It was a rainy morning in Seattle, and I wore my Army dress uniform. Stepping off the bus, I ran 100 yards to the entrance of the Airport. After I purchased my ticket and checked my bags, I headed to the bar. It was the time of the winter equinox, and I was headed home with my discharge in my duffle bag. I suppose I should have worn my civilian clothes, but I had been stateside six months, and the comradeship I experienced in Vietnam had yet to loosen its grip on me. As I entered the bar, I saw another combat veteran. I could tell that he had recently returned from Nam because he had remnants of the 100 yard stare. I sat next to him and ordered a beer. We sat in silence, watching the bar maid. She was an oriental lady with dark hair that
