Title: Homecoming
Author: Brown Eyed Girl
Feedback to: carolinamoon66@hotmail.com



Summary—A young Walter Skinner returns home from his tour of duty in
Vietnam trying 
to find some meaning in his life. Fortunately, his father is there
to remind him that some 
things never change. 



HOMECOMING

May 16, 1972
Walter Skinner made his way slowly to the front of the plane. He was
stiff and tired from 
the long flight. Two days of air travel after 3 weeks in the
hospital was not the best way to 
start his  recuperation, but at least he was home. Back to all that
was familiar—not a 
steaming jungle or an army base in sight.

Of course, that didn’t mean all the enemies were left behind in that
unforgiving country. 
Judging from the hateful looks he had received at every stop he had
made since arriving 
on US soil, it was clear that, wounded and scarred or not, his
presence was only a bitter 
reminder of a war no one wanted. He could read the faces plainly
enough. <<Serves you 
right to be injured—no business being there anyway!>> 

He couldn’t help but contrast his homecoming  to the stories his
father had told him about 
the warm welcome and respect GI’s returning from World War II had
received. Aside 
from the parades and speeches, his dad had said that for weeks after
his return home, he 
couldn’t by his own beer anywhere. Strangers and friends alike were
grateful to have a 
way to show their appreciation to someone who had risked all to safe
guard their freedom. 
Well, no one was offering to buy Walter Skinner, Jr. a beer, and
frankly, that suited him 
just fine. Nothing he wanted to drink to, anyway.

As he neared the front of the plane, he glanced out the window,
smiling his first real 
smile since his trip began. There, waiting on the tarmac, was his
family. His mother was 
anxiously scanning each passenger that was disembarking, wiping her
eyes often with a 
handkerchief, trying to catch a glimpse of her first born son. His
father was standing 
beside her, looking more composed, but Walter could tell by the way
his eyes never 
ceased their searching that he was also straining to see him. His
younger brother Bobby 
was watching for him too, though he seemed almost as interested in
the plane as he was 
in his big brother.

Finally it was his turn to descend the rollaway stairs. His mother
spotted him immediately 
and waved frantically, tears now streaming down her face unchecked.
As soon as they 
could, they pushed their way through the throng of people and
wrapped themselves 
around him, talking and laughing all at once.

His mother squeezed him tightly and then pushed him back, looking
him over with a 
motherly eye. He knew she had to have been frantic when she’d heard
he had been 
injured and now she wanted nothing more than to reassure herself
that he was safe and 
sound. Well, safe he could do, but sound might take a little longer.

“Oh, Walter—we’re so glad your back”, his mother cried. “Come on,
let’s get you 
home—I’ve made all your favorite things for dinner, and your room is
made up fresh 
and…”

“Alice, give the poor boy time to catch his breath!”, his father cut
in with a grin. “He’s 
home for good now—you’ll have time to spoil him all you want!”

Bobby was trying to play it cool, feeling too old at 13 for overt
displays of affection, but 
he finally gave in to his emotions and wrapped his arms around his
brother’s waist.

“Hey Bob-o! You’re nearly as tall as me!”, Walter said, hugging his
brother back. He 
wanted to lift him in the air and swing him around the way he
usually did, but he didn’t 
think it was wise with his recent injuries.

Bobby playfully sparred with his brother and then reached for his
duffel bag, determined 
to show him how strong he was. He staggered under the weight but
refused to give it up 
as they walked slowly to the car.       

Once settled in to the back, Walter let the conversation flow over
him, letting the warmth 
and familiarity of their words ease the stresses of the long trip.
The ride back from the 
airport was long and he dozed off, waking when they turned into the
long driveway of his 
boyhood home. He was overcome by the sheer pleasure he took in
looking at all the 
familiar things. It seemed like years since he had seen it last.

The house looked just the way he remembered it, and he loved this
time of year, when 
everything was beginning to bloom.

“Gardens look great, Mom. You must have been busy”, he remarked as
he climbed out of 
the car.

“You know how your mom likes to putter in the garden when something
is troubling her. 
She’s been out here everyday, rain or shine, since we got word you’d
been injured, son”, 
his father replied.

“Come in and get settled, son”, his mother said. “Dinner will be
ready at 5:30, so why 
don’t you try and rest a bit ‘til then?” Though she tried to hide
it, she was dismayed at his 
gaunt look and the lines of strain around his eyes. When he had left
home for basic 
training, his face was still boyishly youthful, but any trace of
that had been completely 
erased.

Walter smiled at his mother’s fussing. He wrapped her in a hug and
kissed her cheek. 
“Don’t you think I’m a little old to be sent for a nap, Mom?”, he
asked.

“Not if you need one”, she replied stoutly. “Now, get going, before
Bobby drags you off 
to see his menagerie. He’s been dying to show you all his pets since
we received your 
telegram telling us when you’d be home.”

“Yeah, Walter! I’ve got a turtle, two snakes—Mom makes me keep them
in the shed, and 
a lizard! You’ve got to see them!”, his brother chimed in excitedly.

“I will, Bob-o, but right now, your big bro is feeling kind of wiped
out. How about I do 
what Mom says and then you can show me after dinner?”

“Oh, all right”, his brother said, trying not to act too disappointed.

They went in the house and he was relieved to see everything still
looked the same. The 
same picture over the mantel, his sports trophies on the bookcase
and the same old 
familiar clutter covering the end tables. He felt his eyes misting
and was disgusted with 
himself. After all the horrors he had seen, to grow dewy eyed over a
bunch of bric-a-brac 
seemed pathetic.  He made his way upstairs and found his room was
also just the way he 
had left it.

He threw his duffel bag down and toed off his shoes, stretching out
on the bed and staring 
at the ceiling. He saw the same water mark on the ceiling, left over
from some storm 
years ago. His mother had nagged his dad for years to paint over it,
but it had never been 
done. He had spent many hours gazing up at it as a child, letting
his mind wander and 
trying to decide if it looked more like an elephant or a lady
holding an umbrella. 
Definitely an elephant, he decided, and drifted off to sleep.

