Hippies were in full weird, pot was king and Vietnam War protests raged on the campus of the University of California, Berkeley. It was 1969. It was foolish of me to wear my U.S. Marine Corps uniform, but I could not be late for my handball game with my good friend Ken. He was completing his doctorate in chemistry, but he was no nerd. On the handball courts he was an ace, and off the courts he was rascal. The games were always followed by essential beer sessions and our laughter injected normalcy back into a rather somber era of my life. My first lieutenant bars decorated the shoulders of my dress greens. By force of habit, I walked taller in my USMC uniform. Confession alert: I strutted. Why not? I was a Vietnam veteran. I was neither coward nor hero, but I was caught in an explosion when our troop carrier hit a land mine. In his 2021 memoir, “In the Arena,” my company commander Charles Robb, who was President Lyndon Johnson’s son-in-law and later a Virginia senator and governor, wrote: “The sounds coming from the wounded Marines were sickening — some Marines were still on fire and cried out in agony, their smoldering skin peeling off as they were lifted off the wreck.” Robb perfectly described me. I was burned over 80 percent of my body. It hurt like Hades, but burns are topical. Unlike hundreds of other young Marines in the Oakland Naval Hospital, I had no missing body parts or internal injuries. Their morale, humor and love of country contributed mightily to my healing.

My handball plan with Ken that day was for me to get a day pass from the hospital, which required me to be in uniform, then sashay immediately over to the Berkeley campus for our game. While trekking from the visitor’s parking lot to the gym, I never gave my uniform a second thought. The stylish Joe College types were clad in sporty Kingston Trio fashions while the coeds wore miniskirts. They all sharply contrasted with the love children whose males had adopted shoulder-length hair, bell-bottom pants and grayish-white T-shirts. The coeds were adorned in raggedy dresses and hair that sorely needed shampooing. A couple of the great unwashed were heading in my direction. He had long hair and a 2-inch beard. She wore an ankle-length, scruffy black dress. As they got close, she came toe to toe with me and shouted, “Pigs off campus!” Her impudence stunned me. I tersely replied, “What did you say?” I had hoped that my harshness would dampen her bravado. No luck. “I said, pigs off campus!” “Does this mean that you are announcing your departure from campus?” I liked my smarty-pants comeback. “You’ve got the wrong uniform, babe, he’s not a cop,” said the boyfriend, dragging her away.

“I don’t care, I hate uniforms. Pigs off campus!” she bellowed. Telling Ken was a treat. Our match was a laughfest. He needled me with barbs like, “That’s a nice shot, for a pig,” and I would reply, “Oink, oink!” Ken eventually used his doctorate to help develop smokestack scrubbers, a method of eliminating toxins from industrial smokestacks. Despite this world-changing accomplishment, for better than 50 years we have laughed about “Pigs off campus!” My veteran story continues. Last Christmas, my kids gave me a black baseball cap with “Vietnam Veteran” emblazoned in large gold letters. “Marines” is embroidered on the side, and also I pinned on my Purple Heart ribbon. I’ve always wondered if the vets who wear such hats have ever had a “pigs” episode. It was time to find out. With a large dose of trepidation, I put on the cap and headed to the local mall. I felt proud. It was like wearing my uniform, but at age 81, I could only dawdle-strut. It wasn’t the Berkley campus, but a few furtive glances made me wonder if I might get some flak. In recent years, I have been confronted at book readings and speeches. Because the kid in the trenches never gets to talk, I wrote and published my own book, “Shut Up and Take Notes: It’s My Turn to Talk About Vietnam.” The title says it all.

I was nervous about wearing my new treasure. But my new cap is a game-changer! Every time I have worn it on mall outings, I have been greeted with, “Thank you for your service,” or, “Welcome home.” Having never heard such pleasantries, I was at a complete loss for words. At first, I meekly responded, “It was my privilege to serve.” Since then I have grown bolder and now sometimes add, “But I wouldn’t want to do it again,” which often gets a chortle. My most important addition is, “Thank you for noticing the new hat that my kids gave me!” My experience has been so fun that I fully urge you to thank all cap-wearing veterans for their service. I promise that you will make their day while putting a little strut into your own fine step. I hope to see you at the mall! Everybody Has a Story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 1,000 words maximum, and relevant photographs. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA, 98666. Call “Everybody Has an Editor” Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.