Boy soldier

I wanted to be in the military as long as I can remember. It was my boyhood dream. All of the old men in my rural community seemed to have served during WWII and though I was never told so, I seemed to pick up the belief that every able-bodied man had an obligation to serve. In a day where the word duty seems antiquated, I took it as a foregone conclusion. Besides the grown-up seriousness of it, the military seemed like quite an adventure.


I yearned for travel and adventure. I grew up in a very small world book ended by Gatlinburg and Myrtle Beach. I wanted to see the exotic places I read about in National Geographic magazine. I wanted to face danger and challenge myself. I wanted to be part of something special, and elite. I knew that in order to do that I would have to prove myself. I would have to someday face danger with courage and skill. I would be required to do so not for personal gain, but on the behalf of others.


When I had to face such an event as a boy, it did not occur to me that a child should not be placed in such circumstances. Instead, I willing undertook it with excitement and a desire to test myself, to prove myself.


I was ten years old.


My mother, older sister, and younger brother lived in a single wide trailer in a small town in the Blue Ridge mountains with my alcoholic stepfather; the second one thus far. He would often get violent, and we kids would wake to the clamor. Sometimes the tumult would subside, other times we would flee on foot into the night and call the grandparents to come pick us up. I recall many nights sleeping with my shoes on and covering up with my jacket so that I would be ready quicker. I could alert my younger brother with whom I shared a room. This childhood environment embedded something deep within my psyche which served me well as an adult in combat, but adds an unnecessary edge in my middle-aged years.


One night amidst the noise of banging walls, masculine rage, and fearful feminine cries, we heard the too familiar “Kids! Get your shoes, we’re leaving!” Within moments my brother, sister, and I were poised by the door ready to run off into the night. We waited for instructions from our mother. We knew sometimes we would whisk away into the dark, and other times we would be told to return to bed and things would blow over. This night we ran.


We ran down the hill, crossed the creek, and huddled in the shadowed place between wood and field. Our next step generally entailed knocking on a neighbor’s door, asking to use the phone, then calling my grandparents. Tonight, our mother paused in uncertainty. She informed us she had departed with no money. There were a few bills on the stand beside her bed.


I volunteered for the mission. I was excited by the danger and confident in my ability to succeed. I knew the woods between our location and home. I spent all of my time in the woods playing war or frontier scout, when I was not in school. I convinced her I could do it. She relented and I snuck off into the dark.

I knew how volatile my stepfather could be. I knew he was inside with the lights on, and with me outside concealed in the darkness, I had the advantage of observation. I snuck around to determine his location to be in the living room. I then circled around to the back door, directly beside his and my mother’s bedroom. I gently turned the knob, slipped in, crept into the bedroom, reached for the money, and was back out the door in less than a minute’s time.


Under the barbed wire, into the ravine by the apple orchard, and across the creek returning to my family’s side mere minutes after debarking on the mission; I triumphantly delivered the cash to my mother. We then crossed the field to the road, knocked on a neighbor’s door and used their phone. My grandmother picked us up (my grandfather having already been drunk) and we spent the night at her house, arriving at school the next morning as if everything was normal. Sadly, everything was normal.


I was too young to think about how bad things were. I didn’t know anything different. I did know that I would be a soldier one day, and I felt that last night I had proven myself a little bit, worthy of pursuing that goal. Despite my background, maybe I really could be someone one day.


At eighteen I would be on Parris Island. At twenty-seven I would fight in Iraq. At forty-three I would retire as a Master Gunnery Sergeant after twenty-five years in the Marine Corps. Sad as it may sound, being a boy soldier contributed to my ability to survive and succeed in the grown-up world of combat. I don’t wish that kind of experience on any boy, but I have seen some fairly sturdy trees grow straight out of a rock.

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