The smell of pot roast woke him up a few hours later and he went
downstairs. His mother 
was just finishing setting the table and she smiled when he came in. 

“Dinner is just about ready, dear. Hope you had a nice rest.”

“I did, mom, thanks. Where’s Bobby?”

“Off feeding his zoo, I imagine. He grabbed some things out of the
fridge when he 
thought I wasn’t looking. Honestly, that turtle of his eats lettuce
as fast as I can grow it! 
Go call him for supper, will you, sweetheart? And make sure he
washes his hands!”

“Sure, mom.” He walked out the back door and down to the tool shed.
He found his 
brother perched over a glass tank, talking to a small green lizard.

“Hi, Bob. Who’s that?”, he asked. 

Bobby smiled up at him. “This is ‘Mr. Green Jeans’. You know—like on
“Captain 
Kangaroo”? I named him that ‘cause he’s so shiny and green and his
scales look like 
denim.”

“Great name, Bob-o. There were lots of lizards around our camp in
Vietnam—‘Mr. Green 
Jeans” would have lots of friends.”

Bobby’s eyes sparkled. “Really? Sounds cool. I hope I can go there
some day!”

Walter’s eyes darkened at the image of his innocent baby brother in
such an awful place, 
but he shook off his dark thoughts.

“Hey, mom sent me down here to get you for dinner. She said to
remind you to wash your 
hands, too”, his said, forcing a cheerful note into his voice.

Bobby nodded and placed the wire lid back on top of the case and
then walked over to the 
small sink back near the workbench. Walter waited for him, letting
his eyes wander 
around his father’s scrupulously neat tool shed. His eyes fell on an
item hanging on the 
back wall and he wandered over to it, touching it gently. His
father’s strap—actually a fan 
belt leftover from some old piece of farm equipment. Many lessons
had been applied to 
his backside with that strap and he felt his stomach clench
uncomfortably at the memory.

Bobby noticed the object of his attention and scowled. “Bet you
didn’t miss Daddy’s strap 
when you were in Vietnam, did you, Walter?”, he asked, drying his
hands on his jeans.

“No, Bob-o, I didn’t!”, he grinned. “Hope you haven’t been keeping
it warm while I was 
gone.”

Bobby’s scowl deepened. “Well….not too much. I did get it once not
too long ago, but 
I’ve been pretty good.”

“So what did you get it for? Skipping school again to go fishing?”,
his older brother 
teased.

Bobby stared down at his shoes. “No, I got it for fighting”, he said
quietly.

“Fighting?”, Walter asked, surprised. “That’s not like you, Bob.
What in the world would 
you be fighting about?”

Bobby kept his eyes downcast. “It’s not important, Walter”, he
mumbled.

Walter immediately sensed there was more to the story. “What were
you fighting about, 
Bob-o? You can tell me”, he insisted gently.

Bobby said nothing for a moment and then he blurted it out. “David
Reardon said you 
were wrong to go to Vietnam. He said you were a baby killer and a
bunch of other stuff! I 
couldn’t let him say that about you, Walter!”, Bobby said, looking
up at his brother, his 
eyes shining with tears.

Walter felt his guts twist at the idea that his little brother had
been drawn into the ugliness 
of this war in an attempt to defend his brother’s honor. He quickly
gathered the boy into 
his arms.

“Oh, Bobby, I’m sorry he said that to you. So, what happened?”, he
asked, his own eyes 
filling with tears.

“Well, I told him to take it back, but he wouldn’t, so I got him in
that headlock you taught 
me and punched him good until he yelled uncle!”, he said with a
touch of pride. Then his 
spirits drooped when he remembered the rest of the story. “But Mr.
Hutchinson, the 
principal, caught me and took me to the office. He called Dad and I
guess you know what 
happened then”, he finished with a theatrical sigh.

“Dad gave you a whipping, huh?”, Walter murmured sympathetically. He
knew from 
several encounters of his own that his father did not tolerate using
fists to work out a 
problem.

“Yeah, he said he understood how upset I was, and that David Reardon
was only 
repeating ugly and stupid things he’d heard adults say, but that
fighting was still not 
allowed. It wasn’t too bad, Walter!”, he said earnestly, trying to
alleviate his brother’s 
obvious guilt. “He only swatted me a few times, and then we talked
for a long time 
afterwards about the war and why you enlisted.”

Now Walter was really surprised. His decision to enlist had upset
both his parents and he 
was surprised his father would discuss it with Bobby.

“What did he tell you, Bob?”, he asked, curious.

“He said that enlisting was something you felt you had to do, and
that even though it 
didn’t make him happy, he was glad you had the courage to stand up
to your 
convictions—even if it meant defying his wishes.”

Walter swallowed the lump in his throat. He and his father had not
parted on the best of 
terms and it was incredibly comforting for him to know that his
father had forgiven 
him—and was even proud of him. He gave Bobby a weak smile. “Thanks
for defending 
me, little bro. Sorry you got whacked on my account!”, he said
shakily.

“That’s OK, Walter. I’m just glad you’re back now!”, Bobby said,
hugging him tightly.

“You and me, both, kid, but now we’d both better get into the house,
or Momma’s gonna 
come looking for us with her spoon!” He took his brother’s hand and
walked with him 
into the house, still reeling from all his brother had told him.

His parents were already in the kitchen when they entered. His
mother gave them an 
exasperated look.  

“I was just about to send your father down to look for you two. Now,
sit down and eat 
before everything gets cold”, she said, bustling around and making
sure that everyone had 
what they needed. His father said grace, and Walter felt his throat
tighten once again as he 
heard his father thank God for his safe return to them. Dinner was
busy as his parents 
tried to catch him up on all the neighborhood gossip and Bobby
interrupted every few 
seconds with stories from school.  His mother forced food on him
until he felt like he 
would burst. Finally, his mother shooed Bobby from the table,
reminding him he still had 
homework to finish. Bobby scowled, but one stern glance from his
father was enough to 
quell any complaint.

