My dad was in Vietnam back in the late 60’s fighting for the United States Army.
Over Easter he was sharing stories with our family …mostly my nephews… about his time over there and some of the situations that he and his platoon experienced.
One of the stories that he shared was telling the story of getting shot at by a north Vietnamese soldier. As he was standing behind a tree, the bullet whizzed by and ripped through his pants about mid-thigh.
At first he thought one of his own guys shot him, so he turned around and asked one of his mates…“hey! did you just shoot me?”
His buddy replied shockingly, “Uh…no!”
To which my dad replied, “Are you sure you didn’t shoot me because something just ripped through my pants?”
As the story progressed, my dad told us that his squad had run into a group of north Vietnamese soldiers and a firefight broke out. After finishing his story without telling us what happened, my mother broke in and said…
“You know, some of those north Vietnamese soldiers are now living here in the United States.”
To which my dad replied,
“Not that one.”
I love my dad.