Mystified, are you?
No, I didn’t buy the farm, at least not yet. But today’s RobZerrvation does concern a topic that would have eventually meant my demise.
If you don’t recognize the source of the headline, here’s a reminder:
You’re in the Army now,
You’re not behind the plow,
You’ll never get rich,
You son of a bitch,
You’re in the Army now.
Oh, yeah, we’re talking about my life in the Army. Well, not really in the Army. I never enlisted nor was I drafted. In fact, for a time, I thought I was actually an outlaw, having failed to register for Selective Service when I turned 18. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I realized that I fell into a small black hole following Vietnam when no one had to register. So my life living in the shadows all these years was for naught.
I really admire people who can serve their country in this manner. To put one’s life on the line for our freedom is one of the noblest things a person can do and I applaud each and every man and woman who has donned a uniform and stepped into service, whether it was on the front lines or in some support role.
I know that I could have never been one of them. As many of you know, I live by a different set of rules than most people and at times my respect for authority is extremely fluid and often only marginal at best.
These character traits don’t bode well for a career in the military. Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, no matter. I march to the beat of a different drummer and I can safely say it isn’t a march.
I guess it’s a good thing that I was born at the right time. I probably would have never made it to the bus to take me to basic training if there had still been a draft. Half the time I wouldn’t even make it to the bus for school because I thought it limited my options too much.
When the military became all-volunteer, I wasn’t really excited about that either. Sure, it is a great career and the skills you learn and the things you learn about yourself will carry you on throughout your life. Again, noble, but not me.
I guess I was afraid that like a wild horse, the military would try to break me. Hey, I’ve seen an Officer and a Gentleman. Unfortunately, a drill sergeant would have had his hands full with me. I know for a fact that I would have spent all my time peeling potatoes or marking time in the brig for disobeying orders.
I can see it now. “OK Maggot. You are to take your weapon, make your way through the mud and under the barbed wire to take the hill beyond while live fire goes on above your head,” the sergeant would say.
I would reply, “Yeah, uh, no. I’m not really feeling it today, sarg. I don’t really like to get dirty and I’m kind of tired from that five mile run we did this morning. Can I just sit this one out? Maybe tomorrow. You can go take the hill though, don’t let me ruin your day.”
Then I’d get some lame order to drop and give the guy 20. I’d drop and probably make it through five. I don’t really like push ups, so I think that would be plenty. Sure, he’d yell at me, belittle me… but he can’t shoot me. (Can he?)
It’s not that I don’t like to be productive and carry my load, but I really don’t want to be told what to do. In fact, that is the quickest way to get me not to do something. My ex-whatever could tell you that. She’s about the closest I’ve ever come to having a drill sergeant. She loved to get in my face and give me orders that I was never going to carry out.
“Listen here, mister,” she would say, inches from my face. “You’re going to re-stack those dishes in the dishwasher and you’re going to do it the way I told you to do it, you hear me?
I could hear her fine. She didn’t even need to yell. That didn’t mean that I was going to do it. Sure I would have probably done it on my own. Give enough time and the right mood, it also migh amuse me to take the hill under live fire. But I’m definitely not going to do it just because Sarg is yelling at me. Ooh, Sarg, I’m so intimidated!
I can’t really kill anyone either. I had to kill a mouse in my house with a trap once. I almost burst into tears. My zeal for killing ends with insects that are in my home, and only if I can’t get them out easily. I just don’t like killing.
And I can’t be broken. Lord knows, the exes have tried. Like that wild horse, jump on me, ride me, but you aren’t going to break me. No sir, no way.
Which is a real shame, because I would have loved to have been a spokesperson for the military. It would have been a lot of fun. I have always wanted to write press releases about a recent bombing where you never use the words “bomb” or “bombing.” Instead, you use colorful phraseology, such as “interdiction,” “incursion,” or my favorite, “preemptive strike.” That would have been my dream job, to say things that totally mean something else entirely.
Unfortunately, that would require that I go through basic training. I would have to rise and shine when they told me to, eat my three squares, go on a 10 mile hike before lunch with a 50 pound pack and listen to that drill sergeant’s incessant droning. All so I could write some damned press releases and use fun words that are pure nonsense.
Oh, well. It’s all for naught now. I am too old for the military these days. I don’t even think that if WW III broke out tomorrow that I would get the call from Uncle Sam. I would be a lot more trouble to the military than any enemy ever could be, waiting for someone to try to order me around again,
In the Emerald City, wondering why someone would ever get behind a plow. They invented tractors for a reason, people,
– Robb