I had a discussion today with another one of those “wouldda, shouldda, couldda” folks that drives me insane. The issue? Military service.

I was born into an Army family and lived in a number of interesting places because of it. I joined the Army at 18 and spent the next 20 years doing all kinds of fascinating things that I won’t go into here. The point? I did what I felt needed to be done. It was truly the only life I had known so it seemed natural to return to it as soon as I was able. But because that life was, by default, compartmentalized (especially people and emotions) I’ll focus on people today.

For me and my kind growing up, there were lots of different groups of people. First, of course, were the military service members. Army, then Marines, then Navy. The Air Force really served as a charter airline for the Army (just like the Navy provided cruise-liners for the Marines) and didn’t get much respect from us Army brats. The Coast Guard didn’t count as a military service (except in WWII) because they fell under the Department of Transportation (after having been moved out of the Treasury Department, by the way). I’m certain every military branch had it’s own set of standards in which their service held the number one slot but since they were all posers anyway, it didn’t matter.

After the military service members were the dependents. Spouses and children were dependents. They were significantly lower on the totem pole than the service member, but at least we could buy cool crap at the post exchange.

Back in the day, being a dependent could suck really, really bad. Since it was the Vietnam era, almost all of my friends’ fathers were the service member, so where you stood in the social hierarchy depended on a few specific factors:
1. What was your dad’s rank?
2. Was your father Regular Army or drafted?
3. Was he a “soldier” or a REMF?
4. How many tours had he done in ‘Nam?

Due to segregation, we never hung out with any officers kids. My dad was a non-commissioned officer (NCO) and very proud of it. Although the Army ensured that officers, NCOs and junior enlisted soldiers all lived in different areas of the base (with significantly different standards of living, of course), I doubt my friends and I would have chosen to hang out with Zeros anyway. For clarification, enlisted ranks in the military start with the letter “E”. Officer ranks start with the letter “O”. Because the “O” looked like the number 0, we called officers and their dependents “Zeros”. I imagine it’s changed, but “Zero” was a derogatory term.

Anyway, back to segregation for a moment. I’m certain any military brat can tell a different story but me and my friends didn’t have issues of race. Segregation was by rank, not by race. I don’t ever recall as a kid hearing any of our dads refer to another person by a racial slur. Staff Sergeant Hernandez was either “Sergeant Hernandez” or the SDNCO (staff duty NCO). He wasn’t a “wetback” or a “spic” or anything else. Sergeant First Class Morris wasn’t “the black guy” or a “nigger.” He was “Sergeant Morris”. I think if any of our dads heard us refer to someone by a racial slur we would have had our asses kicked first by the dad that heard it then by our own fathers. As a child of the ’60s coming into maturity in the ’70s, racism wasn’t our issue. Whether you were a Zero or not was. And yes, if you screwed up and someone else’s dad caught you, he administered the first round of corporal punishment before you got sent to your dad for round two. No questions asked.

If your dad was Regular Army, you had it going on. Back in the day before your social security number became your number, you had a service number. Almost everyone remembers the old line about the three things you have tell a captor if you’re taken as a prisoner of war: Name, Rank and Service Number. No? You remember Name, Rank and Social Security Number? Newbie. “Real” soldiers, those that volunteered to join, had service numbers that started with “RA” for Regular Army. Soldiers that either volunteered to avoid the draft or were drafted had service numbers that started with “USA”. Since my dad joined during and did time in Korea, he had an RA number. That fact put me socially above some other kid who’s dad might have had more rank but only volunteered to join because he thought he might get drafted. We still accepted those kids but we let them know their dads were weak.

If your dad was a “soldier”, we knew it by his Military Occupational Specialty (MOS). It might have been called something different back then, but if your dad was Infantry, he was a soldier. Infantry, Armor (tanks), Artillery–those guys were the top spots. On one of his tours in Vietnam my dad was in Psychological Warfare working with the Special Forces, so I got to claim that honor also. If your dad was a cook, a supply guy or anything in the Adjutant General’s Corps or Finance, they were a REMF. Just like “Zero”, “REMF” (pronounced like it reads, remf) was derogatory. It stood for Rear Echelon Mother “Effer” and meant the chances of your dad actually seeing combat time were little to none. If your dad was a REMF, you were a REMF. It would be really bad if your dad was a personnel officer of a unit because then he’d be both a Zero and a REMF and your social status would suck with us. But since we didn’t associate with Zeros, we’d never see you anyway.