Walter sat with his parents, sipping coffee and chatting. His mother
got up to refill his 
coffee and set another piece of apple pie in front of him. He let
out a groan.

“Mom, you’re killing me with kindness. I’m never going to fit into
my old ‘civilian’ 
clothes if you keep feeding me like this!”

“Nonsense, Walter, you lost way too much weight while you were in
the hospital. In fact, 
that reminds me—I made you an appointment with Dr. Cosgrove for
tomorrow morning.”

“Dr. Cosgrove? Mom, I haven’t seen him in years!”

“It hasn’t been ‘years’, Walter—remember that bad case of the flu
you got right before 
you enlisted? Besides, he’s still our family physician.”

“Well, I don’t need to see him now, Mom. I’ve been poked and prodded
enough by army 
doctors”, Walter remarked irritably.

“Army doctors don’t know you the way Dr. Cosgrove does. He’s taken
care of you since 
you were a baby and I want him to look you over”, his mother said
firmly.

 “Mom, the doctor’s released me because I’m fine. I really don’t see
any need to go see 
yet another doctor”, he said, his eyes narrowing stubbornly.

“Well, do it to humor me, then, dear. I won’t rest easy until I’m
sure you’re all right.”

“Tough, Mom. I don’t want to go. I told you, I’m fine!”, he snapped,
pushing the pie back 
roughly and jumping up from the table.

“Walter! You will not speak to your mother like that in this
house!”, his father bellowed 
loudly. “Now, apologize immediately!”

Walter jumped at the angry tone of his father’s voice.
“I’m sorry, Mom”, he said, gritting his teeth. “May I be excused,
please? I’m kind of 
tired.”

“Certainly, son”, his mother replied, giving him a strained smile.
“I didn’t mean to fuss—
I just can’t help worrying about you.”

Walter felt awful for losing his temper—it seemed like he was always
on edge lately.
“No, mom—it’s my fault. I’m just kind of worn out”, he said,
returning her smile with a 
weak one of his own. “Think I’ll turn in early—I guess I’m still
sort of jet lagged.”

His parents said goodnight and he went upstairs to his room,
stopping to stick his head in 
Bobby’s door to say good night. His younger brother was bent over
his Algebra book, 
deep in thought.

“Good night, Bobby. Don’t study too hard!”

“Good night ,Walter. I’m glad you’re back”, his brother said with a
shy smile.

Once in his room, he changed quickly and dropped off to sleep, but
he woke a few hours 
later, gasping for air, in the midst of the after effects of a
horrible nightmare. For a 
moment , he was back in the jungle, danger all around. He took
several deep breaths, 
trying to chase away the demons that haunted his room, even awake.

He lay quietly for a few minutes, and then gave up trying to sleep.
He wandered 
downstairs and out to the porch swing, grabbing an afghan off the
back of the sofa to 
ward off the night’s chill.
He sat and pushed the swing back and forth, letting the quiet squeak
of the hinges soothe 
the last traces of his dream away. A moment later he heard a louder
squeak as the front 
door opened and his father came out to join him on the swing. They
rocked for a few 
minutes in easy silence, but finally the older man spoke.

“Trouble sleeping, son?”, he asked quietly.

“Yeah, Dad. Guess I didn’t leave all of the war back in Vietnam”, he
said, his voice sad.

“I don’t think you ever do, Walter. I know I had nightmares for
years over some of the 
things I saw and experienced back in ’44. But they will fade, in
time.”

Walter just nodded, not entirely convinced but unwilling to argue.
The silence continued 
until he decided to bring up the subject that had been on his mind
since his talk with 
Bobby in the  toolshed.

“Dad, are you still angry over my decision to enlist?”, he asked,
almost afraid to hear the 
answer. There was a long pause and for a minute, Walter thought that
maybe his father 
was going to refuse to answer. At last, the older man spoke up.

“No, Walter, I got over being angry about it before you even left,
but I was too stubborn 
to admit it. No question which side of the family you get your mule-
headedness from.” 
His father sighed. “I was worried for you and afraid for you, but
mostly, I just didn’t like 
the idea that you would go off and defy me like that.”

“So what made you decide to forgive me?”, Walter persisted.

“I guess I just figured it was easier for me to forgive you for
enlisting than it would have 
been for you to forgive yourself if you didn’t!”, his father
chuckled. He continued on a 
more serious note. “Walter, I know you felt that it was the right
thing to do. You’ve 
always stood up for what you believed in, even if it meant trouble
for you. It’s one of the 
things I most proud of in you.”

His son was deeply touched by his words. “Thanks, dad”, he murmured
quietly. He felt 
his father squeeze his knee.

“Come on, son, let’s get back to bed. You know your mother is going
to have you up 
early for that doctor’s appointment—and don’t even bother
complaining. You know how 
determined she can be, so you might as well accept it.”

Walter sighed and hauled himself off the swing. He followed his
father inside and then 
walked up the stairs to his room. He managed to sleep for another
few hours, pleased to 
hear songbirds outside his window when he awakened instead of the
shriek of jungle 
wildlife. He went down to the kitchen, disappointed that Bobby had
already left for 
school.

His mother greeted him with a hug, the unpleasantness of the night
before forgotten. She 
fixed him a huge breakfast and then shooed him upstairs to get ready
to see the doctor. To 
his chagrin, she informed him that both she and his dad would be
accompanying him, 
despite his protests that he could certainly drive into town by
himself.

“Walter, I want a chance to speak to Dr. Cosgrove myself, and
besides, we need a few 
things in town. Now, hurry up--we don’t want to be late!” , she
said, clearing his 
breakfast dishes.

