Hail and Farewell, Tom Martin

I went to Camp Buckner for my second summer at West Point in June of 2004. I didn’t want to go – none of us did. I really didn’t want to be there, and it showed. I just wanted to finish the thing and move on, and so my attitude sucked, for lack of a better term.
My Platoon Leader for second detail was one Tom Martin, and slightly larger than life individual. He was older than all of us, prior service, and had just survived a scary incident during summer school when a drunk classmate had tried to open his neck with a knife and succeeded somewhat. Tom was all right, but he had a scar. It was impressive.
One week at Buckner used to be called “Infantry Week” – you go sleep in the rain, chase imaginary insurgents through rock-infested mountains and generally learn to hate the infantry, Meals-Ready-To-Eat (or Meals Rejected by [starving] Ethiopians), and stink. Though some people liked that.
At the end, before you can shower or eat or anything, you have to clean your rifle. So I cleaned my rifle pretty good, I thought, and showed it to Drew, my squad Leader. His fingers were smaller than mine, and he found more gunk and carbon inside it than I could. He told me to clean it again, and I, my patience gone, gave him some lip about it. Tom heard it.
He set me straight pretty fast. It didn’t take a genius to see my attitude was terrible, but Tom didn’t give a flying rat’s butt about that. I disrespected my squad leader, he informed me, and thereby disrespected him, and my weapon was dirty, and my attitude sucked. I can’t quote the exact words he used, being rather colorful, but the gist was, “Watson, your attitude sucks. Shape up, or I will ship your a** out of here.” I straightened out.
I just found out that Tom was killed in Iraq in October. I didn’t know, and had to find out from some friends who thought I knew. I still can’t believe it, for although I didn’t know Tom well, he made me grow up a little. I don’t know the details, and don’t want to know. I heard his fiancée was the Medevac pilot that flew him out, and that they made her stay after his death.
This is the first time I’ve known someone who’s been killed, and can’t stand it. Tom meant something to me, and what he did by chewing me up and spitting me out in front of all my peers did more for me in four years at West Point than just about anything else. And now he’s dead. I hate it.
All you supporters of the war, don’t ask me what I think about it right now. You wouldn’t like the answer.
Hail and Farewell, Tom Martin.