Before I was able to point out Fallujah on a map, we would play a game in the cafeteria line to kill time using plastic forks. The object of the game was to attach as many forks to the person directly in front of you before they realized it. Similar to the childhood board game called Operation, it took a steady hand with an enormous amount of poise. Underclassmen would walk down the lunch room isle way completely oblivious to the dozens of students staring and pointing as well as the half dozen plastic appendages hanging from them. It was the type of game that got exponentially better every time you played it.
The key target points included the edge of the uniformed red, white, or black collar, belt loops, and the rim of the khaki pocket. Amateurs would go for the backpack, which was clearly frowned upon because it was not sensitive to touch and, therefore, dismissible.
I can’t quite recall what was being served that day, but I’m sure it wasn’t a hamburger because it was early in the week and hamburgers were only served on Thursday. As I walked to my regular table, I noticed a young man sitting alone with an array of brochures laid out in front of him. His fantastic posture, sharp haircut, and dry-cleaned uniform impressed me, but his expression was one of a person contemplating suicide. I could tell that he was well aware of how pointless his job he had been assigned to was. Recruiting is a crucial part of the armed services, but not to a small Catholic school where 90% of the student body went on to a two year community college at a minimum, and the rest had made up their mind long before cafeteria visits on whether or not they were to join the armed forces.
Maybe I went and talked to him because I saw the utter boredom and despair in his eyes, or maybe it was because I did not want to partake in the current conversation at my regular table, which was how much each of us was bench pressing that particular week. Either way, I walked up to him and let out a blatant lie.
“I’m thinking about joining the National Guard.”
It was as if he was the Tin Man and I had moved him to the front of the donor’s list. His eyes were bright and he was ready and willing to give the pitch his commanding officer had made him repeat so many times over. He told me all about how I would get thousands of dollars for college in only one weekend a month and two weeks a year. He told me how my girlfriend would love my new body after I graduated from basic training. He told me how my parents would appreciate the character building I would receive. And being a lost 17 year old at the time, with no money for college, love handles, and more than a few disciplinary problems with my parents, I convinced myself that it might not be a bad thing to consider.
Then he dropped a bomb on me (figuratively, of course). He told me that I was being recruited to be a helicopter pilot. I immediately pictured myself with the jumpsuit and Aviator sunglasses, picking up injured soldiers who had thought that their country had forgotten about them and were just about to give up hope before I showed up. I thought of little native children in Africa seeing a flying craft for the first time and chasing after it with hopes of getting ride. It was such a glamorous thought! I would be a super hero.
When I came home and told my parents that I was considering it, their words and demeanor told two different stories. My mother was clearly bothered by it, but her comments and questions remained logical.
“We support your decision whichever way you choose, Dan. But we have a few concerns. What if they make you leave college if there is a natural disaster? What if war breaks out?”
“War? Come on, mom. We are in a time of peace, and I don’t see that changing in the next five years.”
My friend, Amanda, had a brother in the National Guard, so she told me to come by her house and speak to him. “I was never a bad kid in high school, but I goofed off a lot. It taught me discipline,” he assured me as he was weighing marijuana on a scale. “Does this bother you?” I shook my head. Then, he walked up to his closet and pulled out a dry cleaner bag. As he unzipped the plastic, I caught a glimpse of his graduation uniform. Full of shiny medals and patches with gold buttons down the front, I couldn’t help but picture myself wearing it with my chest puffed out saluting a flag. I was almost sold.
The next day during lunch, I walked up to the representative for a follow-up question.
“So what happens if war breaks out?”
He responded confidently, “It is the National Guard, Dan. We GUARD the NATION. We are the last line of defense.”
That answer was sufficient enough for me. If war breaks, let the marines handle it while I clean a tank in rural Iowa, collecting a fat check. There is no doubt in my mind that I would have gone through with it if my parents hadn’t dropped so many blatant hints. So, I decided not to join the National Guard.
Allow me to fast forward to September of my senior year, while sitting in Mr. Laake’s second period economics class. My friend, TJ, had first period P.E. and told us that he heard a plane had crashed into a building in New York. Of course we didn’t believe him, but our teacher said if we had time at the end of class we would turn on the TV and see if it was true.
As the minutes ticked down to the bell, Mr. Laake wrapped up his speech on supply and demand early enough for us to turn on The Today Show. It was just after the second tower got hit. The guys in the class, including myself, laughed in awe. We “oohed” and “aaahhed” because it was not real to us. No one attacks the United States. It was a hoax. It was a movie.
The impending days, weeks, and even months were nothing less than eerie. Patriotism was strong, but suspicion and fear was stronger. Even after the flags went back into storage closets and the phrase “United We Stand” had its letters rearranged on marquees to advertise restaurant specials, Americans still have a wistful look in their eye when someone mentions September 11th.
When the war in Iraq broke out two Marches later, I got wind that the first soldier from my area was killed in Iraq. He was in the National Guard. I began to think about how maybe he just wanted to get some money for college or get built for his girlfriend or get disciplined for his parents. I’m sure he got the pitch and saw the glamour of it just like I did. I’m sure he was lied to just like I was; because when war breaks, there is no last line of defense.
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