The Profession of Arms

Another day, another dime; lately I've been feeling the strains of having to work just to barely pass, and the sheer panic when you mull over the day and wonder whether you really are cut out for this shit. Am I just getting too old or are those the pangs of doubt and disillusionment gnawing at my knees, my shins... my sore heels? As I'm running the track for the nth time this week I wonder why I ever leased my life to the state.

In one of the military classes we had a week ago the lecturer stressed upon us the difference between the profession of arms and all other civilian jobs. They say that we uphold the same principles of professionalism, good service, integrity, and responsibility; but why does the military keep such high standards? All professions are expected to clock up early to work, but only in the military can you be charged for being a second late. Doctors are expected to be available when on-call; soldiers are on-call until retirement. Anyone can show up to work in a slightly wrinkled suit, but a misplaced crease on a military uniform can get you extra duties. It just doesn't seem fair, and it isn't. But we do this... the military does this because of the burden of trust placed upon us. While lawyers and policemen can put criminals behind bars; we can virtually blow the crap out of whole masses of insurgents. We are basically given the right to take a life - a job that merits the trust of the people in us as soldiers, as officers, to be firmly ground on what is right and what is just, what is merciful, and oftentimes, what is cruel. And just like continuously trickling droplets of water onto cement dig into and shape it, little habits that enforce discipline will ultimately mold one into a person of steadfast character.

Then again there is to this a more fundamental difference. This is the awareness of our potential losses, and what we have put at stake. What is optional service to all other individuals is demanded of us, that is, our very lives. No, I'm not just talking about dying for God and country on the battlefield. I mean this: Johnny left home at 16 with barely a stubble on his chin, a smattering of maths... and language, well, he wasn't too good at it. Didn't want to work at the local gas station, and guns have always been cool. Joins the army, gets his ass beat for a year, kicks other kids' asses for three. In that time he finds a girlfriend, plus four - the ladies like men in uniform. Little Johnny is a man, out of military school now and is raring to "blow shit up" in Iraq. Two months in the field is nothing like the years of harsh training; it is much harsher. Anticipating a landmine to go boom at every step is nothing like anticipating every blow from an upperclassman; it messes up his spirit. 5 weeks on the job and he gets a call from home. His dad's just died, bad fall. No, he decides to stay. The gunblasts numb his pain; the fear stays his worries. 8 weeks in, girlfriend number one calls to say she saw the discount abortionist, she couldn't possibly raise the kid alone. The night raids become more frequent, his knife slashes the enemy necks a lot deeper. Six months, he pops a few extra rounds into those suicidal fucks just for good measure. Time to go home, Johnny. The world's moved on without him he sees when he gets home. But his world's stopped at every bullet that whizzed by him. He drinks to jumpstart his life, drinks just a little too much. Battery's dead. He remembers the pow pow of the guns and bombs and realizes that he's utterly stuck. The world goes on while his own has stopped.

Giving up our lives doesn't quite stop at that moment of death. That is far too trivial, and we are far too insignificant. Giving up our lives has encompassed giving up little freedoms that had made us part of the normal populace. Self-sacrifice includes giving up memories that could have been made of a sweeter life and a family. But all this we gladly dedicate to mothers and fathers, brothers, sweethearts, friends, comrades, widows, country. I think about this, and I know I'm in the right place.