Watch it, old man, one of the teenagers snarled, deliberately bumping into ninety-year-old Arthur Green, sending him stumbling off the curb and into the busy street. Horns blared. Arthur, a decorated veteran of three wars, caught his balance just in time, his heart pounding not from fear but from a sudden cold rage. The teens just laughed, high-fiving as they swaggered off. Twenty minutes later, as they were still congratulating themselves in a nearby alley, the alley entrance was suddenly blocked by two imposing figures in Marine Corps dress blues, followed by the distinct, disciplined sound of marching boots. If you believe respect for elders, especially our veterans, is non-negotiable type honour below.
Arthur Green had lived ninety years, and most of them had been dedicated to service. He’d enlisted as a boy, lying about his age to fight in World War II, then stayed in serving through Korea, and one tour in Vietnam, before finally retiring as a master gunnery sergeant in the United States Marine Corps. His small apartment was filled with carefully preserved mementos, faded photographs, service commendations, a shadow box displaying his medals, medals he never wore but cherished as reminders of the men he’d fought alongside, the sacrifices made.
His body was frail now, his steps slow and aided by a simple wooden cane, but his eyes still held the clear, direct gaze of a man who had faced down death and never blinked. He lived a quiet life, mostly keeping to himself, his days punctuated by walks to the local park and visits to the library. He didn’t ask for much, just a little peace, a little respect.
He was on his usual afternoon walk, heading towards the bakery for his weekly treat, a single eclair, when he encountered the group of teenagers. They were a familiar sight in the five youths, usually found loitering, their boredom often manifesting as petty vandalism or casual intimidation of passers-by. Arthur usually gave them a wide berth, not out of fear, but to avoid unnecessary confrontation.
Today, however, they were blocking the narrow sidewalk outside the bakery, sprawled across a bench, their legs stretched out, forcing pedestrians to step into the gutter. Arthur approached, intending to politely ask them to make way. «‘Excuse me, lads,’ he began, his voice a little raspy with age, «‘could I trouble you to let an old soldier pass?’ The apparent leader of the group, a tall youth with a sneering expression and a backwards baseball cap, looked Arthur up and down with contempt.
«‘An old soldier, huh? What are you, a hundred?’ His companions snickered. «‘Just trying to get to the bakery,’ Arthur said, ignoring the jibe, his hand resting on the head of his cane. «‘If you wouldn’t mind—’ «‘Mind?’ the leader echoed mockingly.
«‘Yeah, I think we do mind. This is our bench, grandpa. Find another route.’ He deliberately stretched his legs further, completely blocking the path.
Another teen chimed in. «‘Yeah, maybe you should just go home and take a nap, before you fall over.’ Arthur felt a familiar stirring of disciplined anger, the kind he hadn’t felt in years, but he kept his voice level. «‘There’s no need for rudeness, son.