Bands, Parades & Nifty Women

Last evening while savoring a Turkish Delight, my thoughts drifted to a story I had read earlier in the day. Be nice to soldiers returning from distant places, it said, because when men came back from WWII they were greeted by brass bands, parades and women rushing to plant kisses on their lips.
So let's see. I was handed my papers late one afternoon at Camp Atterbury. When a clerk came to the last one he said, "This to to give to employers when you're trying to find a job, which you probably won't." It contained a single sentence so I read it on the spot: "Cared for and cleaned an M-1 rifle while living under adverse conditions and delivering direct fire upon the enemy."
After a second reading to make sure I hadn't missed something I said, "Dillinger's dead and Capone's in prison so who do I give this to?"
He uttered the stock answer given by all government clerks: "That's your problem."

Two bus rides covering a hundred miles took me to Muncie. It was 11 p.m. I shouldered a duffle bag containing all my worldly possessions and started walking to an uncle's house a mile away. For a number of blocks I walked north along Walnut Street, the main drag, and was surprised by the amount of traffic at that time of night.
Did someone stop and say, "Need a lift, soldier?" Yeah, sure.
Did a pretty dame come rushing up to plant a passionate kiss on my parched lips? In your dreams.

Weary to the bone, I arrived at Uncle Paul's dark house. After banging on the door for several minutes, a light came on. A cousin opened the door and said, "Oh, it's you."

Remember this the next time somebody mentions brass bands and parades.

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