Give Me Tomorrow

ON A BEAUTIFUL June day in 2004, a seventy-year-old man quietly shut the door on an amber, weather-beaten cab. A soft breeze swept over the neat lines of white headstones in Golden Gate Cemetery. The sun shone brightly and gently warmed his face as he walked between the stark rows of rectangular headstones, looking for a specific marker, his past. His eyes quickly scanned the area and fell upon the graying, etched stone of Robert H. Hallawell, killed in action, November 30, 1950, U.S. Marine Corps. The stone was weather beaten.The crumpled remains of a few leaves lay scattered around its edges. He was probably the grave’s first visitor in many years.

Bobby, I’m here, Bruce Farr thought to himself. Bobby, it’s been a long time, but I’m finally here. I know you would have done this if I were in your place.

The senior Marine then pulled out a camera from his bag and snapped a picture. He stood over the headstone for several minutes, gazing upon the cemetery and reflecting back fifty years to a war “that just won’t go away.” He remembered the bloody fight on East Hill. Along with Hallawell, part of Farr has remained on the hill and will always stay there. The invisible scars of war, rather than fading, have grown deeper, and the memories more vivid.

Farr’s circuitous journey by car, plane, and cab to visit Bobby Hallawell took four days. Months earlier, he had visited Hallawell’s brother and returned Bobby’s gold watch, which Mert GoodEagle had worn through the Vietnam War.

Farr’s return by Greyhound bus was even more arduous. His wife and friends didn’t understand. “Why would you travel four days just to get to California, take a picture for two minutes, and then leave?” they asked.

“It was just something I felt like I had to do. If you weren’t there, you couldn’t understand. There’s no way you could understand war unless you were there. They were all my friends,” he replied.