By Jack Estes
In 1968 I was 18 years old, broke, flunking out of school and my girlfriend was pregnant. Then I joined the Marine Corps and went to Vietnam. When a rocket hit the mess hall, half full of young Marines, I was about 200 yards away. I saw it pass overhead, long and white, and heard the explosion. I had only been in country a few days and knew no one. Some of the boys were placed in body bags and trucked out, as I recall. Now I’m old and beat up, moving toward another Memorial Day. I’m thinking about the Marines I did know and wondering what their lives would have been like if they had survived.
