blog.eater.org

Green Days

I’ve decided I should write down as many of my Army experiences as I can before I forget them. It’s been over ten years since I left, and the memories are getting a little fuzzy around the edges.

“Sorry, I’m extremely homosexual.” That was my typical response when military recruiters would call the house. Nothing worked faster to get a Utah-based military recruiter off the telephone. In other words, I wasn’t very interested in joining any branch of the military.

I had taken the ASVAB test at some point in high school. I scored high enough to catch the attention of the recruiters, which I interpreted to mean they noticed I was capable of signing my name to a piece of paper. Later, I discovered the algorithm pegged me for a natural born MLRS operator. (I still have no idea what criteria resulted in that oddly specific choice.) Regardless, I didn’t care. At this point in my life (around 19) I wasn’t very good with authority. I wasn’t particularly aware of foreign affairs. Hell, I never even watched the local news. I had safety pins hanging from my earlobe and angst in my heart. It was the special sort of angst that grows only in teenage boys who were relocated to Utah right before high school. I was not a military hopeful.

Then, overnight, I changed my mind about the military and marched straight to the recruiter to sign my name (life) on the line.

I have two versions explaining why I made this decision. The first and most common version is the version I tell people casually, when a joke is more appropriate than a serious explanation: I say I joined to make up for not playing sports in high school. The second and more truthful version is the version I usually only share with people I consider good friends. (This is the first time I’ve spoken or written about it in public.)

I wasn’t a delinquent teenager, but I like to think that’s because I was smart enough to evade the police. In my late teens, most of my social circle was comprised of bona fide delinquents, and we were all continually up to no good whatsoever. I could probably write a hundred blog posts from those days. Near the end of it all, I had a couple of uncomfortably close calls with mortality that made me reconsider my perspectives on life and what I wanted to do with it. Very simply put, I didn’t want to waste my life in a stupid way, so instead I decided to find something a little more noble.

So why the military and not, say, a university, like a normal person? This is embarrassingly ridiculous, but Full Metal Jacket, Commando, Apocalypse Now, and Predator all played a significant role in seeding the idea. The all or nothing nature of infantry warfare appealed to me. I loved the idea of elite commando units ninja-ing through the jungle. If an alien landed and started hunting us, I wanted to be right there. It was infinitely more exciting than turning 20 in Utah, of all places.

This decision probably seemed absolutely insane to observers. I hated being told what to do. I was not even close to athletic. I may have been a quasi-delinquent, but I was also a computer geek, with a body forged by years of sitting motionless in front of a keyboard. I couldn’t run a mile without doing the full-blown Fatty McGee. I tried doing push-ups and it was not pretty. I knew nothing about the military. I couldn’t distinguish a sergeant from a general.

Ever the stubborn kid, fueled by testosterone, I proceeded straight to the recruiter’s office and asked him what they had for me. He handed me a glossy magazine showcasing different Army jobs, and I flipped through it while he told me about the GI Bill and other various benefits I had zero interest in.

Then I saw what looked very much like the following picture. This might even be the actual picture:

I pointed, and said “What’s that?”

“Those are Airborne Rangers,” he said, and then showed me a video about the 75th Ranger Regiment.

“That’s what I want to do,” I told him.

He explained in carefully chosen words that being a Ranger is actually pretty hard and especially hard for people who are not in very good shape. He then talked for a while to make sure I understand this was for real, not a game. Rangers deploy six or eight times per year, he warned. Then he decided who cares, he had a quota to fill and I was obviously eager. (He didn’t say that last part, but it was written in his eyes clearly enough.) “Let me see if I can pull some strings,” he said.

He got on the phone and started talking to what I only later realized was very likely a dial-tone. “Hey, I know they’re really hard to get, but can you help me with a Ranger slot? I have a young gentlemen here who… yes, I’ll hold on.”

Intense silence.

“Yes I’m still here. You have one? Great, I really owe you one. Thanks so much.”

I’m smiling like a big dummy at this point. He hangs up and tells me how they’ve got just one left, but it’s not guaranteed to be available for long. I’ll have to act soon if I want it.

And, of course, I took the bait. Hell, I didn’t even need bait. They had me at swamp commando training. I committed right then and there.

A few months later, after a series of near-delinquent going away parties, I was on a plane bound for Georgia, where I would begin my training.

TBC…

[Comments.]

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