Today the outdated term REMF has been replaced by FOBBIT. If you’re a FOBBIT and proud, to me you’re still a REMF, loser.

How many tours had your dad done? Ideally, at least one. The last gasp of hope you had for any type of social recognition was if your dad had “punched his ticket” in Vietnam. If your dad had never been there, did not have orders sending him there soon or planned to ETS (get out of the service) before he got sent there, you were nothing with us. We would sooner play human-target lawn darts with a bunch of Zeros than a Non-Dep (Non-Deployable, Non-Deployed) REMF-loving waste of skin like you.

Non-Deps were vile. Even Zeros hated Non-Deps. It was universal. The best I can equate it to today was during Desert Storm. A female medical officer (Army, unfortunately) was interviewed on a local (Los Angeles) television station. In uniform, crying uncontrollably, she looked at the camera and said when she joined, no one told her she would have to go to war. That image was burned into my head and will stay with me forever. On my first day of basic training, a drill sergeant stood in front of us and told us that if we weren’t told one day we might be called upon to kill someone, perhaps by running a bayonet through their chest cavity in hand-to-hand combat, we were in the wrong place. How you can be in the Army–and an officer at that–and cry because “no one told you” is an outright lie.

Okay, so that basically established the pecking order within the accepted group of military branches and dependents. Then what?

We recognized two types of civilians. One had a capital “C” and the other was lower case. A Department of Defense (or Department of the Army, etc.) Civilian (capital “C”) was a technician. Oftentimes they were separated or retired service members that scored a sweet job doing stuff for the Army and getting paid for it. My teachers were Department of the Army (DA) Civilians. The people that worked at the MWR (Morale, Welfare and Recreation) office that rented us everything from rowboats and fishing poles to horses and guitars were Civilians. Civilians (capital “C”) and their dependents were okay by us. In Germany, for example, the father of a friend of mine separated from service and returned to marry a German woman. I don’t remember what Mr. Cobb did but he was a Civilian. His son was a friend of mine and we attended the Munich American Elementary school together. However, the Cobbs lived off-post in Unterhaching. Most of the Civilian families lived off-post but that was still okay.

Then there were civilians (lower case). Nothing was worse than a civilian. Words cannot express the disdain and contempt I had for civilians. From civilians came the two most evil infections the world has ever known: The Draft Dodger and the Career Student.

I will honestly confess that it wasn’t until my early-twenties that my mindset on civilians began to change. I still to this day cannot stomach draft dodgers and career students, but I accept that civilians have a place in this world and, most importantly, a right to exist. You might think I’m joking about this but those that know me well know how little I cared for civilians. I wasn’t a round-them-up-and-put-them-in-camps kind of freak (though I knew some) but I really didn’t care. I would donate blood to help a Non-Dep before I’d shed a tear for a civilian. This may not make sense to you but anyone with my background will understand immediately what I mean. We didn’t tell blonde jokes or Polish jokes or ethnic jokes–we told civilian jokes. How many civilians does it take to change a light bulb? Who cares? Nuke ’em ’til they glow and they won’t need light bulbs. That kind of stuff. But it only applied to American civilians. We loved the Germans and the Panamanians and everyone else. Just the Americans.

Before I continue, let me make a couple of things perfectly clear. First, it wasn’t until I joined the Army that I recognized not everyone was cut out for military service. Some people can’t stand the sight of blood and some people don’t do well under stress. Some people can’t work under someone else’s authority and some people obviously lost a game of human-target lawn darts early in life. I know not everyone is capable of performing the duties required of military service. In fact, there are some people in the service that have no right to be there but that also is a different story.

Second, education is good. Even a degree from a liberal, earth-first, Vegan-loving college is better than dropping out of school because it “got hard”. Life sucks if that’s what you make it. I’ve failed plenty of times in different things but at least I tried.

So, do I think everyone should be in the military? No. I hope that’s clear. But let me tell you two things before I *FINALLY* get to the point of today’s blog.

Hate is a strong word. I understand it’s subtleties and multifaceted meanings. I hate draft dodgers, especially those that fled out of the country during Vietnam. All my friends and the Zeros hated them, too. Being drafted did not automatically mean you were handed a rifle and sent to kill Viet Cong or NVA soldiers. What it meant was that the country in which you were lucky enough to be born required your service. Could you be drafted and killed in some far-away country in a war you didn’t support? Maybe. Could you be drafted and spend your whole tour of duty sweating your ass off painting rocks and picking off leeches at Fort Polk, Louisiana? Maybe. But if you were too much of a coward to consider anything other than running away, we’re better off without you anyway. But you’re still one step above the worst-of-the-worst: The Career Student.

