Letter: The last bus

Submitted by Greg Alderete.

It was a dark, wet night in Belgium—one of those nights that seeps into your bones and makes you wish you were anywhere but trudging along cobblestone streets, soaked to the skin. I was a teenager then, living off-post, which was my dad’s idea of “broadening our horizons.” While most of the other Army kids lived in the bubble of the military base, with its neat rows of houses and familiar faces, we were out in the wilds of the Belgian economy, where the neighbors spoke French and Flemish and you were never quite sure if you were buying milk or buttermilk at the grocery store.

This arrangement had its perks, sure—great bread, new experiences, and the kind of independence that sticks with you for life. But it also came with its drawbacks, like trying to get home at night when you lived 7 miles out of town and the last bus left at 11:15 sharp. Miss it, and you were on your own.

That particular night, I’d been at a local pub, doing what teenagers in Belgium tend to do—soaking up the atmosphere, maybe a little too much of it. When I stepped out into the rain and checked my watch, my heart sank. Ten minutes to make it to the bus stop, and I was a half-mile away.

Now, there were two ways to get to the bus stop: the long way, which followed the winding streets around the headquarters building, and the short way, which involved scaling the tall fence topped with barbed wire that surrounded the secure facility. Normally, I’d have taken the long way and spared myself the risk of being tackled by a guard dog or, worse, an MP with a chip on his shoulder. But that night, wet, cold, and desperate, I decided to risk it.

I sized up the fence like it was an Olympic high jump. One deep breath, and I went for it, pulling myself up and over with all the grace of a giraffe on roller skates. Somehow, I made it to the other side without snagging my jacket or slicing myself open. Adrenaline pumping, I bolted across the grounds like a fugitive in a rainstorm, my wet sneakers slapping against the pavement.

I could see the green bus turning the corner as I rounded the headquarters building. My heart leapt. But by the time I reached the stop, the doors were closed, and the bus was starting to pull away.

Now, let me tell you something about military bus drivers—they’re professionals. Their job is to keep to the schedule, and once they’ve closed those doors and shifted into gear, they’re not supposed to stop again until the next designated stop. But as I waved my arms and ran alongside the bus, soaked and probably looking half-crazed, something miraculous happened.

The driver glanced in his mirror, slowed down, and stopped. He opened the door and gave me a long, appraising look. He had one of those faces that could be stern or kind, depending on how the light hit it, and at that moment, he looked like a tired but understanding dad. He didn’t say anything, just nodded as I scrambled aboard, gasping and dripping water all over the floor.

“Merci,” I managed to sputter, and he gave me a small smirk, as if to say, Kid, you owe me one.

I sank into the nearest seat, still catching my breath, and as the bus pulled away, I couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t just relief at making it home that night. It was the kindness of a stranger, a small act of compassion that meant the world to a cold, wet, slightly reckless teenager in a foreign land.

To this day, I remember that driver and his quiet generosity. Living off-post might’ve been harder, but moments like that made me feel like I was part of something bigger—a world where even on the rainiest nights, someone might still stop and open the door for you.