Fatherhood Friday: Veteran's Appreciation

I'm still on vacation, and I have more guest posters lined up for you to read, but I wanted to tell you about something that happened to me at SeaWorld Orlando, yesterday.

We spent a fine day in the park, having a good time interacting with Dolphins, looking at the sharks, Otters, and Sea Lions.  SoccerGirl and I went on the Journey to Atlantis roller coaster/water flume ride (I freakin' hate those things, but what's a dad to do, eh?), and she go to touch the Manta Rays in their shallow tanks "Aren't you going to touch them, daddy?"  "um... no, babe, but you go right ahead".

We had a great time as we always do.

Then it was time for the Shamu killer whale show.  We scooted (yes, scooted.  I only scoot when I am on vacation) over to Shamu stadium and got great seats, with Mrs. Gunfighter and myself sitting in a higher section and SoccerGirl somewhere in the second-row "Splash Zone"... because the only thing better than acrobatic sea-going predators, is getting soaking wet because of  acrobatic sea-going predators.

The show started right on time with all of the usual fanfare, but something about the show bothered me today, and that is what I want to talk about.

At the beginning of the show, there is a segment in which Anheuser Busch (the company that owns the SeaWorld/Busch Gardens parks) salutes American veterans, and asks all veterans of the US armed forces (and those of the UK and any of our allies) to stand up and be recognized.  When they did this, I, and all of the other veterans received a lengthy round of applause. 

It made me uncomfortable.

It always makes me uncomfortable.

It doesn’t make me uncomfortable because I am ashamed of my service.  Quite the contrary.  I am proud to have served in our armed forces, and I am proud of my continued service to this day.  No… it was something else.  I still can’t quite put my finger on it as I sit here typing, nine hours after the show.  I think what was/is bothering me is the nearly exalted status of our veterans.

Look, I joined the service as a 17 year old that really needed to get the hell out of Union, New Jersey, because college wasn’t an option, and I couldn’t stay home anymore.  I had to leave, and Uncle Sam gave me an out, and a direction.  As patriotic as I was then (and now), my main motivation was to get away from home… and for so many other young people across America, Uncle Sam gave me a home, and a purpose.

I was a fairly bright kid.  You wouldn’t know it to look at my SAT score, but the fact remains.  When I took the entry battery of tests, I could have done nearly anything that was available.  Instead, I told them that I wanted to do dangerous stuff involving guns, that may well have lead to getting my ass shot off.  Maybe I wasn’t so bright after all.

I spent the next eight years doing what Uncle Sam, in the guise of my sergeants, told me to do.  In turn, I became one of those sergeants who got to tell the younger fellow what to do (and I was a grizzled old guy by then… I think I was just shy of 20 when I was made a sergeant).

We ran.  We did obstacle courses.  We swam (Marines are amphibious, remember?).  We trained to be able to shoot people as far as 500 yards away, with an unmodified rifle.  We shot up things using machineguns, rifles, mortars, and anti-tank missiles.  When we got tired of that, we practiced using our bayonets to kill people at close range.  We learned to read maps so that we could navigate from one place to another in order to kill people when we got there… or to guide artillery, or air support.  We learned to make range sketches, so we wouldn’t forget where we planted mines.  We learned how to find mines by lying on the ground, and probing for them with our bayonets. 

We spent a lot of time, in those Cold War days, practicing to identify Soviet-made combat vehicles (The T-80, T-72, BMP, BTR-60, GAZ, and the BDRM, to name a few).  We practiced assaulting defended beaches via landing craft, small boats, and helicopters.

We did all sorts of cool stuff like that.  We also spent a lot of time having fun.  When I was in the service, I saw the world.  I saw the far-east.  I saw the middle-east.  I saw Western Europe… and that part called East Berlin.  I have been in at least 18 countries (or something like that).  I have been tattooed, been in bar fights, been ferociously drunk, and wooed women in at least three different languages.

I was good at my job.  I was a highly disciplined killing machine.  Oh, don’t get all squishy on me… that’s the purpose of our armed forces.  Never forget that.  All of the people who enter the service to learn a skill are all there to support those of us that do the killing.  Anyway, I was good at my job.

I loved the discipline.  I loved the traditions.  I loved being totally lethal.  I loved my comrades… but in all of those years, I was always very aware of what my status was:  I was nothing more than a bullet sponge for our society.

Most of us were lower-middle to working class to poor kids who, if they weren’t wearing a uniform, would have been on the dole. We knew it.  We came from Sandusky, Ohio; Mable, Minnesota; Ottumwa, Iowa; Harlem, New York, and lots of other places that held no promise for us. Indeed, many of us were from nowhere… we were from whatever military hospital we happened to be near when or mother’s were pregnant and our dads were serving in, or just returning from, Vietnam.

I won’t try to tell you what the motivation was for everyone who served when I did, but one thing I can tell you is that I never heard anyone say (not even the officers):  “We are here to protect American freedom”.  Most of us were there for each other.

All of which brings me, at long last, to my point.

Spare me your thanks.  I wasn’t doing it for you.  I was doing it for me, but you are welcome, just the same.