Memorial Day
An old Sailor and an old Marine were sitting at the VFW arguing about who’d had the tougher career. “I did 30 years in the Corps,” the Marine declared proudly, “and fought in three of my country’s wars. Fresh out of boot camp, I hit the beach at Okinawa, clawed my way up the blood-soaked sand, and eventually took out an entire enemy machine gun nest with a single grenade. As a sergeant, I fought in Korea alongside General MacArthur. We pushed back the enemy inch by bloody inch, all the way up to the Chinese border, always under a barrage of artillery and small arms fire. Finally, as a Gunny Sergeant, I did three consecutive combat tours in Vietnam. We humped through the mud and razor grass for 14 hours a day, plagued by rain and mosquitoes, ducking under sniper fire all day, and mortar fire all night. In a firefight, we’d fire until our arms ached and our guns were empty, then we’d charge the enemy with bayonets!”
“Ah,” said the Sailor with a dismissive wave of his hand, “Lucky bastard! All shore duty, eh?”
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Although I knew our commanding officer hated doling out weekend passes, I thought I had a good reason.
"My wife is pregnant and I want to be with her," I told the C.O. Much to my surprise he said, "Permission granted."
Inspired by my success, a fellow soldier also requested a weekend pass. His wife wasn't pregnant, so when the C.O. asked why he should grant him permission. My friend responded, "My wife is getting pregnant this weekend, and I want to be with her."
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