Many cowards who chose to avoid the draft and couldn’t afford to run across the nearest border elected instead to become full-time college students. I honestly am not up-to-speed on what all of the draft laws were of the late ’60s and early ’70s, but I know that if you were a full-time college student, especially if you had a family, you got a reprieve of some sort. Un-Effing-Believable. I disagree with that line of reasoning just as much as I disagree that the draft should only be for men. If the country needs people to serve in the military, draft men and women, not just men. But that again is for another day.

If you are one of those who became a full-time college student to avoid the draft, knowing full-well what you were doing and taking this course of action with the intent simply to avoid the draft, I earnestly pray that someone else did not die because of your cowardice. You might be able to make peace with God, your pot supplier or whomever else you believe in to justify your actions, but there truly is no lower form of life. I consider you no better than a rapist or a child molester. Seriously. The contempt you have for your fellow man by causing them to pay a sacrifice on your behalf is unacceptable. You are the worst type of coward.

When we tuned in to the evening news to see what was happening in the States, what did we see? Flag burning college students complaining about the war. My friends and I hated them. Whether our dads were Regular Army, pre-draft volunteers or drafted, they were all service members who answered the call to serve their country. Did they like the war? None of us did. I can pretty much guarantee you that unless he was dead, you saw your father more in one year than I did in five. The same with my friends. Our dads weren’t there because they were called away. Sometimes one of our dads wouldn’t come home. There was no fanfare, no parade, no community event. One day Chris was at school with you and then he was gone for a few days. By the time word got back to us that Chris’ dad had died they were already on a plane back home. You never said goodbye. They just weren’t there anymore, neither Chris nor his dad. And who was responsible? As far as we were concerned, the flag-burning filth on TV.

I remember that my father returned home from Vietnam once (he served multiple tours there) and was taking a bus from Los Angeles to where we lived in Pasadena, California. Someone on the bus called him a baby killer. Why? Because that’s what all the young, hip, flag-burning, draft-dodging, pot-smoking, acid-dropping hippies did at the time. My dad beat the crap out of him and only because of the bus driver and some of the other bus riders, he didn’t kill him. Why? Today they would call it PTSD but unknown to the loser hippie, my dad had literally been in the jungles of Vietnam not 48 hours before shithead called him a baby killer. Does this matter? Not necessarily, but it will help you understand my position. I was proud of my dad for what he did. No one on TV ever stopped the flag burning. No one ever stopped the name calling. No one ever stopped the student protests (thanks for the effort at Kent State, though). “We”, the military service members and dependents, were always the villains.

One obvious group I excluded here were the conscientious objectors (COs). I respected them. They didn’t run from the draft or suddenly have the need to enroll in school. If they registered (many if not most did), they declared themselves as COs. Did that keep them from being drafted? No. In fact, I met two people when I first joined the service that had registered as COs but were drafted anyway. One was a Chaplain’s Aide and the other was a medic. Neither would carry a weapon or inflict harm to someone else but both answered when their draft number came up.

A conscientious objector is not someone that simply doesn’t want to join the military. To me, a CO is someone who either based on their religion, ethics, morality or combination of all three refuses to harm, much less kill, another. If you call yourself a CO and then punch someone in the face because they call you a coward, you’re not a CO. You’re a coward. A CO is not afraid of serving provided *service* is what’s demanded. Chaplain’s Aide, medic, dental hygienist, there are scores of job specialties where known, self-described COs can and do serve. If you were a CO during Vietnam, registered for the draft and reported to the draft board when they called your number, I have a lot of respect for you. Perhaps the military didn’t need or want you by the time you got there, but you got there. As a civilian (lower case “c”), you’re still head and shoulders above the rest because you took a stand on principles, not on fear. A true CO is not a coward. Jesus Christ was a conscientious objector and no one I know would consider Him a coward.

But on to today’s beef.