He gave up arguing, and within a short time he found himself sitting
in the familiar 
waiting room, between both parents. Mrs. Cosgrove, the only nurse
the doctor had ever 
had, called him to come on back to the examining room after only a
few minutes. For a 
moment, he was afraid his mother intended to accompany him in to see
the doctor, but 
she just gave him an encouraging look.

“We’ll talk to Dr. Cosgrove after he checks you out, Walter. Make
sure you tell him 
everything he needs to know”, she said, a touch of steel in her voice.

Walter rolled his eyes, but followed Mrs. Cosgrove into the small
examining room. It was 
also just as he remembered it—down to the needlework samplers on the
wall. Mrs. 
Cosgrove kept up a steady stream of chatter while she took his basic
vital signs. She had 
known him for years and she told him how pleased she was that he had
returned from that 
“God forsaken” country.

“All right, Walter, just strip down to your shorts, dear”, she said,
giving his arm a 
motherly pat. “Gene will be in to see you shortly.” She turned and
left the room, giving 
him privacy while he undressed. 

The doctor entered a few moments later and gave him a hearty
welcome. Walter managed 
a half hearted one in return.

“So, what brings you in here today, Walter?”, he asked. “I had heard
you were injured—
are you having any problems?”

“Only with my mother”, he replied ruefully. “She doesn’t trust the
army doctors and she 
wanted to have you to a look at me.”

“You don’t sound too happy about that”, the doctor commented,
pulling his stethoscope 
up to his ears.

“It’s just a waste of time—the doctors in Saigon wouldn’t have
released me if it wasn’t 
OK, but I didn’t have any luck convincing her of that.”

Dr. Cosgrove chuckled. “I’m not surprised, Walter. Your mother is
one of the most level 
headed women I’ve ever known, but she’s still a mother. Having you
over there tore both 
your parents up—especially after Tim Saunders was killed”, he
continued on a more 
serious note. Your mom and the other church ladies were over there
every day, making 
sure the Saunders had food and company if they wanted it.”

Walter looked at him, horrified. “Mom and Dad didn’t tell me about
Tim! When did it 
happen?”

“Back in January. I’m sure your parents didn’t want to worry you ”,
the doctor replied, 
continuing his examination. He looked carefully at the still livid
scars, checking the 
stitches and pressing on them gently. Walter winced at an especially
tender one on his 
side.

“All right, Walter, I think we can give your mom a clean bill of
health for you. The army 
doctors seem to have done a fine job. Watch for any signs of
infection, but I’m fairly sure 
you’re past any real danger of that. Just take it easy for a while,
and avoid any heavy 
lifting.” He motioned for Walter to put his clothes back on and sat
down at his desk to fill 
out his file. 
“Have you given any thought to what you’d like to do now?”, he asked
when he finished.

Walter looked up, surprised at the question. “No, not really”, he
finally answered. 
“Nothing really seems worthwhile any more”, he said, a trace of
bitterness coloring his 
voice.

The doctor nodded. “Just give yourself some time. Get used to being
home again, and out 
of the service. Let your mom spoil you.”

“That’s just what my father said”, Walter sighed.

“Well, remember, the war was tough on you, but it was hard on the
people you left 
behind, too. I have no doubt that all your scars are not on the
outside. Let the people who 
love you help you get back on your feet.”

Walter nodded and finished dressing, and then followed the doctor
out to the small 
waiting room. His mother was pleased to hear that the scars were
healing nicely and that 
her eldest son was well on his way to a full recovery.  

They spent a little longer in town, stopping at various stores. They
ran into several people 
they knew, and Walter tried to patiently endure all the nosy
questions about the injuries 
he suffered and the war in general, but he soon grew tired and
retreated to the car. His 
parents finished a few minutes later and they returned home in near
silence. As soon as 
lunch was over, Walter retreated to his bedroom, not noticing the
glance exchanged by his 
parents. His mood had darkened considerably after the visit to town,
but they thought it 
best to let him work it out on his own.

Bobby came home shortly before 3:00, and Mrs. Skinner was pleased to
see Walter come 
out of his room, looking slightly more cheerful. Bobby kept up a
steady steam of chatter 
throughout his after school snack, filling his brother in on all the
details of life in junior 
high school as they sat at the kitchen table. When he happened to
mention the name of 
Tim Saunders brother Greg, Walter suddenly remembered  Dr.
Cosgrove’s comment 
about his death. He turned to his mother, who was pouring them both
more milk.

“Mom, why didn’t you or dad tell me about Tim? Dr. Cosgrove said he
was killed back in 
January, but you never mentioned it.”

She paused, setting the milk on the table. “Oh, Walter, we didn’t
want to upset you. We 
knew you and Tim had been friends since grade school. It seemed
cruel to give you news 
like that while you were still in that awful place.”

For some reason, Walter felt his temper flaring again. “That awful
place…that “God-
forsaken country…why won’t anyone just say the word: Vietnam!! You
all act like not 
talking about it makes it not exist!”, he said, almost shouting.

His mother pressed her lips together in a tight line. “Walter, I
know you’re upset, but 
there is no reason for you to raise your voice. I know you’ve been
through a lot…”

He jumped in before his mother could continue. “Mom, you don’t know
*anything* about 
what I’ve been through”, he snarled nastily. Suddenly, he couldn’t
stand being in the cozy 
kitchen, eating cookies and milk for one second longer. He jumped up
from the table and 
spun towards the door, desperate for some fresh air.

“Walter, where are you going?”, his mother begged frantically. 

“Out!”, he answered, pulling the door open. He felt a flash of guilt
as he glanced back and 
saw the stricken look on both his mother and brother’s faces, but he
was too angry to 
care. He rushed out, slamming the door behind him.

He walked quickly, but with no real destination in mind, trying to
clear his head of the 
awful memories of his months overseas. Every time he felt his
emotions become more 
under control, another image would pop unbidden into his mind,
torturing him further and 
pushing him down the road.

