for Lynn Chapman-McKinney

Some soldiers who weren’t sleeping, or mentally wrecked, helped out with the meal service. Margie, most senior girl working the trip, told me that almost every flight out of Vietnam the soldiers wanted to be of help. It sort of stunned me— after what they’d been through. She saw the look on my face then called me a rookie.

They formed a human chain, trays passed hand to hand, feeding the whole plane. There was a sweetness to it, this sharing of the load. While we set up the trays in the galley— taking off plastic wrap from salad and desserts, turning the coffee cups over, making the trays look nice and neat. The soldiers wanted to be sweet to us, and it radiated. I think they craved this homey thing of girls and food; like before the war.

When the meal service was over, and the galley cleared, we set up a bar on the aft buffet, filled it with iced soft drinks. This way the soldiers could come and take what they wanted. And talk to us if they wanted to. They came in droves. I thought of birds flying to water. Margie kept telling me More ice and hop to it. Since she worked this flight rotation regularly, I did whatever she said. I was still very nervous, my first trip to Nam, and I appreciated her advice. Even though she tended to be bossy.

Finally the crowding around the buffet began to lighten, just a few soldiers here and there. Many were sleeping now. The stillness in the cabin had an eerie quality.

“Could I have a Ginger Ale, please?”

I looked at the soldier’s face, then his name-tag. Robert Russoff. Bob, as I knew him from my cousin’s neighborhood in Queens. I couldn’t believe it. I’d heard he had been drafted, many of the boys I knew had gone to war. But to actually meet someone from the past right on this plane seemed next to impossible.

Bob Russoff used to ride me on the handlebars of his bicycle when I stayed at my cousin’s house for a week each summer. It was in my early teens. I had this big crush thing going and thought it was the same for him since he could’ve picked any girl to ride with. Now I wasn’t sure if I should reveal myself. He’s still real cute, I was thinking. Wondering if his time in Nam had been terrible.

On a hot summer night, in Queens, a group of us kids hanging around on a tall front stoop got this idea: Lets go for a swim at Astoria pool, somebody said. We all got excited and ran home and put on our swim suits under our shorts and shirts. At 6 they pad-locked the fence. So we had to climb over high chain-link fencing to get in. The rec area was so quiet, the huge empty pool lit and glistening blue.

Somebody (one of the boys) decided we should first each jump off the high dive. There must’ve been eight or ten of us. We were all scared to death, laughing nervously, poking, daring one another. I felt my knees knocking. It was such a high board, used for Olympic Trials training. But we all agreed Let’s do it.

We lined up at the bottom, the boys going first. Each time someone jumped off, when they came up from under the water, a huge cheer and screaming rang out. Then, finally, it was the girls’ turn. My cousin Sandy went first. When she hit the water and came up, more cheering and hoorays, splashing and back slapping in the pool. Just crazy— the joy was so fierce. The ones who’d already done it, circled each new arrival with this wild outburst. I wanted to run away but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be marked fraidy cat.

Then it was my turn. They were screaming my name saying C’mon, c’mon you can do it! I took my first step climbing the ladder that seemed to stretch into the sky. It was too late to back down. I stepped onto the board. It felt scratchy under my feet. The pool seemed miles away. Moving forward slowly, scared out of my wits, I stopped at the edge. Then stepped off.

It felt like forever going down. I went deep, could see the cement bottom curving where bubbles came out of a vent. I paddled up, shaking my head and spitting water, to the sounds of massive cheering. That night we felt invincible. Everyone just screaming bloody blue murder like we were out of our minds. Bob Russoff had jumped, too.

“I think I know you,” I said.

He looked at my face and shook his head. “I’m sorry but you have me mistaken for somebody else.”

“Aren’t you from Queens?”

He nodded, watching me in a strange way.

“Aren’t you friends with my cousin Sandy, and Michael Denzler? Aren’t you part of that group?” My tongue had gone all stumbly. “I mean, before.”

“I know them,” he said. “But I don’t know you.”

The crowd around the buffet had thinned out. Margie was in the galley smoking— I could hear them chatting— Lynn and some of the other girls.

I felt persistent. “Remember the night we all jumped off the high dive at Astoria pool? How we snuck in over the fence and did the jump?”

But he had no recollection. The war had wiped out this part of his life. It was still important enough to me to remember— this rite of passage. But I had never been to war. I realized I should drop the conversation.

I told him to help himself to more soft drinks whenever he wanted. And if he wanted some coffee, to let me know, and I’d be happy to make a fresh pot.