I enlisted in the U.S. Navy when I was 13 years old. Or at least I tried to. I was a bit large for my age and faked my birth certificate to say I was 18. It didn’t work, as my mother stepped in when the recruiter showed up to take me to AFEES (Armed Forces Examining And Entrance Station.)
But when I was 17 I convinced her to sign permission for me to join for real. It was 1977.
There were many reasons fueling my desire to enlist, from being the last of nine children at home smothering under a parent who didn’t want to let go, to a drifting and directionless view of my future, to my ever unquenchable wanderlust. But more than all of that was my desire to be part of something bigger than myself. Something I saw as necessary and worthy of commitment.
Sure I had those notions of glory and honor that pervade all boys becoming men, and the structure and rigidity of military life sounded great for one without a father who was left largely to raise himself; but I truly wanted to follow in the footsteps of so many American men who put aside individual recognition and became that cog in a gear in a great machine whose whole mission was to protect the rest of the people.
I spent four years on active duty, with part spent aboard a ship based at Norfolk, and the larger portion aboard one at San Francisco.
I won’t sugarcoat the story and pretend that it was all great or that I was the model sailor. I broke some rules and went to Captain’s Mast (non-judicial punishment.) But I managed to reach the rank of Petty Officer Third Class and earned the respect of the men below me and the officers above. Truthfully, prior to my discharge, the ship’s captain wrote to my mother and asked her to try and encourage me to re-enlist. Though I didn’t earn a Good Conduct Medal, my discharge was honorable.
I’ll pass over the part about life at sea and the adventures of a young man visiting exotic places, as well as the dangers encountered and the moments of peril.
I’ll note that this service followed freshly the US experience in Vietnam and the uprising of popular anger that lead to our quitting that war. We all heard stories of returning soldiers being spit on by American anti-war protestors. But I knew that they were a minority who were misguided in laying blame for that war at the feet of those cogs in the gear, and didn’t believe that the country as a whole felt that way.
And though in Norfolk, Virginia and in Alameda, California the townsfolk who had to deal with thousands of drunk and rowdy sailors developed a “Dogs And Sailors Keep Off The Grass” attitude, I knew that the people at large and around the country held a mostly positive attitude toward us for doing our job.
The major events of my enlistment were the Civil War in Yemen and the Iran Hostage Crisis, both of which extended our deployment and raised our level of alert.
But I never witnessed a shot fired in anger, nor engaged an enemy. It was the peacetime Navy that I served in. There were encounters with our adversary of the day, the Soviet Navy, and many storms at sea – some of which certainly could have killed us. But nothing about what we did can be compared to the lives of our forbearers of wars past, or of the dangers faced by uniformed men and women who came later and went to Kuwait, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Iraq again.
When people thank me for my service I feel a slight amount of guilt, because I know that in their eyes there is no distinction between the frontline troops who took fire in combat and those of us who spent our service years in (relative) safety.
Later, as a civilian mariner – a deck officer on merchant ships, I volunteered again, this time to carry the supplies and munitions the country needed to prosecute the actions of Desert Shield and Desert Storm. I spent the whole of the shooting war in the Persian Gulf, and this time took fire from the enemy in the form of a Scud Missile (it missed.)
But the job I did wasn’t attacking the enemy or defending in a battle. It was supporting the effort. It was holding together a crew of men who were brave enough to volunteer to go, but who were mostly emotionally ill-equipped to be in a war zone.
After the ground forces went in and the battle against Saddam Hussain was won, I saw and talked to a soldier who had been wounded. I met a tank commander who seemed to be coming to terms with how many enemy tanks he had destroyed and how many men had been killed. My hopes for these men to go on to happy lives in peace has never left my mind.
Since the terrorist attacks of 9/11 the national support for our women and men at arms has only grown. We are a country that admires and respects those who enlist at a level not seen since the Greatest Generation fought against the fascists.
(Fascists. That is a word I did not think I would ever use outside of a conversation about history. But here we are in 2020 and they are trying to hold sway in America.)
But we as a people are eager to let those who have served their country know that we appreciate their courage, their sacrifice, and the honor they show the country they love. I am with them. Both as a recipient of the thanks (however deserved I am,) and as one who thanks. Perhaps because I know the difference between the support guy in the back who helps and those who took and gave fire, I thank them with a bit more understanding and appreciation for what they have done. And I know that the biggest difference between those who lived and those who died was luck. And that those families who never saw their child, husband, wife, or parent again, or those who welcomed back those who would spend years or their whole lives coping with the damage the war had done to them, deserve our thanks and respect. And they deserve our help.
Maybe none of them truly thought they would be the one killed or wounded, or that the war experience would drive them to suicide or thoughts of same. But they each and all knew that this was bigger than just them. The country. The Constitution. This Republic that has changed the world.
Where am I going with this?
The recent story in the Atlantic Magazine that revealed some of the deplorable things that our President, Donald J. Trump said about those who served and those who were wounded, and those who died in answer to the call of duty to country upset me. It upset me much more than I expected it to. This is because it does not surprise me.
It isn’t a surprise because of the numerous things he has said in front of an open microphone. Both about our acknowledged heroes and the families who survived them.
It isn’t a surprise because he shirked his obligation to serve and used his family money and power to avoid the draft. Our President is a draft dodger. He thinks those who didn’t avoid Vietnam were suckers.
And while I knew about that, and I heard him say such awful things about gold star families and about John McCain, and many other things. And it has been clear for all of the years that he has been in the public eye that he only cares about himself, it is still revolting to hear that it goes beyond disregard for those who served. It is his disdain for our heroes. It is his petty need to never let anyone’s heroics outshine his own self opinion. It is his utter lack of understanding that service to others is the greatest thing we can do.
Service is our highest calling.
And I know that his devoted followers, whether veterans or not, will deny that this is true and continue to attack anyone who disapproves of Trump, but for those of us who are not in his cult we must reject him. We must repudiate him. The name Trump should evermore be synonymous with villain.
Not just for me and the paltry service that I offered, as sincere and effective as it was. But for all those who didn’t have to go but did. And all of those who looked upon this country and our ideals as worthy of sacrifice. And all those who know what it means to serve something bigger than your own desires. And for all of us who look upon a service man or woman and say thank you. You are not suckers. You are not losers.
You are heroes.