Field Jacket

By Patricia Hysell

The year was 1971. I was fresh out of high school and attending a local community college. A friend of mine had a crush on a newly discharged Marine. She pressured me into accompanying her to the table in the cafeteria where six to eight green-clad men sat.

Each day we arrived in the cafeteria to a chorus of catcalls and wolf whistles. The men seated at the table (today I would refer to them as boys, but then they were men) were not always the same ones. Sometimes they actually attended their classes. Sometimes they were off somewhere else.

But it was always a group of young men freshly discharged from the Marines. They were usually quite nice and yet there were bouts of anger. Especially when some conscientious objector objected to their presence. They were a little older than the other students. They were far more worldly and even world-weary.

Eventually my friend fell out of infatuation with her young man. I, however, kept returning to the Marine table. They didn't seem to mind.

One of the young men was smaller than the others, but seemed very good-natured. He had a charming sense of humor and could tell a great story. He had joined the USMC, much to his father's chagrin, after breaking up with a girlfriend. The young man, not the father. The father had been wounded twice while fighting in the Pacific theater during World War II. The father was also ex-Marine.

But the young man joined The Corps and was promised two years, Vietnam, and a hard time. He got the two years and the hard time, but somehow – through the kindness of a Colonel who liked him – managed to stay stateside. The other young men at the table had all served in Nam. One, the small man's best friend, had been discharged after being seriously wounded.

There were stories at that table. There were confrontations at that table. There was one young lady falling in like with one young Marine at that table.

Eventually, the Marine asked me out and we had a really nice time. We went on to regularly date. We were in some classes together and we arranged to have even more classes together for the next quarter. All seemed to be going fine.

And then, one day, I committed a mortal sin. As I sat at a table full of combat hardened Marines, and my own sweet darling, I said something innocuous about their Army jackets.

I will never, ever forget the lecture about the difference between Army jackets and field jackets. Marines do not, little lady, ever wear – under pain of death – Army jackets. Marines wear field jackets. They also do not wear Army boots. They wear combat boots. Fatigues are just that, there is no Army in the name.

The lecture continued for several strained minutes. I sat blinking in stunned silence as I was instructed about the life and rules of the military in general and the US Marine Corps in particular. I never made that same mistake again.

In the years since, I have lost touch with several of those at the cafeteria table from many years ago. I lost one to death, exacerbated by his war injury. I lost contact with others as our lives took divergent paths. I still remain in contact with a rare few.

Somewhere over the years, in many moves around the country, the field jacket disappeared. It was disposed of, with reverence, I'm sure. I've kept the Marine.

Patricia Hysell has dozen stories included in Station Shorts http://www.lulu.com/content/1710161 and one story included in A Writer’s Christmas http://www.lulu.com/content/4931358. Both books are anthologies assembled by writers found at My Writers Circle. She also writes three historical essays each week and one lead  article each week for Really Good Quotes http://groups.yahoo.com/group/reallygoodquotes/.  She is currently looking for a larger market for the historical essays and seeking publication in newspapers.