up, and then we rolled. I practically held my breath as I shut my eyes and froze this particle of time into my psyche forever: the day, the hour, the minute, and the second I left Vietnam. Pressed back in my seat as we gained speed, I felt a slight bump that told me the landing gear had lifted off the runway. I opened my eyes and watched the walls of the fuselage shake steadily for several minutes as we climbed steeply upward. Suddenly, despite the instructions not to leave our seats until the seat belt sign had been turned off, I unbuckled, stood up, and leaned over the man to my right to look out the window. I could see the land falling quickly behind us where it met the edge of the sea, and I stayed there a time, mesmerized by the sight, yet vaguely aware that scores of others had jumped to their feet as well to peer out the windows. A thunderous cheer started from the front and swept through the plane, followed by NCO's begging us to return to our seats, which we did in time, but with reluctance. The excitement died down shortly, and everyone seemed to fall into quiet conversation or personal revelry. Having had little sleep the night before, I dozed off completely and didn't wake up until we landed in Tokyo. On the ground at Narita airport, we were told we would stay an hour for refueling, but we wouldn't be allowed off the plane. This news was met with the usual grumbling, which only seemed to mount as the temperature rose quickly to an annoying level because the air conditioning had been turned off. Fifteen minutes later, we were informed over the intercom that a mechanical problem would keep us on the ground an hour longer. This announcement produced a firestorm of anger among the passengers. Behind me, someone--probably Special Forces--yelled, "I've killed before, you know." "Yeah, and for less," another person chimed in. More shouting followed, and men toward the front found small pieces of debris to throw at the NCO stationed near the front door of the plane. After another five minutes of this seriously disturbed behavior, during which I became convinced a revolt was inevitable, the decision was made to let us off the aircraft. We flooded into the terminal like an unstoppable tide, half of us heading for the nearest bar, while the other half fell prey to the lure of the duty-free shops. As I relaxed and sipped my gin martini, I was amazed to be in the presence of real non-military people in an actual non-military commercial setting. I had been away from the real world so long, I thought I was on another planet. In the end, everything worked out fine. No one got drunk or insulted any civilians. No fights broke out. The worst that happened was that many of the men bought hundreds of dollars worth of bargain-priced, Japanese cameras and stereo equipment, the latter to be shipped through the mail. As the plane took off for Seattle, I felt pleased that our brief detour through Narita airport had proven so enjoyable and that we had behaved ourselves so well. During the ten hours it took to fly to Seattle, I dozed off from time to time. Whenever the flight began to seem tedious, I reflected back upon the 37 hours I had spent flying to Vietnam in the first place, and that remembrance made this brief jaunt seem enviable. We finally landed at McChord Air Force Base at 2:45 P.M. From there, we were bussed to Ft. Lewis, where the men being released from active duty were taken to the Logistics Center and the rest of us to the reassignment center. The first thing they did upon our arrival was measure us for new class-A uniforms. Consequently, by the time we had eaten our steak dinner and finished the processing, our new clothes were waiting for us, after we finished taking hot showers. Lord, that was quite a luxury, and it was only my desire to hurry home that made me shut off the steamy water after only ten minutes. Ft. Lewis proved a model of efficiency, for we were on our way only two hours after arriving. Once we dressed, some men were taken to the bus terminal and some to the train station, but most of us went to the Seattle airport. I discovered I would have a two hour wait until the first flight to Oakland at 7:45 P.M. Though I hated the delay, it could have been worse, since the next flight was not till midnight. I also encountered my first real-world dilemma. The full-fair ticket to Oakland cost $180.00, but soldiers in uniform could fly half-price if they were willing to go standby and run the risk of missing the plane if it were full. I could afford to pay the $180.00, since I had $220.00 in my pocket. Moreover, I certainly didn't want to take a chance that I'd miss the first flight and then have to hang around the airport till 12 P.M. Alternatively, saving $90.00 was very appealing to me, representing as it did almost half a month's base pay. I was torn between certainty on the one hand and thrift on the other, but in the end I decided to try the standby method, reasoning that there couldn't be very many travelers on a Thursday night. As I watched the airline representative prepare the ticket, I hoped my gamble proved correct. After checking the location of the gate and calling my wife, I went to a nearby bar and ordered a glass of California wine, a commodity I had gone without for too long a time. Despite my displeasure at having to wait, I tried to relax and enjoy the mystery of being back in the United States of America. Watching the other patrons around me, who obviously accepted these surroundings as something quite ordinary, I found it difficult to believe that less than 24 hours earlier I had been asleep in a bunk in Cam Ranh Bay. Several times I considered pinching my leg to convince myself I wasn't dreaming. After 30 minutes or so, impatience got the better of me, and I walked to my gate to see if an agent had opened the counter there. One had, and I approached him somewhat nervously. "Excuse me," I said. "I have a standby ticket, and I was wondering if you could tell me how full this flight is going to be?" He looked down at some papers that I couldn't see, and he shuffled them around in search of an answer. "That's difficult to predict," he said. "Gosh, I sure don't want to miss this flight," I said. "I just returned from Vietnam today, and I'm really anxious to get home as soon as possible." He shuffled the papers some more but didn't say anything helpful. "If I thought there was a chance this flight would be full, I'd probably buy a full-fare ticket," I said. "You always run a risk when you go standby," he said, smiling. "The only way to be sure is to pay full price." When he said that, I thought he might be trying to warn me that the flight could be full, and this possibility threw me into a mild panic. Should I go back and replace my half-price ticket with the more expensive one? No. In the end, I had to risk it, even if it meant taking a later flight, for I simply couldn't afford to squander the money, not on my salary. I stayed in the boarding area so I could judge the number of people arriving for my plane, and, fortunately, there weren't very many, at least that I could see. On the other hand, the flight might arrive with ongoing passengers occupying all the available seats. Finally, the boarding began at 7:30, and five minutes before flight time, the agent announced that standbys could go aboard, which I did, with a great feeling of relief. I took a place in the smoking section, and pushed my small bag under the seat in front of me. When the stewardess later closed the aircraft's door for departure, I looked around and was surprised to see that only one-fourth of the seats were taken. I dwelled on this fact as we taxied to the runway, and the more I thought about it, the angrier I became. It was clear to me now there never had been any risk of the plane being full, and the agent had known that. Why hadn't he shared that information with me? Did he hate servicemen that much? Was he against the war in Vietnam? I fumed about this shabby treatment most of the way to Oakland, but when my ire finally subsided, it occurred to me for the first time that it might not be wise to tell people I had gone to Vietnam. I might be better off in the future to keep that to myself. We landed at Oakland at 9:30 P.M., and my wife and her sister were there to greet me. We hugged and kissed, all of us, and then they cried. Except for the passengers who came off my plane, there weren't more than a dozen people in the whole terminal. Nearby, a janitor was emptying an ashtray into a can, making the only noise to be heard. It was so quiet, it was almost uncanny. Then, the strangest feeling came over me. If I hadn't known better, I could have believed that I had never been gone. We ambled slowly through the airport toward the parking lot. Outside on the walk, I paused momentarily. "Why are you stopping?" my wife asked. "I just want to smell the air and see the lights," I said. The air was crisp, and the lights of the city danced far up the hills. To me, it was a forgotten but beautiful sight. Already, half of my soul seemed renewed--but I had a terrible suspicion deep inside that the other half might never be. One thing was certain, I had lived through a year I would never forget. |