He reached the edge of town quickly, and walked down the main
street, but what had 
earlier seemed comforting and familiar now seemed shallow and
outdated. He slowed to a 
walk, keeping his eyes downward, not anxious to talk to anyone. He
meandered aimlessly 
for a while, and then decided he might as well turn back toward home
and apologize to 
his mother when he was bumped hard.

“Hey, watch out!”, he growled, though the misstep was more his
fault. He looked up and 
mouth dropped open in recognition. The young man he had collided
with had looked 
ready to deck him momentarily, and then his face also softened into
pleased surprise.

“Walter! I didn’t know you were back, man!”, he said, grabbing
Walter’s hand and 
pumping it enthusiastically. “Heard you were injured, but you look
OK to me!”

Walter returned the effusive greeting. “Steve! It’s so good to see
you! What are you doing 
these days?”, he asked, happy to see his old friend from high school.

“Just finished finals at Washington College. Who’d have thought old
‘Wash-out Weber” 
would become a college man, huh?”, his friend said, looking slightly
embarrassed. “But 
look at you!”, he grinned, running an affectionate hand over
Walter’s still-regulation 
haircut. “Mr. Marine, through and through!”  

“Not anymore, Steve. I finished my tour, and I’m out—for good.
Honorable discharge 
and everything”, Walter responded casually, but Steve could sense
the tension behind the 
lightly spoken words.

“Well, hey, you have some time to kill? A bunch of us ‘college boys’
are getting together 
tonight for old times sake. Want to come?”

Walter thought for a moment about his mother’s worried face, but he
pushed it aside. He 
was an adult now, and he felt like hanging out with his friend. He’d
call later.

“Yeah, sure, buddy. Where to?”, he asked, falling into step with
Steve. They stopped at 
Steve’s house and grabbed a couple of sandwiches and then went to
meet the rest of their 
old gang. One of the guys had an apartment in town, and they met
there. His old friends 
greeted him warmly, and asked a few perfunctory questions about his
war experiences, 
but then the topic was dropped. Within an hour, someone had produced
a few joints, and 
soon everyone was catching a light buzz. Every so often, Walter
would remember he 
hadn’t called his mother, but it was so nice to sit here with people
who didn’t fuss over 
him or make him feel like he was made of glass, he let the thought
slip away. 

As it grew later, Walter’s pleasant numbness disappeared and he
began to feel bored and 
restless. All his old friends seemed interested in were which girls
would put out, and how 
many credit hours they could handle next semester. He knew it wasn’t
fair to judge them, 
but he felt out of step all of the sudden. Like he didn’t belong.
Their talk of football 
games and summer jobs seemed like a foreign language to him. 

He finally felt like he’d had enough and decided to walk home. He
gave Steve a half 
salute, but his friend was so out of it, he barely noticed. He
walked out into the dark 
night, stealing a glance at the clock over the stove. He winced when
he realized it was 
close to 2:00AM—his father would be furious.

He made it home quickly, the route familiar even in the dark. He
hated the thought of 
waking anyone by coming in the front door, but he didn’t want to
attempt to climb onto 
the porch roof. That maneuver had brought him a whole world of
trouble more than once.

He climbed the porch stairs quietly, but nearly jumped out of his
skin when he heard his 
father’s voice from the swing.

“Would you like to explain to me where you’ve been for the last 10
hours, young man?”, 
his father growled. “Your mother is worried sick. She told me how
you stormed out of 
here earlier today.”

“Dad!! You scared me!”, he said, willing his heart to resume it’s
normal beating. His 
reflexes were still razor sharp from his months in Vietnam. He
leaned against a pillar of 
the porch, trying to catch his breath.

“And you scared your mother, son. And Bobby, too.  I hope you had a
damn good 
reason.”

Walter was startled—his father rarely swore. “I’m sorry, Dad. I ran
into Steve Weber in 
town and we ended up getting together with some friends”, he said,
contritely. “I meant to 
call, but I never got a chance”, he finished lamely.

His father said nothing for a moment. “Well, we never discussed a
curfew for you since 
your return, but disappearing like that was rude and disrespectful.
Your mother has been 
through enough worrying over you without you adding to it”, he said
sternly. “I expect 
you to apologize to her first thing in the morning—and I hope I
don’t have to tell you that 
I don’t expect this to ever happen again.”

“No, sir, it won’t—and I’ll tell mom I’m sorry.”

“All right, then. I’ve got to work in the morning, so I’m going to
get some sleep, and you 
should too”, his father replied, pulling himself off the swing. He
put his arm around his 
son’s shoulder and ushered him inside. He walked with him to the
bottom of the stairs 
before turning towards his own room.
“You know, Walter, I’m glad you got together with friends. I’m sure
it did you some 
good. Now, I’ll make sure your mom lets you sleep in tomorrow, but
don’t forget that 
apology. Good night, son.”

“Good night, Dad”, he said, and then climbed tiredly up the steps
and made his way into 
his bedroom. He lay in the dark, thinking over the night. 

He was amazed that his father had let him off so lightly. Coming in
late was bad enough, 
but on top of being rude to his mother, he had been sure that his
father would have 
bawled him out good. Oddly, his father’s reaction left him even more
dejected. Just one 
more sign of how much things had changed.

In spite of his father’s hope, getting together with his old friends
had left him drained and 
had only furthered his depression. He felt so out of touch with all
his former goals, and 
with nothing to work or fight for anymore, the future looked bleak
indeed. He finally 
rolled over and fell into a troubled sleep. He woke late the next
morning, and 
remembering his promise, quickly made amends to his mother. She let
him off with a 
smile, making him feel even guiltier.

He puttered around the house for the next few days, finding several
chores to keep him 
busy. This was his father’s most stressful time of year, with his
job in town and all the 
farm tasks that needed to be done, so he tried to ease the burden a
little. His mother 
admonished him several times to take it easy and make sure he wasn’t
trying to do too 
much too soon, but he knew keeping busy was the only way to keep the
black moods 
from descending. Steve called a few times, but he just couldn’t work
up any enthusiasm 
for seeing his friend, so he made up excuses and stayed home. 

