16
March 30, 2019
Taos, New Mexico
Beecher shaded his eyes as he looked out the window. The small regional jet was traveling over the windward side of the Sangre de Christo Mountains. Below him the lush forest was dark green with patches of late snow nestled beneath overhangs of valleys. The dense foliage reminded Beecher of Vietnam and of the dangers and slaughter he had experienced when half his platoon was wiped out in a firefight with the Viet Cong. I haven’t thought about those men in many years. Is that okay? He didn’t know. They had all been young and raw, draftees mostly, and had only been together for a week, everyone wishing they were home—except Beecher, who strangely found war more peaceful than his childhood. He did three tours before coming back to Texas and was not wounde