I’m certain I’m not the only person who’s heard someone say, “If I’d only stayed in I’d have my twenty by now.” That kind of bugs me. Why did you get out then? You did 12, 13 or 14 years–why did you quit? You can take an early retirement from the military at 15 years in most cases (reduced pay, of course, but you’re still eligible for retirement pay). Why did you leave? What are you not telling us? For what reason were you ineligible for promotion? What did you do that put a bar to reenlistment on your record? What happened? Just saying you “shouldda” stayed is not being honest. I’d like to know why you *didn’t* stay. If it wasn’t your choice, why not tell us what really happened? And don’t lie to me and tell me it was because you went to go work with Delta Force. Two quick questions will establish you’re a liar, so don’t even start. Just tell the truth. Why didn’t you stay?

Another favorite is, “If we were ever attacked I’d be the first one in line to volunteer.” What the frickin frack does that mean? You excuse the attack on the Marine barracks in Beirut because it wasn’t “us”. Technically, our Marines were in another country so that doesn’t count. Wow. Okay. So the first time they attacked the World Trade Center (remember that?) didn’t count? What about the USS Cole? Khobar Towers? What about our embassies? What about 9/11? At what point do you draw the line and say “we” have been attacked and now you’ll hold true to your word? Did you lie? Did you ever really intend to join or were you just lying to make yourself feel better? Oh, I know: When you said that you were in school. Now you’ve got a decent job and a family and you don’t want to give that up. What about the soldier on his fourth tour of duty that just got killed by a roadside bomb today? Are his wife and kids less important to him than yours are to you? Come on! Nut Up! If you’re afraid, say so.

There’s nothing wrong with being afraid. Fear is a basic emotion. The difference between fear and cowardice is simple: A person can have tremendous fear yet still try. A coward won’t even try. If you’re afraid to serve because it might cost you your life, let alone your family and your career, admit it. There is honor in admitting fear. But please, don’t lie to me and tell me that “we” haven’t met your conditions for being attacked (at which point you’ll run down to the recruiting station to sign up). Promote yourself up from coward. Admit your fear.

Today’s discussion was the classic, “If I could have joined, I would have” statement. I understand that if you have an emotional or physical impairment that keeps you from entering service in the military, it is what it is. I was seriously injured training with a Ranger unit at an Arctic Warfare school in Alaska. I was told if I did not accept a medical separation from service (with a healthy cash payout to boot) at that time (1985) that I would have to surrender any future medical benefits related to the injury and accept a mandatory separation date twenty years after my initial entry into the service. Unfortunately, my retirement paperwork came through in August of 2001 and we were attacked (again) in September of 2001. That, of course, is another subject.

Not everyone has a debilitating injury. The guy I was speaking with today thought he would get some respect from me by claiming an injury but that wasn’t to be.

In California, we have the California National Guard. I think just about every state has a National Guard, but that’s not important. The California National Guard (CANG) occupies and trains on CANG property. It’s state property, but designated for use by the CANG. We have armories and camps throughout the state. Have you ever thought about this? If the entire unit at your local armory gets mobilized and deployed overseas, what happens to the building? The unit won’t be gone forever. Who maintains the facility? Ah, my friend. The Great State of California has an answer for this: The California State Military Reserve (CSMR). Never heard of them? Neither had I, until I worked with them.

The CSMR has uniforms just like the CANG except the unit patches and name tapes are different. Admittedly, my experience with the CSMR is dated (1990s) but it was staffed with people who answered the call to serve in time of need. There were people of all ages, men and women alike. A guy I worked with for a short time was a captain in the CSMR who could only walk with the use of crutches as he was essentially a paraplegic. He was freakin’ awesome.

I was a Military Intelligence officer with an emphasis on electronic warfare (jamming, direction finding, communications deception, etc.). I was detailed at one point to work as a liaison officer to the CANG’s 40th Infantry Division when they went to the field for their annual two week training exercise. I had a senior NCO with me and together we comprised what was known as an IEWSE (Intelligence and Electronic Warfare Staff Element). We rolled up to the designated rally point for our initial contact as planned.

When the back ramp of the M577 Command Track came down, I was surprised to see a guy with two silver crutches coming down the ramp. Having had the experience of both legs in full casts at the same time myself, I figured this guy had been injured recently. He and I were both captains so we introduced ourselves by first name (though I couldn’t tell you his name if I had to right now). It was obvious by the way he moved that he had not been injured per se, but had a disability. Namely, he couldn’t walk without his crutches.

