I am angry. Pissed-off-and-seeing-red kind of angry. Angry enough that perhaps I shouldn't blog until I'm calmer, more reasonable.
But dammit, I don't want to be reasonable and I won't be. Reasonable is for deciding what color to paint your living room, which vehicle to purchase, what to serve for Sunday dinner, or which proposed bills should be made into law - and which ones should be recycled as toilet paper. No, there are times that "being reasonable" is not reasonable, times when a person has to stand up and announce that THIS IS FUCKING MADNESS AND IT HAS TO STOP!
So what set me off tonight?
Simple. I talked to a young man with whom my husband works, and found out something I hadn't known. His long-time best friend, also in his mid-20's, spent two years in Iraq. He came home, and then volunteered to return because he felt his team needed him there.
He won't be coming back this time.
Not a new - or uncommon - story, I know. Since the time before recorded history, there have been far too many of our sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, who have gone into battle, to return either changed - or not at all.
I dare not pretend to know the pain a fallen warrior's loved ones suffer when they learn there will be no joyful homecoming, nor can I truly comprehend the ravages of emotion that follow in the days, weeks and months ahead. That is nothing I've ever experienced first-hand, and I pray to whatever God or gods there may be that I am never called upon to do so.
Yes, my youngest is in the Navy, and will report to his first duty station over the summer, once his submarine training is complete. There no guarantee of safety for him, even were his boat the most modern and well-designed of submarines. He's spoken of possibly volunteering for ground duty in the Middle East (an option even for a submariner), and quite frankly, this thought terrifies me. I can't help but suspect that safe is a relative term in that region, meaning not that one has a slim possibility of injury while assigned there, but that the odds are maybe slightly better than 50/50 that one may survive until the next meal. Not a reassuring thought for a parent.
Where did we go right in raising this child? Did we not try hard enough to impress upon him the dangers inherent in military service? Did his combat-veteran grandfather (Korean War) not tell him enough horror stories regarding the things he saw and experienced? Was it because he wanted to follow in the footsteps of his grandfathers, and their fathers and their fathers? Maybe he was influenced by our proudly displaying his several-times-great grandfather's release from a Union prison during the Civil War. Or perhaps he was influenced by the anger in his father's and my voices over the years when we've railed against the failures of both society and government (and not just of those here in the U.S.) in serving and caring for the veterans who were willing to sacrifice everything for their countries.
Or maybe, like so many others, he simply felt called to serve, as some are called to the religious life?
I often joke that Squidboy volunteered so he could have a guaranteed paycheck for 5 years, and get paid to get dirty and greasy and play with things that go boom. While that may be a small part of the reason he joined the Navy, I know that's not the whole story. For whatever reason(s) he has chosen this life of sacrifice, I honor him, as I respect and honor all those who have chosen to Serve on behalf of the rest of us. And should he receive orders for duty in unfriendly territory, my constant prayer will be, Take me, not him. Paralyze me, kill me, turn me into a fucking vegetable, just keep my son safe!
But that's not really what I wanted to write about.
No, what has had me sitting here at the keyboard for 4-plus hours is the anger I feel regarding the death of the young man I mentioned above, and about the injustice of it all. He knew what he was doing, knew that he was risking his life, and yet he chose to do so because he felt it was necessary, that it was the right thing to do. I'm angry that he - like so many others - died for a cause when those who made the decision to go to war stayed safely at home, sacrificing nothing, and risking nothing but the potential judgement of history upon them.
There again, that's nothing new; armed conflicts have been instigated for centuries by those who were never required to actually take up arms and take their place on the front lines. And the injustice of that pisses me off. Those who are sending others to die should not be allowed to sit in the safety and comfort of their modern day throne rooms, behind their buffer zone of flunkies and personal guards. No, they should be issued the same armament, the same gear, the same food, and the same armor that the front-line troops receive, and spend the same amount of time in the danger zone that those who will fight and die for them must spend, eating and sleeping with those troops. And their nearest-and-dearest should be required to do the same - with, of course, the exact same standards and exemptions (for age, disability, etc.) applied to them as would be applied to any volunteer.
And I don't mean this should apply only to any one side, but should be a universal requirement. If a cause is sufficiently important to fight and die for, then those who make that decision for others should feel honor-bound to take up arms themselves. But they don't. Especially politicians. Gutless bastards, most of them, from where I sit. Don't get me wrong, I have no gripe with those who serve honorably in wartime, and afterwards become heads of state. But those who never fought, never dirtied their own hands in an honorable cause? Or worse, never even earned the right to wear a military uniform? Then they haven't earned the right to ask others to fight and die for them!
I mourn that young man's death, as I mourn the deaths of all of our fallen heroes. I pray that each one who falls will be the last one to fall, that there will be no more combat deaths - ever. I pray that their loved ones will somehow find peace. I pray that humankind will finally find a less brutal way to settle disputes. I pray that there are enough like-minded people around the world to bring an end to all the bloodshed, once and for all time.
And I weep for his friend, who stood there tonight, trying to force a smile through barely restrained tears, saying, It's all right; it's all right.
No. Maybe he's come to terms with his friend's death, and I certainly won't risk causing him further emotional pain, but I just cannot bring myself to agree. It's not all right, and never can be.....
car. I think in a situation like that most of us would probably have their attention on 
