A couple of weeks ago, my wife and I stopped by the Sun City Arby’s for a quick bite. The line was about eight people deep, and we waited patiently, chatting quietly. That’s when my eyes fell on an elderly man wearing a baseball cap that read “Marines” on the back. Beside him stood a woman, likely his wife, as they fumbled through their pockets, counting coins and bills.
It became clear that they had decided on the $6 Special—two fish sandwiches—but they were struggling to gather the exact change. The old man’s hands shook as he held a small pile of coins, just barely enough to cover their meal. I could see the hesitation in his eyes, the quiet dignity of a man who had clearly lived a life of service and sacrifice, now humbled by something as ordinary as a lunch order.
Without thinking twice, I excused myself from the line, apologizing to the other customers, and stepped forward to the counter. I heard a few muttered grumbles about me cutting ahead, but my wife, who had stayed in line, simply smiled and whispered, “Just watch.”
As the elderly couple placed their order, the man reached the counter with his small change. I gently put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Semper Fi, Marine. Thank you for your service. This one’s on me.”
The old man looked up, eyes wide, and a small smile broke across his weathered face. “Do or die,” he replied simply.
I handed the cashier a twenty-dollar bill and told them to start over. Together, we upgraded their order—milkshakes, fries, and even a couple of turnovers for dessert. I watched their eyes well up with tears as they realized someone had honored them for their sacrifice. And, unexpectedly, many of the customers I had cut in front of also grew teary-eyed, sharing in the quiet moment of human kindness—except for the two bikers directly in front of us, who shrugged and claimed allergies.
After collecting our own order, we headed to the dining area, and to my surprise, the elderly couple motioned for us to join them at their table. What had begun as a quick stop for dinner turned into an hour-and-a-half long meal filled with stories, laughter, and shared respect.
I learned that the man had fought on Saipan and later on Iwo Jima at the tender age of nineteen. He bore the Purple Heart for both battles, a testament to his courage and sacrifice. Listening to him recount these moments, I felt a mix of awe and humility. Here was a man who had seen the worst of war, who had endured unimaginable hardships, and yet now, he worried simply about whether he had enough coins to buy lunch.
For me, that night wasn’t about fish sandwiches or fast food—it was about honor, gratitude, and humanity. Sometimes, life offers these unexpected, perfect moments, and for that evening, nothing could have made my day better. Semper Fi, Marine. Thank you.
