GENERATIONS
THE DAY AFTER I return from jump school, Jess and I head over to the doctor’s office. She has her first ultrasound appointment, and I’m dying to find out if we’re having a boy or girl.
They take us into a back room and have Jess lie down. The ultrasound technician rubs some sort of gooey gunk all over her stomach until it shines. She gives me a look, but all I can do is shrug.
“You look hot,” I whisper. The tech hears this and chuckles.
I mastered the art of flinging myself out of an airplane. It was invigorating, and I felt human again at last. I met some stellar human beings, too, from all branches of the service. We bonded and had a blast, even though I injured myself on one of the jumps.
The ultrasound technician runs a weird-looking gadget over my wife’s stomach. The display on the little television monitor looks incomprehensible to me, but Jess and I are riveted by it.
I see a little hand.
“Okay, baby’s lying on its side,” says the tech.
“Can you tell if we’ve got a boy or girl?” I ask. If they can make sense of this stuff, they deserve a medal. All I see is fuzzy shades of gray.
“No, not yet.”
I feel good for a change. I’m in the moment, eager to see what the future holds for my family.
“Well,” the tech begins, “if I had to guess, I’d say you’re having a boy. I’m having a hard time telling for sure, because baby’s got the umbilical cord between its legs.”
“His legs,” I correct.
“Not sure,” the tech replies.
I look at Jess. She knows I’m having visions of football games and peewee soccer.
“Golf, too. I’m going to teach him how to golf,” Jess tells me.
“How’d you know I was thinking sports?”
“Come on. We’ve known each other almost half our lives.”
I pester the tech. “Are you sure? Isn’t there some way to be positive about this?”
The tech calls in a few of her peers for second opinions. Everyone stares over Jess’s belly at the monitor.
“My guess is a boy, too,” says one of the fresh arrivals.
“I don’t know. I can’t see anything,” says another.
The first tech looks at me. “I wouldn’t be buying any boy clothes just yet. This isn’t a hundred percent. But everything looks good so far.”
I have a healthy child. That’s all that matters.
The next day, I start a new job as a docent at the Marine Corps Museum on the base at Quantico. It is an amazing place, complete with a series of in-the-set dioramas, called immersions, which capture some of the key moments in the Corps’ history. The job soon gives me a renewed appreciation for the heritage of which I am now a small part.
And I am awed by the people I meet. Every morning, I come into the museum and take groups of civilians on tours through the exhibits. Every day, I meet graying Marines, veterans of Chosin, Iwo Jima, Khe Sahn, and younger ones who served during the Beirut crisis in the eighties and in the first Gulf War.
One day in early December, a frail, stoop-shouldered World War II veteran rolls through the door in an electric wheelchair. The museum’s quiet, and it is just him and me.
“I’ve waited twenty years to see this place finished,” he says after I introduce myself.
“Where would you like to go first?” I ask.
“I landed on Iwo Jima. I’d like to see what you have on it.”
I lead him to the Iwo Jima immersion. It starts with a life-sized video screen showing color footage of the landing craft churning to the beach. The ramps go down, and the doors open onto the diorama.
The veteran gasps as he looks around. Tears well in his eyes. “Son, we lost half our company on that godforsaken place.”
“You guys were warriors.”
“So were the Japanese.”
I show him the rest of the World War II exhibit. He grows increasingly emotional, and I can’t help but feel the same way. Someday, if I live to be his age, will I come here to relive Fallujah one more time before I pass? Probably. I’ll want to see if the Corps has kept the faith and done justice to the men I saw die there. That will be part of my generation’s legacy, our contribution to the heritage of our uniform.
We finish up in the World War II gallery. “Show me your war,” he says.
“Right this way, sir.”
I take him to the Global War on Terror display, and he reads everything he can from his wheelchair.
“Were you in Afghanistan?” he asks me.
“Iraq.”
He points to my uniform. “I see you have the Navy Cross.”
“Yes, sir. I wear it as a reminder of the men we lost that day. They were the best.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know how you boys have done it. At least we knew who our enemy was.”
“Nothing we went through compares to what you did,” I counter.
“That’s not true at all.” His wizened face shows utter sincerity. “I have nothing but admiration for what you new Marines have gone through over there.”
As we exit the gallery, the veteran says, “Sergeant Workman, I need to use the restroom.”
“Okay, sir. Right this way.”
“I’m sorry”—he sounds desperately embarrassed—“but can I ask for some help?”
“No problem, sir. Anything for a fellow Marine.”
I hold the door for him as he rolls into the bathroom. He parks in the handicapped stall, and sits there, looking ashamed. I realize he can’t get out of his chair.
Without a word, I come to him and ease him over to the toilet. I help him get his pants down. He feels so frail, a warrior grown old, but still proud.
I will do anything to protect this man’s dignity.
He finishes his business. “I can’t reach,” he mumbles.
“No worries, sir.” I wipe him clean. A moment later, I ease him back into his wheelchair.
“Thank you, son.”
“Marines stick together. I’ve got your back, sir.”
He looks ready to cry. I walk with him to the museum’s entrance. He pauses there, and spins his wheelchair around for one last look. “I came hoping that the men I served with would be remembered the right way.”
“Is that what you’ve found?”
“Yes. And more.” He lingers on those words before continuing. “I’ve found the Corps is in good hands. Your generation has done mine proud.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“No, thank you, son. You’re keeping the faith. We’ll all be gone soon. All we’ll have is this place and the story you tell of us here.”
He turns and motors for the door. But then he pauses and adds, “And one day, it will be your turn, too.”
We are all Marines, no matter what our war. We share the bond.