Yes, we spoke about the mission and what I was there to do and all that crap, which isn’t the point here. I got to speaking with him about how he got to be in the middle of Camp Roberts, California in the back of an armored personnel carrier when he clearly didn’t meet the physical requirements for military service. He told me about the CSMR, what they did and how they functioned. I was fascinated. This guy was a freakin’ genius who didn’t have a disability at all–he just couldn’t walk. To him it was more of an annoyance than anything else, but it really forced me to wrap my head around the concept of being disabled versus having an impairment. This guy couldn’t walk but it didn’t keep him from thinking. It may seem incredibly ignorant now, but I don’t know that the point had ever been made as clearly as it was working with him. He was a great guy to work with and it was obvious the other people in the command respected him very much.

We spoke at length about the CSMR. Basically, if a unit gets deployed, the CSMR will occupy the armory until the unit returns. There’s more to it than that of course, but my point is this: The guy today said his hearing in one ear was too bad to join the Army. If he “couldda”, he “wouldda” but he couldn’t so he didn’t. When I told him about the CSMR and the fact that he could still serve in uniform, the conversation went from motivation to something along the lines of not having the time to be able to do it right now. Very weak.

It really bothers me to speak with someone about military service they didn’t perform. Why waste my time? Honestly, now that I’m older and hopefully more mature, I respect you just for serving in the first place. I don’t care if you painted handrails deep in the bowels of a Navy ship or chocked wheels on an airfield in the middle of nowhere for the Air Force. You don’t have to be a Force Recon Marine or a Ranger. Your willingness to serve puts you in a select group. Your motivation and dedication might define what you do and how well you do it, but it doesn’t define *you*.

I know I will have to endure more shouldda, wouldda, couldda conversations in the future. I enjoy speaking with other people about their specific military experiences. The stuff I did and for which I was trained was fairly unique, highly specialized and not well known. My world was one acronym after another, all of which had specific references to either capabilities, platforms, performance, personnel or missions. If you know the difference between Trailblazer, Teammate, Quick Fix, Rivet Joint or Mohawk, let’s talk. Otherwise, I’d be more than happy to listen you. Everyone who’s served has a different experience, some good, some bad. But please, if you didn’t even try, don’t ask me to talk about my service. You wouldn’t understand.

I have some pretty simple ground rules regarding military service.

1. If you served, don’t lie about what you did. A liar is a liar. You’re not a Ranger because you bought the tab at the PX, you’ve never served in Delta Force and your sniper team was never sent to assassinate someone. Don’t lie.
2. If you want to serve, look into it first. Don’t join because Call of Duty is a bad-ass video game and you kick ass and take names like no one else. Serving is not a video game. It’s not a joke. You might have to kill someone. You might die. Worse, you might suffer horrible, disfiguring injuries. Know the risks. Don’t do it because you broke up with your high school sweetheart or because you think it’s your best-bet for a job. Do it because it’s right and you and your family know the risks.
3. If you don’t want to serve, don’t. But don’t lie about it. Don’t pull the conscientious objector card and then wish death or injury to someone else. Don’t say it’s because we’re not really at war. Don’t say it’s because you’re not able to serve. Tell me you’re a CO and prove it by joining as a Chaplain’s Aide. Tell me you’re afraid and earn a little respect. Don’t lie and make up some reason why you can’t serve. Don’t be a coward.
4. If you didn’t register for the draft, do so. It’s still the law.
5. If you’re currently serving and need to speak with someone about what you’ve seen, done, heard or read about, talk to your Chaplain. You don’t have to be ‘religious’ to talk to a Chaplain. For what it’s worth, if you think you might have something like Combat Stress or PTSD, a conversation with the Chaplain could help clarify the issue confidentially. If you go to the TMC, an Aid station or hospital for consultation, that gets put in your record. See the Chaplain first.
6. If you’re currently serving and want to re-up or separate from service, don’t make a decision without including your family. You need their support either way.
7. If you’re a civilian and you read this whole thing, thank you. I’m almost fifty now and it’s taken my whole life to accept you as an equal. I wasn’t better than you, it’s just that you didn’t deserve the company of service members and dependants. I’m almost over all of that. Unless, of course…
8. If you’re a draft dodger or a career student (as defined above), pray. Pray daily. Pray that God will remove the guilt I hope you feel as a result of your selfish, cowardly acts of betrayal to true Americans. When you see the names on the Vietnam War Memorial, I hope you say a prayer that your petty act of self preservation did not result in one single person’s death. Pray that God will forgive you when Jesus reminds you of John 15:13.