M_ and a Slip of the Pen (Part 1)

After three years in a combat unit, my oldest son, M_, finished his required term of duty and returned home. We had seen M_ many times during the short leaves he received over the course of his service, and we had occasionally traveled to visit him at his various bases, yet our joy at having him back was coupled with anxiety: M_ had been at the epicenter of an explosion, but had survived. How would M_ adapt to the freedom of civilian life?

Several days ago, I wrote an e-mail to a friend:

We were concerned when M_ first came home. We worry if I experienced shock . . .

After rereading the e-mail, I noticed that "I" had been substituted for "he". I shook my head in disbelief. Here was subliminal acknowledgement of what I already knew: that you do not emerge from life here unscathed and that I, too, was among the "walking wounded", prone to sudden bursts of anger, impatience and irregular sleep.

* * * * * *

It is almost 30 years ago, and I don't remember all of their names, but I remember the faces of those who shared my tent during basic training. They were a cross section of society, each one from a different town or city, each with his own special personality, predisposed for better or worse to the physical trials and mental challenges that would be hurled at us during the next three months.

Did you ever see Richard Gere's "Officer and a Gentleman"? I sneered when I saw this movie. My basic training was not about shining a belt buckle, and when we ran day and night, it was not in Nikes. I lost the sense of feeling in one toe, and when I removed my boots, one of my Achilles tendons made noises like the rusty hinge of a door.

The boys with whom I shared a tent during that period? I am certain that they have grown heavier and grayer, and I could walk by them in the street today without recognizing them. But at the time, they were at the prime of their lives, without the worries of family and mortgage, dreaming of girlfriends, awaiting their next weekend pass to freedom. There was A_, the farm boy, who showed us the meaning of self-discipline and was clearly headed for officer training. There was V_, the new immigrant, who, despite his smoking habit, could run like the wind. There was D_, who couldn't stop babbling, E_, the philosopher, S_, the most sensitive among us, and R_, a dreamy kid, who, no matter what happened, always smiled.

I remember how R_ took precious time to explain to me how to clean my gun, just seconds before inspection, and how we were both "disciplined" for failing to be ready on time. Yet once again, his smile and optimism never left him.

It was several months later, after I had been sent to another unit, that I again encountered my squad from basic training:

"Did you hear?"

"No, what happened?"

"R_ is dead."

You see, it's a lottery, and if your number comes up, are you willing to pay the price? I am. But was I wrong to impart these values to my oldest, M_, or, is there anything else that matters?