Even tough physical labor was not enough to keep all the demons at
bay, however. 
Sometimes right in the middle of some mindless task, he’d feel his
body go cold at the 
memory of the small Vietnamese boy he had killed, or his weird
experience when his 
patrol had been caught by that sniper. Then he’d find himself
staring into space, 
overcome with shaking and a cold sweat that had nothing to do with
the task at hand. 

He was fixing a fence one afternoon when he was overtaken by one of
those vivid 
memories. Bobby came up behind him and was puzzled to see his
brother staring intently 
at nothing. He tentatively touched his arm and Walter startled and
spun to the ground in a 
crouch, looking wildly for any danger. He blinked when he realized
it was only his little 
brother. Bobby looked at him, troubled.

“I’m sorry, Walter”, he said hesitantly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

His older brother took a few deep breaths. “It’s OK, Bob-o”, he
said, trying to give the 
frightened boy a reassuring smile. “You just caught me off guard for
a second.”

Bobby nodded, trying to return the smile. “Since it got so hot this
afternoon, I thought 
maybe you’d like to go down to the pond and take a dip. Mom says
you’ve been out here 
all afternoon.”

Walter sighed. His mother had been nagging him all day about working
too hard and he 
was sure this was her sneaky way of getting him to take a break. She
knew he could rarely 
resist his little brother’s pleas. But the idea of a cool swim
sounded good. The day *had* 
turned hot, giving a taste of the summer to come.

“All right, Bob. Just let me put Dad’s tools away. You know he
doesn’t like them left out. 
I’ll take them back to the shed and you grab us a couple of towels.
I’ll change into my 
swimsuit and meet you on the porch, deal?”

His brother grinned, happy to see his older brother looking more
like himself. “Deal, 
Walter! I’ll even ask Mom to pack us a snack, and I’ll bet I can
still be ready before you!”

Walter laughed as his brother took off at a run and then gathered up
the tools he’d been 
using and returned them carefully to their proper places. He went
into the house and ran 
up the stairs to change into his swim trunks and a tee shirt , and
then he walked out to the 
porch, not at all surprised to see Bobby waiting for him, pretending
to be napping.

“Gee, what took you so long?”, he grinned cheekily. “I’ve been ready
for ages!”, he said, 
picking up the towels and letting Walter grab the heavy picnic basket.

“Geez, what kind of snack did you ask Mom to pack, Bobby? Rock
sandwiches?”, he 
teased.

“No, just fruit and cookies and sodas and…”

“I get the picture!”, his brother laughed. They walked in
companionable silence down to 
the small pond on the edge of the property. They spread their towels
out and Bobby 
jumped right in
but Walter decided to just sit for a few minutes and enjoy the
peaceful afternoon. He 
found himself dozing in the warm sunshine until Bobby decided he
looked way too 
comfortable and doused him with water.  He jumped up, stripping off
his tee-shirt and 
jumping in the water to dunk his younger brother. The splashed for a
while, until they 
decided to dry off and eat some of the snacks they’d brought. Walter
pulled himself out of 
the water and grabbed a towel, tossing the other to Bobby. He began
to towel himself off, 
until he heard Bobby’s gasp behind him. He turned to see what had
frightened him and 
realized the boy was staring with undisguised horror at his
brother’s scars. When he 
realized that Walter had noticed, he quickly lowered his eyes.

“Bobby, it’s OK”, Walter said, keeping his voice gentle. “They’re
getting better. Even Dr. 
Cosgrove said I’m fine. I’ll be as good as new soon.”

“Does it still hurt, Walter?”, he asked sadly.

“Less every day, Bob—honest!”, his brother reassured, but Bobby
still looked doubtful.
He could tell the boy was still troubled, so he put his tee-shirt
back on, unwilling to 
endure his brother’s scrutiny any longer. They ate the snacks in the
picnic basket, but the 
pleasant interlude had been marred. 
<<Great, now I’m even scaring my kid brother! One more thing ruined
by the war.>>, 
thought Walter, bitterly.

They made their way back up the path in silence and Walter once
again retreated to his 
room, telling his mother he was full from the snacks and would
rather skip dinner. She 
noticed that Bobby was also uncharacteristically quiet, but he
refused to explain what had 
happened. She shook her head in despair, uncertain what to do.
Walter didn’t come down 
for the rest of the evening and as soon as Bobby was in bed, she
voiced her concerns to 
her husband. 

They sat on the porch swing and discussed it in low tones.

“I know it’s only been a few days, Walter, but he seems more unhappy
now than he did 
when he first got home. All he does is hang around the house doing
chores, or stare at the 
ceiling of his room when I finally convince him to rest”, she said,
her tone worried.

Her husband patted her back soothingly. “I’m sure it will just take
time, Alice. Walter has 
always been an introspective kid. He needs to work things through in
his mind and it 
takes him a while to do that sometimes. I’m sure he’ll be his old
self soon.”

“I hope you’re right. I just don’t remember you having these mood
swings when you 
returned from the war.”

“I know, dear, but that was a different war in a different time. We
can’t expect Walter’s 
experiences to be like mine—or anyone else’s. We’ll keep an eye on
him, and try to get 
him interested in some of the things he enjoyed before. I bet by
fall, we’ll be wondering 
why we were so worried.”

Mrs. Skinner let herself be comforted by his reasonable words. “I’m
sure you’re right, 
dear. I just hate to see one of my children so unhappy.”

Unfortunately, Walter’s frame of mind didn’t improve much by the
next day. He tried to 
be polite, but his mother’s worried looks and Bobby’s hesitant way
of behaving around 
him were making him even more short tempered. By Saturday, his mood
had become so 
angry that Mrs. Skinner was half tempted to call Dr. Cosgrove back
and ask if he could 
have possibly missed a physical cause for his obvious misery. Mr.
Skinner finally decided 
to drag Walter into town when he needed supplies, just to get him
out of the house for a 
short time. Bobby wanted to accompany them, but Mr. Skinner wanted
some private time 
with his older son, hoping he would open up about what was troubling
him so much.

