Generations

[Poohbah]

Canon, NM
04 July 1986

Howard Begay looked around the table. As the tribal president, he had the final say on whether the tribe would hold their breath and deal with occupation, or flee.

Sometimes, he wished this burden would be lifted from his bones. He'd fought on Saipan and Okinawa, his tribal language and the radio operator every much a weapon as rifles and cannon. He should be arbitrating minor disputes, not making life and death decisions.

There was a knock at the door. One of the council members went and opened it.

His son, Michael, Vietnam veteran of Marine Force Recon, and now the First Sergeant of the Jemez Valley Tribal Militia, was there.

And smiling.

"The Soviets?"

"Father, we just got word from our scouts. The Marines held. More than held, it looks like Ivan's falling back to Santa Fe! The Marines are being relieved by the 10th Mountain Division, and there's no way Ivan will ever get the high ground again."

Howard looked around the table. "I guess we don't have to worry about evacuation now."

The other tribal leaders nodded.

* * *

Howard felt the troops before he actually heard them, but Michael was up, checking the road.

Michael handed his father his VFW Post Commander's Hat, then donned his own VFW hat. "Let's greet them, father."

Howard nodded. He'd seen them marching up the road a week earlier. They had seemed impossibly young. They'd held; they deserved honor and respect from those who they'd protected.

A scattering of people lined the road as the Marines marched into Canon, moving from route march to parade march, standing taller, showing courtesy in their own way.

And then the first platoon came by him. The platoon leader was far too young to wear the Gunnery Sergeant chevrons on his collar; he looked barely old enough to drink, and yet he looked old.

Obviously, the lieutenant was down. Begay hoped he--or was it she? This was a new war, after all, with different rules this time--would live.

The platoon leader called, "EYES, RIGHT!" He grasped the sling of his rifle with his left hand and saluted the two Begays as if he was saluting Generals Chesty Puller, Smedley Butler, John Lejeune, and Archibald Henderson, the Grand Old Man of the Corps himself, not just a couple of old guys who'd barely made Corporal in two different wars.

And the platoon leader's eyes seemed to ask, Did we meet your standards, Grandfather? Are we worthy?

Howard Begay nodded slightly, a sad smile tugging at his lips.

So many more young men and women will fight and die. But yes, you are worthy. You and your Marines are our heirs. Semper Fidelis, my son, whoever you are.

[Matt Wiser]

Well done. Those who are fighting honor those who went before.

[jemhouston]

Excellent

[Wolfman]

Bravo Zulu, sir.