Servicemen and Solider Boys

42 weeks down
11 weeks to go
8ish months until the wedding

Ever notice how when you go about the business of buying a new car, the very *second* you decide which make and model you are going to purchase it is the only car you see on the road? There’s another one. And another. And another. Sometimes you see it so often that you decide it’s not so special at all and you get turned off by it. And other times the more you see it, the more you appreciate the goodness of it and the frequent spotting just makes you want it even more.

For me, once I hooked my wagon to J and officially became a part of the military circuit (circus? circuit? potato, po-TAT-o?) I began to notice, literally every place I went, military folks. I mean everywhere. You can’t sneeze without having an officer hand you a tissue it seems. Now granted, I know that now that I live in DC this effect is probably greatly amplified. But I’m not just talking about my time since I’ve been in DC. It’s any place I travel. It’s everywhere I go.

And not only am I starting to more often notice these folks, I’m also starting to pay more attention to them as well (a subtle difference.) I check them out. How they walk and talk; how they interact with others; how they carry themselves, and, if I can decode their chest-and-shoulder-swag, what their branch and rank and specialty is as well. (By the way, my skills in this capacity are laughable. I can basically pick out an Army guy if they are the same rank as J. After that, I got nothin’. I feel like I need a class on that so I don’t go bad mouthing a General by accident. Seriously, who teaches the “Try Not to Piss-off Superior Officers” class for spouses? I’ll totally sign up for it.)

I did a lot of travel over the holidays (for a refreshing change of pace) and found myself in various airports around the country. And at each airport, lo and behold, I saw servicepeople. At one airport, I must have been very close to several military installations because I am going to say that a full 30% of the people there were in uniform from all different branches of the service. And I definitely got in on the start of a deployment by one of the groups, as they were moving en masse with their duffles and because each *extraordinarily* young serviceman had a crying 19 year old girl in tow. (P.S. I also found out that in *some* airports, in *some* situations said-19-year-olds can get a special pass to go all the way to the gate instead of not being allowed to pass security. I actually thought this was unbelievably kind of airport security people.)

I sat and watched these teary goodbye scenes, wondering if that was what J and I looked like when we parted—if I looked like a crying 19-year-old and he the stoic young soldier. I was lost in these thoughts as I sat down in the waiting area for my flight.

A few moments later a linebacker sized brute of a young man came and sat down beside me, a 6-foot-something oxen-esque 20 year old, plain-clothesed, in jeans and a camo hat (camo like, “I’m a deer hunter” not camo as in uniform.) He was interested in talking to people. I became very interested in my book.

A few minutes later, a young soldier came and sat down a few seats on the other side of me. He was 18 if he was a day: skinny as a rail, white-blonde hair, an acne-covered, hairless face and the very close buzz-cut of a young soldier.

*So this is the part in the story where I have to fully admit that I was unable to read the chest swag of this young man and that I am using the term “soldier” liberally. J would warn cautious use of this term and point out to me that a Soldier is an Armyman… Sailor a Navyman…Airman an Air Force term and, well, a Marine is a Marine, and therefore I shouldn’t be calling this kid a soldier unless I know he was in the Army. Let’s just pretend he was. Because I’m pretty sure that he was. And the branch of the service to which he belonged is really irrelevant to the point of the story. This is my military disclaimer and it is applicable to the title of this blog as well.

This kid was clearly wrapped up in thought: Focused, wringing his hands slightly, and staring down at his feet. Ox tried to start up a conversation.

“You in the Army huh? Me too.” And then he went on in a loud and rather boorish manner talking about how he wanted to be a special forces guy. How he hated school. How he partied hard. Didn’t have time for book learning. And basically he just wanted a gun in his hands so he could go kick some ass.

I looked at this kid and sighed deeply. He was so young. And he didn’t know any better. Didn’t know when to shut up. Full of bravado and fire. I didn’t know whether to feel really sorry for him or punch him in the mouth to get him to stop talking. And clearly he had not seen battle. Young and so stupid. In my head I thought: when people think about the military in any sort of disparaging way, this kid is probably the poster child.

The young kid next to me listened politely, saying nothing at all. He nodded his head every once in awhile to indicate he was still there. But clearly, he had no time for this guy and was not going to engage in a conversation about his antics. Finally Ox stopped for a breath and a sip of his coffee as we were getting ready to board the plane.

“Hey man, I didn’t even ask you…what do YOU do?”

The young kid smiled softly, and turned his face full on Ox for the first time in the entire conversation.

He stared straight into Ox’s eyes and without flinching simply said, “I serve my Country.” And with that, he turned to board the plane.

I think my gasp was audible because Ox, finally realizing I had been listening to the conversation going on around me, looked right at me with a look of utter humiliation. I don’t really think that was what the young soldier had been aiming to do necessarily, to humiliate Ox, but in just those four words he had spoken volumes about himself and his intentions, and served as the mirror Ox very much needed. (This was such a J moment- he would have said exactly the same thing I think. It made me miss him terribly.)

I couldn’t shake this interaction for the entire plane ride. It occurred to me that there are some folks who join the military to be soldiers (or airmen, or marines, or sailors) and there are some that join to be service-people. And I had just seen what the difference looked like.

When I got off the plane, I found myself standing next to the young soldier who no longer seemed young and nervous, but rather manly, confident and composed. I felt compelled to say something…to say thank you…to say, you’re gonna be ok kid, anything. All I could really think was that 1) I know how uncomfortable that makes J, who *easily* had 15 years on this kid, and who I felt like would have no idea what to do with a thank you yet, and 2) I didn’t think I could get a “thank you” out to this kid without crying (and I really didn’t want to be the weird middle aged lady who cried in the airport.) But I was so touched, and I wanted to let him know that what he said had had an impact on me.

His back was to me, but I gently grabbed his forearm in a very motherly-like squeeze. He turned around to face me (I’m pretty sure he recognized me and knew I had been a “participant” of the pre-flight conversation.) I teared up when he looked at me and knew I wouldn’t be able to speak. I gave him a small but warm smile, and just simply nodded my head. He understood.

“Thanks ma’am,” he said, as he grabbed his duffle bag and walked out the door to whatever came next.

In my head I thought of J and how I feel like I could have been having that same conversation with an 18-year-old him. He would be a Serviceman (and always has been a Serviceman in my mind’s eye) and not the soldier boy.

As I turned to grab my luggage, I thought of J fondly, so glad to have had this interaction and to know that when J retires there will be other young servicemen behind him to lead the way. And until then, I’m going to happily keep spotting this kind of "Army guy," reminding me why I chose to be with J in the first place.