They made several stops in town, Walter following along, scowling
blackly and barely 
being civil, even to people he had known for years. Their concern
only made him more 
annoyed—they didn’t know the horrible things he had seen or had been
asked to do, and 
their trite words only inflamed his anger.

His father gave him several sharp looks, but he ignored them, intent
on his own emotions. 
Things came to a head when they stopped in the feed store for
canning jars for his mother. 
He waited outside while his father made the purchase and was
dismayed to see David 
Reardon’s parents coming up the street. They glared at him openly,
in spite of his civilian 
clothes, and he decided he had finally had enough.

“Something wrong?”, he snarled. From what little he knew of the
Reardon’s, they were 
young and very liberal, and lived on the outskirts of town, growing
most of their own 
food and eschewing most contact with the people from town.

“Just wondering how you can show your face around here, with the
atrocities you 
committed in the name of our ‘government’”, Mr. Reardon said, his
tone making it clear 
exactly what he thought of the United States and their role in the
war.

“Oh yeah, it’s real easy to sit at home every night and criticize
something you know 
nothing about—and then pass it on to your son!”, Walter snapped,
remembering Bobby’s 
defense of him. If his little brother was willing to fight for him,
he should at least be 
willing to fight for himself.

Mr. Reardon sniffed disdainfully. “At least my son won’t be raised
to kill babies and 
innocent children”, he shot back.

That remark hit painfully close to the mark, and Walter felt a black
rage overtake him. He 
was just about to spring at Mr. Reardon when he felt his father’s
firm hand on the back of 
his neck.

“That’s enough, Walter”, he murmured quietly. “Get back to the car.”

Walter struggled for a minute more, but his father’s grip was
unbreakable. When he was 
more in control, his father let him go, pushing him firmly in the
direction of the station 
wagon. Once he was sure Walter was going to obey, his father turned
back to Mr. 
Reardon.

“Your politics are your own business, Mr. Reardon, and I suggest you
keep them to 
yourself.. I’ve taught both my boys to turn away from a fight when
they can—and to stick 
up for what they believe in. I’m proud of my son and the choices
he’s made.”

Mr. Reardon just stared at him impassively, and then took his wife’s
arm and walked 
haughtily into the store. Mr. Skinner continued to the car, putting
the jars in back and then 
climbing in next to his son. Walter was pressed against the door,
his eyes and posture still 
angry. He knew he had a lecture coming.

“Walter, this behavior of yours has to stop”, his father began
calmly, and without 
preamble.

“Dad, the man’s a jerk!”, Walter exploded.

“I’m not talking about Mr. Reardon, son, I’m talking about you.
You’ve been walking 
around with a chip on your shoulder the size of a boulder and
practically daring anyone to 
knock it off. There will always be people like Mr. Reardon
around—this war has stirred 
up a lot of controversy. You won’t change the minds of people like
that, no matter how 
hard you try. But you’ve got to pick your battles, son. And you’ve
been spoiling for a 
fight almost since the moment you got off the plane. Now, your
mother and I have been 
patient, but hear me loud and clear: I want this behavior to stop,
now! If you need to talk 
to someone, like one of those army head doctors, we can make
arrangements, but I will 
not tolerate any more of this pointless anger. Is that clear?”

Walter continued glaring out the window, unwilling to reply.

“I said, IS THAT CLEAR?”, his father roared, sounding for a moment
just like his drill 
instructor.

Walter startled. “Yes, sir”, he finally replied, though his voice
was still sullen. As soon as 
they returned home, Walter bolted up to the safety of his room,
anxious to be away from 
everyone while he mulled over his father’s words. He realized that
he *had* been almost 
looking for a fight, but it was hard to encounter hostility every
where he went when he 
was still trying to make sense of things in his own mind.

He came down to dinner a few hours later, determined to be more
pleasant. He teased 
Bobby good naturedly throughout the meal, pleased to see him grin in
response. His 
mother noticed his new attitude and beamed her approval, and his
father seemed gratified 
to see that his words had had such a positive effect.

The conversation was so much like old times that Mrs. Skinner
decided to broach a 
subject she had been hesitant to mention all week. 

“Walter, I thought it might be nice if you went to church with us
tomorrow. So many of 
our friends have been asking about you—and so has Reverend Michaels.
I’m sure 
everyone would love to see you.”

Walter looked at her warily. “I think I’ll pass, Mom”, he said
quietly. “I don’t really feel 
up to it.”

“Nonsense, Walter, it will do you good”, she said briskly, confident
he just needed a little 
convincing.

“I said ‘no thanks’, Mom”, Walter replied, keeping his voice even.

“But Walter, you haven’t been in so long—and we have so much to be
thankful to God 
for. I would think you’d want to go.”

“Maybe you have things to be thankful to God for Mom, but I’m not so
sure I do.”

His mother stared at him, aghast. “Walter, that’s a dreadful thing
to say! You’re home, 
safe and sound, when so many young men aren’t. I’m sure God was
watching over you in 
Vietnam.”

“So does that mean he wasn’t watching over all my friends who were
killed?”, he asked, 
his voice lowering dangerously.

“Well, no, that’s not what I meant at all…”, his mother said,
growing flustered. Her 
husband noticed the change in his son’s demeanor and laid a warning
hand on his arm.

“Walter, there’s no reason to be like this”, his father said firmly.

Walter spun to face him, his eyes flashing. “Be like what, Dad? I
asked a simple question. 
Mom seems so sure my life was spared by God—I just want to know why
my friends 
weren’t!”

Mrs. Skinner’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Walter, the last thing I
wanted to do was upset 
you!”

Bobby had been watching, wide-eyed, as the conversation had grown
more tense and 
when he saw his mother’s tears, he bolted from the table.

