taterhill Posted September 23, 2005 Share Posted September 23, 2005 Welcome Home Dog Tags By Magoo It’s a little after 10:30 on a gorgeous Sunday morning. Normally my wife and I would still be in bed with the dogs having our cozy time together. A Sunday morning ritual in our home. But after watching the tail end of “Pay It Forward” with Helen Hunt and Kevin Spacey, I’ve vowed to do two things. Someday watch the whole movie, and write this. Question is, I don’t know if I’m doing this for me or someone else. Last Wednesday it was business as usual in our house. After work I had some errands to do, then I headed home so that Colleen could go to her physical therapy session. Nothing earth shattering here, until she remembered a dream she had quite early in the day. She recalled it wasn’t very pleasant. I was leaving to go off to war, but not in the Middle East. She couldn’t bring back the image of where, but she feared for my life, and the prospect of living out her days without her partner and best friend. I assured her that I wasn’t going anywhere; that it was just a dream. Shortly after dinner that night, my mom calls from her home outside of Buffalo, New York with news that a couple of my old boyhood friends showed up unexpectedly at the house to reminisce about the old days. Two successful men in their respective professions, sharing fond memories of baseball in our backyard and simpler times. When young boys of different backgrounds and ethnics never avoided picking you for the team because of what your mom and dad were. It was almost always because you stunk so bad that you were always in right field. Sometimes for life! The conversations...very cathartic. However, a phone call that she got from a stranger was quite troubling. That sixth sense moms brag about often is based in cynicism. “No matter what you do and where you do it, I’ll find out about it.” How many times did your mom tell you that one? This one however, had her stumped. She gave me the number of a man in New Hampshire who had something quite personal of mine. It seemed so farfetched to the two of us. I had to call. Right away. Bob’s wife Ann answered the phone. I felt bad for not exchanging pleasantries, but I needed to know right away why her husband was inserting himself in our lives. “Is this Anthony,” he asked. “Yes. Why have you tracked me down?” “I have your dog tags.” Silence for what seemed like the amount of time necessary to live one’s life, while I time-warped 30 years to the war in Southeast Asia. There are so many of us who just don’t talk about that place and time. We had no Victory In Viet Nam Day. No ticker tape parades. No respect. As Bob McMahon spoke again, I heard the voice of a gentle man. This was no hustler; no conman looking to separate me from my lifesavings; no one looking for 30 pounds of flesh. Yet he was a man on a mission. “Where did you find them?” “A shop in Saigon.” As we both recalled our time there, we shared stories of better times. Many of us shy away from the uncomfortable. Ho Chi Minh City,or what used to be called Saigon, hasn’t really changed much in 30 years. The 3rd Field Hospital is gone; so is the Massachusetts, but the Presidential Palace and that beautiful Buddhist temple on Cong Li are still there. There are twice as many people there now, about 6 million, but somehow the traffic seems to flow much better. Probably because of the lack of all of those O.D. green vehicles. Bob went on to tell me that my tags were one of over 2,900 hundred sets that he had recovered over the course of several trips. Strange thing is I don’t recall losing them, but beyond that, how did they end up in a shop in downtown Saigon some 30 years later? I was the 77th “reunion” on his list. There’s nothing remarkable about that number, until now. This is now the man’s life’s work. A tedious burden that he will carry until he’s called “home.” He told me, “They’re a bit rusty, but they’re still in pretty decent shape.” “So am I.” After giving him my address, I struggled for some way of thanking this man for doing God’s work. How is this God’s work? A kind stranger has reached out of nowhere to make me whole. Closure is overused. His final words were, “Welcome home.” Dear Colleen, I’m not going anywhere. I’m home. Magoo Sgt. AJM 716th Military Police Battalion Saigon, RVN Bob and Ann McMahon maintain a website solely for the purpose of reuniting dog tags with their owners. http://www.canamission.com/ Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Beerball Posted September 23, 2005 Share Posted September 23, 2005 Nice story. Did your uncle receive the dog tags or is he the giver? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
taterhill Posted September 23, 2005 Author Share Posted September 23, 2005 received them Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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