From the Last Century archives.
He was well respected, a jovial go-getter with a carefully crafted warrior image. The warrior image was based on his service in Vietnam, and everybody at his current post knew who was coming their way when they saw the camo-painted old VW beetle bumping over potholes and sliding through the deep ruts carved out by the heavy vehicles.
In the evenings, they would share a beer, talk shop, exchange stories. When he was in the mood for tough talk with regard to someone f***ing up or questioning orders, he would go: "The way we solved this in 'nam was to make the guy point man. Charlie would take care of him."
In a week, he would pcs out, go back stateside, leave the country he had been born in to return to the country he had called home since age two or three.
The rusty, trusty beetle was the talk of the small German town. The day before, he had put it out into the target area of one of the ranges.
They had given him the honor of firing the first bursts from the machine gun position, and they were raving about how much fun they had had.
The day's work over, they were sitting at the tables for a beer. He was not quite done, he was sitting one table over with four or five other officers.
Only when he got up to leave, did he notice the other person sitting right behind him.
He nodded, hesitated, then picked up pace. He knew, his "you guys have no idea how many German boots I've had to lick to get things done for you" had been overheard by probably the only other person, other than at his table, who spoke enough English to understand this shoeshine option.
They did not talk about it in the remaining days. The final goodbye was shorter and more formal than either would have predicted only a couple of weeks earlier.
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