BEST FRIENDS
Johnny and I were the best of friends for many years. We practically grew up together. We maintained our friendship in our teen years, when dating others. Those treasured years of our lives were simple and lifestyles less pressing than they are today. My feelings for Johnny remained even after high school.
In the turbulent sixties, Uncle Sam’s draft board was busy selecting many young men—especially those out of school. Vietnam and the draft changed everything as Johnny and I knew it would.
I will always remember those precious moments when we shared our love for each other before he shipped out. Our families knew and they understood. Johnny and I were the lucky ones because of the love, laughter, and happiness we shared for each other over those years.
Johnny arrived shortly before transportation arrived, which would take him to the nearest induction center in the area. He stepped inside my parents' home. His lanky arms enveloped me, drawing me closer to his muscular chest. Tears welled up in both of our eyes as we gazed at each other’s sad faces.
Gentle was his tender loving touch. Sweet, his memorable kisses as he whispered softly in my ear and I caressed his curly, blond hair. Savoring every precious moment as he spoke gently in his uneven voice, “I love you…always and forever. Don’t cry for me, Molly. My love for you shall never die; we are meant for one another.”
Those parting words still ring in my heart. Uncle Sam had taken Johnny away. Soon he would be fighting on foreign soil. His absence would change my life forever.
As the Vietnam conflict rage, his letters were few and far between. Some letters were positive, others were sad as he wrote about the horror of watching his comrades’ fall in action. He spoke of an unseen enemy fighting in jungles of Vietnam's forests, which did not distinguish between friend and foe. Fear gnawed within me, especially when his letters slowed to a mere trickle.
The long hot Texas summer days became never-ending. The months passed slowly while I did my best to continue my college studies. Our parents grew dismayed as the 1968 conflict continued to escalate, spur-ring protests in the United States.
One day an official notification arrived at his parents’ home with unpleasant news. They called my home, letting my parents know. Seeing my mother's expression, as I walked into the living room, caused me to freeze on the spot. A feeling of dread enveloped me. After placing the phone back on its receiver, my mother approached me slowly.
Placing her arms around me tightly, she tells me not to cry as she revealed the news about Johnny’s unit. It had been ambushed in enemy action and there were only a few survivors.
I could not hold back the tears as the shock coursed through my young body. I gasped, “Why, why, why?” Shock, horror, and anger engulfed me as I broke away from Mother’s arms and flung myself on the living room couch where I released my tears.
Dad came over and sat down beside me as he gently held my hand. He continued from where my mother had paused during my emotional outbreak.
"Molly, dear,” spoke my dad, “Johnny is one of the survivors, but this is all that we’ve learned.”
Stunned, I picked myself up from the couch, and walked slowly about the living room. Anxiously, my parents watched my every move while I tried to regain control of my senses.
Slowly, and steadily, I regained control of my mixed emotions. The three of us breathed sighs of relief, but it wasn’t over. I was in a family way which also doubled my heartache. “Oh, Johnny, Johnny, my love, please come back to all of us.”
A few days passed; further word arrived saying Johnny had indeed survived and his discharge was eminent once his recovery was complete. He would not be the same, and he would never go to war again.
Gone forever was the sweet, simple, and innocent young man I had once known. He returned as a wounded warrior on crutches. Only time, healing, and love would help ease his pain.
Upon his return, he would be greeted with love, family—and fatherhood. Johnny’s heart remained full of love despite the war.
We were all there when our beloved Johnny arrived at the Houston International Airport. Yes, there were a few protesters, but security was tight as the plane arrived on time.
Johnny was given priority to disembark because of his crutches. The pilots saluted him, and stewardess kissed and hugged him. He turned to walk slowly down the boarding ramp leading downward. A small lad at the bottom of the ramp was waving an American flag. “God Bless America,” he said.
“Johnny, Johnny,” I shouted jubilantly, as I rushed toward him, forgetting the crowd. I threw my arms around him, kissed his weathered lips...erasing all loneliness. I helped him walk slowly toward those who had come to welcome him home.
Johnny returned to his hometown with honor and glory. He continued his recovery, which wasn’t easy. How can one forget a horrible memory? Only time would help ease the pain. Each year...sometimes in the fall, he would visit the cemetery.
Johnny and I remember our youth and celebrate our mutual love, our happy marriage—and Johnny Jr. We remain the best of friends—always will.
~Joseph A. Zapalac
