Epic Fury

“Body bags.” The two words ricocheted like bullets. Memories of another war, when body bags, products of the Vietnam conveyor belt, arrived on tarmacs. I sat in my Davy Crockett coonskin cap, cross-legged on the floor of our living room, yearning to be “king of the wild frontier,” watching the evening news while I waited for dinner to be served. Marching uniformed soldiers carrying coffins, presenting thirteen-folded flags to grieving parents. “Day is done, safely rest”; the bugle soaring over it all creating a canopy of military honor. Then came the exciting part, the nightly tabulation of soldiers killed. I waited for the score—would we still be winning? Would our death count tally be lower than the Viet Cong tally? Night after night, the American side was always “winning,” with a lower death count score than the Viet Cong. Even though thousands of lives were lost on each side, in my mind this was still a victory for my team. Walter Cronkite's sign-off anchored my smug supremacy: “And that's the way it is.”

After dinner, I donned my B-15 bomber jacket and red cowboy boots, strapped my holstered toy Colt single-action revolver around my waist, and plopped onto the family room sofa. I spun my favorite 45, a recording of “The U.S. Air Force,” on our Ward's portable record player and sang along: “Off we go, into the wild blue yonder.” I fancied myself a heroic cowboy/bomber pilot. As the bombs dropped and my squadron advanced, I, too, soared into some glorious future, far from my home and unburdened by a sense of concern for the victims of my fantasy killing game.

And then another memory surfaced, of the time Dad drove me to McDonald's, Denver's newest fast food dining attraction, where my cousin had landed a job bagging burgers. As we pulled up in our finned '57 Plymouth Fury, my hungry eyes were snagged by a sign placed strategically under a single golden arch tracking the number of 15-cent burgers sold: over 200 million to date. I ordered my burger and begged to