Heroes deserve uniform respect

loading...

It’s a great time to wear a uniform in America. We call our soldiers, firemen and police officers heroes.

It’s about time.

When World War II ended, millions of people also treated soldiers like heroes. Men wore their uniforms for years after the war, partly because of what it represented and partly because it meant free beer at the local hangouts or a meal or lots of adoration by the ladies. Society was proud and grateful then, just as we are now.

But it was not always that way.

When I was in the army in 1966, people in America had mixed feelings about uniforms. Few of us came home to parades or free beer.

We were told to not wear our uniforms off base. The unpopular

Vietnam War had clouded America’s sense of patriotism.

However, I was proud to wear the uniform. In fact, in late 1966, I made a trip to Calais to visit my fiancee. The trip from Olathe, Kan., to Maine was difficult, but the trip back was nearly fatal.

It was 3 a.m. on a cold October night and I was lost in Kansas City. I had been driving my little Opel car night and day. Even though I was cold and tired, I wore my uniform because I had to report for duty wearing it.

It was very quiet when I stopped at a blinking light to check my map. While sitting there, I soon noticed that a big V-8 Olds had parked behind me. Two guys in the convertible hesitated for a minute and then got out of the car.

“Time to leave,” I muttered.

As I turned to the right, I heard a crashing sound. Being the brave soldier that I thought I was, I got out of my car to investigate. I was furious. A taillight was broken and a broken beer bottle lay nearby. I knew that I was in trouble.

At the wheel of this hot rod was a mousy-looking guy who looked nearly unconscious. Next to him was a big, ugly man who was also very drunk and very angry.

“Hey, stupid GI! Killed any babies lately?”

I was out-gunned. I knew that my mouth was my only weapon.

“Me. Naw, I don’t shoot people. I’m a chaplain’s assistant. I hit VC with my Bible.”

My attempt at humor failed, so I changed tactics.

“Hey man. I see you have lots of refreshments. It’s been a long drive. Could I buy one?”

My charm seemed to be working.

“Shurr,” he blubbered, “Got any money?”

“It’s in my car. I’ll get it.”

While he was pawing through a pile of bottles in the back seat he had his back to me. I slid behind the wheel of my four-cylinder car. It was still running. I rolled up my window. Time to go. I put the car in gear and hit the accelerator hard. Within seconds I was doing 20 miles an hour. However, as I was leaving the scene, the big guy guessed my intent.

On impulse, he smashed a bottle into my window. Shattered glass sprayed me like water, but I drove on. It did little good to run. Their Olds quickly overtook me. We played cat and mouse. I sped up; so did they. I slowed down;

so did they. Soon they passed and forced me to stop. I felt helpless. Unless…

My Opel was only six feet long. I quickly did a U-turn, but the shoulder was soft. My car’s rear wheel sunk to its axle. I became stuck about 50 feet away from certain death. The goons took their time. They opened their trunk and took out chains to rearrange my face. Desperate, I made one last try.

Frantic, I rocked the car back and forth. Finally, with seconds to spare, the back tire gripped the pavement and I was free. But I was speeding down the road backward. The goons jumped into a ditch. By now I’d accelerated to a cool

30 miles an hour. They were crawling out of the ditch ahead of me when I decided to stop.

“Why go backward?” I asked myself, “I’ll teach them to mess with the U.S. Army.”

With that I put the accelerator to the floor and aimed my car at the attackers. Lucky for them they jumped into the ditch again. Now they were really mad.

As I wildly drove to downtown Kansas City, I noticed that I was several blocks ahead of the V-8. They were chasing me as I beeped my horn, hit trash cans and yelled out my window. No cops anywhere.

“Oh no!” Everyone’s asleep. Got to hide.”

While I was momentarily out of sight, I zipped into an alley. Lights. People were working. Silently I slipped into a parking spot between two trucks and turned off my lights. Safe.

It did no good to smoke a cigarette. I shook so badly that it kept dropping into my lap. An hour passed. I lost them. It was now about 5 a.m. and the city was coming back to life. Time to

go home.

The weather had turned cold as I sped down the highway as a free man. I put my army jacket over the broken window, but the wind sucked it out and a truck ran over it.

Why stop now? Besides, other uniform-haters may be out there driving trucks.

Gerald M. Button is a free-lance writer who lives in Stetson.