The troop train stopped for a short layover in Winslow, Arizona, March 1952.
We were returning from Korea, riding the train the right way, back across America. The train commander said we could hang around outside at stops, not to wander off, and everybody had to be shod going to the dining car for the next six days. We wore brogans, weighing about three pounds, buckles included, best boot in the world, but heavy for after-combat aboard a troop train heading home.
I loved my brogans but was over-shod for a train ride. Running to a cab stand, I asked for a handy shoe store. “I only have 15 minutes,” I said, “before it pulls out.” I pointed at the train. “I’m heading home.”
One cabbie grabbed my arm, “C’mon, kid, just down the street.”
He asked quick questions of me, ran two red lights, swung a tight corner, jumped the curb at a store. The sign said, “Shoe Cob.” Running inside, he yelled, “Harry, the kid here’s back from Korea. Sonny’s outfit. Needs a pair of eight and half moccasins, in a hurry.”
The train whistle sounded, larruped through the door. The cabbie pointed back over his shoulder. Time was the biggest enemy of all.
Again, came a melancholy whistle with messages I didn’t want to hear. Late. AWOL. The stockade. Mom and Dad waiting. Big brother Jim who’d done his bit in WW II, my 5 sisters, all wearing lipstick by now, I’d bet.
The clerk reached over his head, flung a box at me. I reached for my wallet. “It’s on me, kid. Say one for Sonny tonight when you’re thanking Him for getting you back home.” The whistle sounded again. We rushed through the same red lights. For six days, I went to the chow line in moccasins, and all others wore the heavy boots of the trade.
Appetite makes different folks of us all.
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This post is republished on Medium.
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