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The dormitory veterans had made their way down to the railroad tracks in the woods, battling buffeting winds and sleet. There, it was rumored, they’d find a young homeless veteran living in a tent.
The rumor was true. The veteran was given a choice: accept a basket of food and dry socks or come back to town and warm up until the snow stopped.
He accepted the offer of warmth and came back to the coffee shop to wait out the storm. Sarge watched as he was escorted in, parked at the counter and given hot coffee and sandwiches.
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“Son,” he said to the new arrival, “Did I see you limping?”
“Yes, sir, probably.”
“Let’s pull off those boots and take a look.”
Turned out the veteran had a case of first-stage frostbite across all of his toes. Sarge hooked a thumb toward the kitchen, where he warmed up a pan of water and had the veteran soak his feet.
Meanwhile they talked, the veteran and Sarge. He’d never gone home, the veteran said, after getting out. Was certain he wouldn’t be welcome, being the first in a large family of “damn pacifists” to serve in the military. His parents’ home was mere miles away, and sometimes he crept up to watch them through the window, he said, but no, he’d never even called them the whole time he was away.
An hour and several sandwiches later, the toes looked better and Sarge handed the young veteran a cellphone.
“I want you to call your mother,” he said.
“I did the unforgivable,” the veteran replied, shaking his head.
“Call. Tell your mother you have frostbite on your toes. She’ll know exactly what to do.”
The next morning, once the roads were plowed, Sarge drove the young veteran home, watching from a distance as 30 exuberant people came rushing out, scooped up their wayward boy in a hero’s welcome, and carried him inside.
Sarge smiled.
(c) 2022 King Features Synd., Inc.
Image by Ray Miller