“The shortest distance between two people is a story.” ~ Patti Digh
“The shortest distance between two people is a story.” ~ Patti Digh
It was 1993. I had recently moved to Vancouver and I was looking for a job. I replied to this ad in the paper about selling sporting goods. The interview was a joke and I walked out on it. A group sales pitch to sell knives to your family and friends. I might share that experience another time but this is a story about meeting a Vietnam war veteran before the interview.
I arrived downtown almost an hour early for the interview, and 1/2 a block from the entrance of the building that I was heading to was a hotdog vender. I love ‘street dogs’ and decided to get one with all the toppings, hot peppers, sauerkraut, fried onions, and Dijon mustard. There was a water fountain or statue nearby and I sat down on the edge about 6 feet away from an elderly gentleman who was also eating a hotdog.
Now, almost 30 years ago, I don’t remember how the conversation started, but I ended up halving the distance between us so that we could chat more easily. This man was mostly bald with white-grey wisps of short hair near his ears, very pink in complexion, and overweight with a belly that looked more square than round. He had a cane, that sat next to his legs, which were showing between his white, pulled up socks and his tan coloured shorts. His shirt was just a extra large, plain white T-shirt with without a logo.
After some small talk he told me he was a war vet, and he shared that he saw things no one should ever have to see. Then he shared one of these stories.
He was in a sandbag bunker on the outside of a government building they were guarding and a young boy with a backpack was slowly approaching them. The boy couldn’t have been older than 12. His Sargent pointed to the boy and said, ‘Shoot him’.
He looked at his Sargent, puzzled, and the Sargent repeated his command louder, “Shoot him!”
He was still fairly new to this post and Sargent and was hesitant to shoot a kid. His delay angered the Sargent, who took out his side arm and pointed it at his head, “Follow my orders and shoot him or I’ll shoot you!”
And so he shot the kid… And the kid, still about 50-60 feet away, blew up. “I couldn’t believe what I saw, it didn’t seem real.”
Apparently, kids were being used as suicide bombers in the area and the Sargent saw something that made him suspicious.
He only lasted another few months at that post then he was hit with shrapnel from a missile. He showed me the back part of his calf, with an 5-inch scar that deformed the muscle, and he said it went up the back of his leg, but he didn’t stand up to show me. Then he said, “Another big piece got me here”, and he lifted his T-shirt to show me a huge scar that dented his brick shaped belly.
“When they hit you, all you feel is the burn, and you can smell your skin burning, the metal is so hot.”
In the 25 minutes I sat with him, I just listened. He had a lot to share, and he kept the theme going of, “The things I saw there, nobody should ever have to see.”
I didn’t want to leave, but I had an interview to go to. Had I known the interview was going to be such a joke, I would have sat and listened to this war vet tell stories all day. But when I left the interview the man was gone. Like me he just sat down to eat his hotdog, and to talk to a stranger he’d never see again.
