Flying With The Army

OK. I didn’t really fly with the Army, but it felt like I did. As I waited for my flight to Chicago last week, I began to notice that a significant percentage of the people around me at the departure gate were obviously military. Some of them were in uniform, some were in street clothes but carrying an army backpack, and some were neither wearing nor carrying anything related to uniform but were betrayed by their haircut or the people they were with. Seeing military personnel at SeaTac Airport is not unusual – it was the sheer numbers of folks in uniform which was remarkable.

And so, with time to kill and no kids to attend to, I people-watched. Oh my, they all looked so young – painfully young – but strong and vital and exuding vigor and the indestructibility of youth. Watching them gathering at the gate area made my heart ache. I had no idea whether they were about to leave on a mission to Iraq or Afghanistan but it was very obvious that they were not returning from a tour of duty. They were too happy and too confident. I looked at them and saw the hurt and pain which was in front of them on their chosen path. My geeky brain started calculating the probability of how many of them would be dead or maimed within six months or a year of deployment.

I guessed at an average age of 21 and this in itself was the thing that drew me into these dark thoughts: if the bright young men and women around me in fatigues were, on average, 21, that would mean that in 2001, when this whole mess started they were about 13. The same age as my CAM is now. That’s a frightening thought. Time accelerates when your baby becomes a teenager and he starts to make his own decisions. I would cheer if I saw my baby looking as strong and as fit as any of these kids, but I would cry in fear if I saw him in fatigues – as I’m sure their mothers have done. I wondered about their individual motivations to join the army and whether they really had any idea about what they were getting into.

While boarding the plane, I overheard a kid with an army haircut in front of me say “No, I’m just a sophomore in high school, but I want to sign up when I graduate.” My heart almost stopped.

On the flight, with a sleeping soldier on my right and an obviously ready-to-chat soldier on my left, I retreated into my book. I was afraid that if I started talking, I might overload him with questions. But when drinks were served, he struck up a conversation and happily answered all my questions and then some. Yes, the average age of the group was about 21. Yes, they were returning from a training session at Fort Lewis. Yes, when they were done with training, many of them would choose active duty. Yes, many of them had signed up as a way – the only way – for them to start or continue college courses in their chosen discipline. And – most terrifyingly for me – many of them had never been outside the US (he had). I can still remember the eyes of a soldier who trained his gun on me at a stop light in Belfast in the late ’80s. I was just 18, he wasn’t much older. Neither of us really knew anything about geopolitics or barely even local politics. I fear for these kids walking into similar situations where, as the guy I spoke to on the plane said “everyone is carrying a kalashnikov or an M-16.”

I applaud these young men and women for their bravery and courage.
I worry for their safety.
I empathize with their parents and loved ones.
I can’t help hoping that the engagements in Iraq and Afghanistan come to an end soon.