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That War

By Marc Levy

I wear the Combat Medical Badge and Cav patch on my fatigue shirt as Veterans for Peace march in Boston's Veterans Day Parade. As per a state court ruling, we are officially excluded from such occasions but allowed to march one mile behind. Burly sunglassed motocops straddle bikes on either side of us; grimy street sweepers are hot on our gray-flecked tails.

Thirty-five of us march, in old army field jackets, or store-bought boonie hats, or standard-issue street gear. Two men carry a life-sized black coffin draped with the American flag. Behind them, two members in dignified spirit and step hold a large banner that reads SUPPORT THE TROOPS, BRING THE TROOPS HOME NOW! And right behind that commonsense radical cloth totem, a final pair hoist a five-meter white banner whose bold black letters ask WHO WANTS TO BE THE LAST MAN TO DIE FOR A MISTAKE?

Most people clap as we march past in our official seclusion, though not a few smug faces turn away. Every so often, a boisterous sidewalk patriot will bark out a "Fuck off" to our assembled ranks, to which we energetically reply, "Fuck you!"

After a time, we pass a solitary black man, sixtyish in age, neatly dressed in a Disabled American Veterans costume: tan cunt-cap with silver piping, the cap spangled with dainty cloisonné pins; a shiny satin jacket embroidered with the letters DAV; a thicket of medals pinned to his chest. Humble and sad and irreproachable, with no one on either side of him; I think that is strange. As the coffin trundles past, the black vet snaps a slow rising salute, holds it for several dignified seconds, then gracefully brings it down. Those of us who see it are instantly grief-struck. We continue marching, step by strident step. To the beat of a lonely drum, a man aptly named Winston calls cadence.

At parade's end we gather near the busy intersection of Boylston and Tremont. Mulling about, I make eye contact with an Army Ranger wearing Class As dotted with polished brass insignia, campaign ribbons, the Good Conduct Medal, a unit patch I've never seen. He is not quite fit, a tad heavy, maybe Reserve or National Guard. Without thinking I walk over and warmly shake his hand. "Were you in Iraq?" I say.

"No," he replies, "were you?" He is genuinely bewildered.

"No, I say. "I was in a different war. I hope you don't go, but if you do, I hope you get back in one piece." The Ranger looks even more uncomfortable, as if someone had just grabbed him by the balls. But I am calm and sincere, and maybe he sees that in the heart of my eyes, or hears the soft beat of sorrow in my trembling voice.

We're standing near the traffic light; when it blinks green, he crosses the street to join a bunch of Junior ROTC students who wait for him. Poor guy. They have been watching him going head-to-head with a veteran peace freak the whole time. Who was it that said: "So it goes"?

All in all, it was a good day, a well-spent day, but the war—the one where US Marine snipers shoot civilians, the one where billion-dollar high tech is outsmarted by primitive IEDs, where Fallujah is destroyed to save it, where suicide bombers run amok or steer hell on wheels, the war that can't be won, that's already lost, over and done with, kaput, yeah, that fuckin' war—that war drags on.