Home, Sir. I’m Headed Home.

They could not get the plane off the ground.  Just three days before Christmas and I was sitting in a DC-9 at the airport in Austin, Texas, hoping and praying to make my connecting flight from Dallas to Los Angeles. As we watched various minions of the ground crew scurry in and out under the plane, everyone was asking: “What are they doing?”  “What’s wrong with the plane?”  “Will they get this bucket of bolts airborne anytime soon?”   

It was finally announced that an electrical problem had grounded the plane.  They herded the passengers – bellowing and bleating – through the terminal and onto another plane.  We took off almost two hours behind schedule.

When we arrived in the Big D, I sprinted from the arrival gate to the departure gate.  They were just closing the door.  Waving my ticket, I huffed and puffed my way through an explanation.  This guy took pity and made a hasty phone call.  He pushed a button, re-opened the door, and led me out to the plane.  In those days they did not have those protective tunnels.  It was cold and the weather was threatening as we walked outside to the mobile stairway and climbed on board.  The flight attendant walked to the back of the plane to fetch the passenger who got the last seat at the last minute as a stand-by. 

Too bad for him; lucky for me.

As I waited by the galley, I was aware of the scrutiny of the scowling passengers in the first two or three rows, and many others who were leaning out from their aisle seats to get a glimpse of the idiot who was responsible for this delay.

Turning away from the stares, I found myself face-to-face with the unfortunate stand-by who had come from the very last row and was no doubt thinking that he almost made a clean getaway. One look at him, and I knew in my bones that it was going to be a long night for me in Texas. 

Standing in front of me was a young man with sidewalls for a haircut, shouldering an olive-green canvas duffel.  His dress cap was neatly tucked under his epaulet, the seam on his trousers razor-sharp, his gig line straight, his buttons polished, his shoes glossy black, and his back ramrod straight.  An incredible picture of the effects of spit, Brasso, and discipline.  And not a day over nineteen!

As he tried to squeeze by me, I put out my hand to stop him and asked, “Where are you headed, soldier?”

Him: “Home, Sir. I’m headed home.”

It wouldn’t have been so bad if he had not called me “Sir,” and me at the ripe old age of twenty-four.

Me:    “Mustering out?”                   

Him:   “No, Sir.  Just on a leave.”

Me:    “How long?”

Him:   “Four days, Sir. I have to report back the day after Christmas.”

Me:    “Then what?”  I asked the question, but down deep I already knew the answer.  It was December of 1967.

Him:  “Vietnam, Sir.  We’re shipping out to Vietnam.”

With that I wished him a Merry Christmas, gave him a brief salute, did an about-face, and stepped off the plane.  Just then it started to rain, and by the time I descended the stairs and raced across the tarmac to the terminal, I was good and wet.  I returned to the boarding area and inquired about the possibilities, and that was met with a “lotsa luck” expression and a shrug from a guy behind the counter who had been too many hours on his feet.  And even though I was stranded in Dallas Love Field, my luggage made the flight.  Great!  Stuck in Texas and no underwear! 

I sat down and took in my surroundings.  They had put up some plastic Christmas decorations and were piping plain-wrap music.  They were trying to bring some cheer to those weary holiday travelers, but they were failing.  The crowds were maddening, frazzled and grumpy.  Just like me.   

So, there I was feeling sorry for myself, wet and cold, facing a long night in a real uncomfortable chair.  I dozed off for a while, awakened by a tap on the shoulder.  It was a woman in an American Airlines uniform who asked, “Sir, are you the passenger who gave up his seat for the soldier?”

She escorted me to the customer relations desk and explained to them what happened.  They tripped all over themselves, apologizing for the inconvenience.  They put me in an airport “limo” with several of their pilots and flight attendants and whisked me downtown.  At the expense of American Airlines, I was soon ensconced in a suite in the Dallas Hilton, offered complimentary room service, given credit at the hotel gift shop for overnight amenities, and got a free breakfast coupon.    

They brought me back to the airport in another “limo” and by 9:30 that morning I was on a flight to Los Angeles, which included an upgrade and real food.  When we deplaned in L.A., there was a representative of the airline holding a sign with my name on it.  When I approached, she presented me with a voucher for two round trip tickets to and from any American Airlines destination in the continental United States, good for one year.  I was floored.  Why all this largesse?

She explained that AA flight crews everywhere were buzzing about the flight the night before when a young soldier did not get bumped, and about the Good Samaritan with the Christmas Spirit who gave up his seat.   

I had to laugh, feeling a little embarrassed.  Yes, I made the right call, but my motives were somewhat mixed.  In that moment of decision, I had a vision of walking down the aisle of the plane to the very last row, with two hundred people staring me down, my having heartlessly booted the soldier, being hated all the way to L.A.  It was no-win situation. 

However, you could say I got a happy ending.  Home for Christmas, a limo ride, a night in a fancy hotel, and a flight upgrade!  With the two free tickets I took my mom to visit her kith and kin back in Austin. But the memory of those serendipities is not the takeaway for this Christmas story.

This is what sticks. The entire episode of the staring passengers, a chance encounter with a soldier, our brief dialogue, and my departure could not have taken more than two minutes; but those two minutes are frozen in time, and I wonder. Is his name among the more than 58,000 names etched in the stone of the Vietnam War Memorial, or did he survive?  Did he ever show up again at home for the holidays, or did someone from the Army show up on his parent’s doorstep with heartbreaking news?

There is always a pique of melancholy for me at Christmastime, because I never got his name, but I will never forget the eager face of that teenage grunt.