Buddies

On a flight into Idaho Falls a recently, I noticed a guy with a Navy veteran insignia on his hat. I thanked him for his service and asked what was bringing him to IF. Turns out he’s retired Navy and lives there. I’ll save you the early backs and forths.

We eventually determined that he and I had both been Navy nukes during overlapping years, although he went on to make it a career while I eventually had a change of heart and got out. We’d also served on the same ship, although in different divisions (think work centers organized by technical specialty), and again, at the same time. We worked for some of the same officers and shared some of the same memories, although not of each other. Heck, there were 1400 guys on the Long Beach at the time, and you tended to associated with the guys with whom you worked.

We were both aboard when she splashed a MiG and had the little set to with the patrol boat. We both recalled the time we went dead in the water due to an engineering drill gone bad and the insanity of standing Shore Patrol in Olongapo. Then came the day I was called from giving blood to be flown back to the States for discharge. I went on to where I am now and he continued in the Navy.

We’d been chatting about ten minutes when the guy sitting between us says one word, “Targets.”  The guy was a tuber nuke at the same time the other two of us were riding skimmers.  His one-word descriptor of us referred to the insistence among the Silent Service that there are only two types of ships in the world – submarines and targets. Even though he may be right, I could never bring myself to spend my life on a ship designed to sink. I’ll stick with skimmers, thank you very much!

The three of us talked on as the plane climbed out, reliving memories that were mutually recognizable if not perfectly shared. The young guy sitting cat-cornered from me listened raptly while the woman next to him look bored. We eventually wound down and put our noses into our individual reading matter, but I really enjoyed that few minutes of comraderie.

I read a bit by my friend Michael Young the other day that recalled coming back from overseas and the feeling of disconnection with the World. I didn’t have his experiences (thank goodness) and he didn’t have mine. Even the three of us on that plane didn’t share exactly parallel experiences. But we shared enough to allow each other the differences and celebrate the commonalities.

I haven’t sorted out what all this means to me, and I’m not sure I will. But Michael and those two guys on the plane are buddies whether or not we’re all destined to be friends. Buddy is a term that only a vet really understands and the ones like Michael understand best.

Michael, thank you for your service, buddy!