Walter felt badly when he saw Bobby flee but he couldn’t control the
misery that was 
welling up inside.

“Just tell me, Mom, what makes my life worth so much more than
anyone else’s? Why 
don’t you ask your God that when you’re in church tomorrow?”

“Walter, he’s your God, too!”, his mother exclaimed, trying to
reason with him. “Don’t 
turn your back on your faith now—this is when God can help you most!”

‘Well, maybe I don’t want his help—or yours either! He let all my
friends die, Mom! So 
as far as I’m concerned, you can just go to church tomorrow and tell
your God to go to 
Hell!”  He jumped up from the table so quickly his chair fell
backwards with a crash and 
flew out to the porch, almost blinded by his rage.

He wasn’t surprised to hear his father’s footsteps a moment later.
His father grabbed him 
by the arm, his mouth grim, and pulled him bodily down the steps and
toward the 
toolshed.

“Dad, I’m sorry!”, he gasped. 

His father didn’t reply, nor did he halt his movements.

“Dad, listen, please—I’ll tell Mom I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset
her. I just couldn’t 
stand it anymore!”   

“I understand that, son. And maybe you needed to get those words off
your chest. But I 
think you’ve been needing something else, too, and now I’m going to
give it to you”, his 
father finally responded sternly. By this time they were to the
toolshed, and Walter 
understood exactly what his father meant.

“Dad, please!! You can’t do this!”, he begged frantically.

“Yes, I can, son, and I should have as soon as I thought you needed
it. I was trying to be 
patient, hoping that you would work things out on your own, but it
seems like you need a 
little reminder about how we do things around here.” He turned on
the light and pushed 
Walter towards the stool at the back of the shed. “In this house,
being rude and 
disrespectful earns you just one thing—and that hasn’t changed. Now,
get your jeans 
down, because you’re about to become re-acquainted with an old
friend.”

Walter’s face burned with humiliation and fear, but he couldn’t
bring himself to defy his 
father, especially after his appalling behavior. He unbuttoned his
jeans and tugged them 
down, determined to prove to his father that he was truly sorry. Mr.
Skinner retrieved the 
belt from the wall and returned to his son’s side, pushing his body
down over the stool. 
He debated for a moment, and then grasped the waistband of his son’s
briefs, pulling 
them down like his jeans and pushing his tee-shirt out of the way.

He felt a moment’s hesitation when he saw the scars on his son’s
back. But these wounds 
had healed—it was the ones that hadn’t that were being dealt with
tonight. He 
strengthened his resolve and brought the strap down hard on his
son’s backside. 

Walter bit back a yell, determined to ‘take it like a Marine”, but
the pain and familiarity 
of the situation cut through his defenses and within moments he was
sobbing like a child. 
His father strapped him thoroughly, and with each stroke, he felt
the tension of the last 
few weeks come bubbling up. Soon, he was crying from far more than
just the pain of the 
whipping. The tears came in great shuddering sobs that took every
bit of air from his 
lungs. So great was his distress, he was only faintly aware that the
pain had stopped and 
had been replaced by his father’s familiar arms around him. 

He cried on and on, for his lost friends, his lost innocence and his
lost faith. His father 
said nothing, his soothing presence enough. After several long
minutes, his tears slowed 
and at last stopped. He pulled up his jeans carefully and gratefully
accepted his father’s 
handkerchief. After he wiped his eyes, he finally brought his face
up to meet his father’s 
gaze.

“I’m sorry, Dad”, he said, his voice rough from his tears.

“I know you are, son.”, his father replied gently. “And I forgive
you—I just hope you’ll 
be able to forgive yourself.”

Walter looked at him, perplexed. “Forgive myself? I’m not sure what
you mean.”

“Forgive yourself for surviving when so many of your friends
didn’t—forgive yourself for 
not being perfect since God spared your life—forgive yourself for
feeling bitter and angry 
instead of grateful.”

His son stared at him, stunned. “How did you know I was feeling all
those things? I’m not 
really sure I could have put it into words.”

His father smiled. “You’re my son, Walter. I’ve gotten to know you
pretty well in our 
almost 20 year acquaintance.”

His son smiled back and then his eyes turned sad again. “Will it
ever go away, Dad? 
Right now, I almost feel like it would have been easier if that
corpsman had just left me 
in that body bag. I just don’t know what to believe in anymore.”

His father placed his hands on his sons shoulders and looked at him
intently. “Walter, 
your time in Vietnam is one chapter in your life—not the whole
story. The person you 
become in life is the sum of *all* your experiences. The things you
saw in Vietnam will 
always be a part of you, and they may change how you look at some
things, but they can 
never change who you are—or where you came from.”

“Is that the point you were trying to make tonight?”, his son asked,
rubbing his rear end 
ruefully.

“That was part of it, yes. I think my reluctance to treat you the
way you deserved from the 
minute you came home only increased your doubts about how you would
survive all that 
had happened. I decided you were in dire need of a reminder that
there are certain things 
in life that you can always count on: the sun will always come up,
your mother and I will 
always love you—and if you screw up in this house, your butt can
expect to pay for it!”, 
his father finished with a grin. 

Walter managed a tentative one of his own. “Well, I have to admit, I
was kind of 
wondering when you were going to put your foot down. You let me get
away with an 
awful lot!”

“Well, believe me son, I’ve learned my lesson. You can rest assured
that from here on 
out, I’ll be the same old strict dad that I was before you enlisted.”

“I never thought I’d actually be happy to hear those words!”, his
son remarked.

“Just remember, son—it’s just like your grandmother used to tell me.
‘Le plus que c’est 
change, le plus que c’est meme chose’. Do you remember any of your
high school 
French?”

“A little, I think. Oh, I know---
--the more things change, the more they stay the same.” He and his
father spoke at the 
same time. They smiled at each other and then his father pulled him
into another strong 
hug. 

“Welcome home, son.”

THE END