Life's Battle

As a young man of seventeen, I aspired to be a Marine. I watched my older brother’s become men, as they had done the same. I remember the respect they received and how it seemed they were forever changed. Most people would cringe at the thought of going to Marine Corps Boot Camp, but hell was my home; anything else was a step above. I remember my younger years when it seemed that all we watched was the evening news. The year was 68’ and the place was Vietnam. My parents watched in hopes of learning the fate of my brothers. Every day the death toll rose and fear froze the channel of the TV. I remember my father watching closely with a concerned look on his face. My mother was in the kitchen stirring a wooden spoon in a pot, yet she stood in such a way that she could see the news. I used to wonder what was so important when my father told me to hush when Walter Cronkite was speaking. I now know that my parents were holding onto hope that the Tet Offensive would soon end. They uttered words that would make you believe that the dark clouds had a silver lining. Somehow, I think they didn’t even believe themselves.

My brothers emerged not as victors, but as honorable men who lived up to their pledge to defend democracy, and did the best they could. Their wounds, although obscure, remain today. In some way, their emotional scars are deeper and far greater than those who died in battle. My brothers came home alive, yet the boys they once were had died. I remember wishing they didn’t come home, after seeing what they had become. In some strange way, my turn would arrive where manhood would knock on my door. Only a fool would choose to walk in the footsteps of those he knew had suffered. Life at home had become hell, so into the Corps I went. The thought of being a Marine was attractive compared to what I was exposed to daily. My mother signed on the dotted line, as I had not yet reached my 18th birthday. There was no turning back as destiny awaited me. It was just after dawn when the Marine arrived at my doorstep. My family said goodbye to yet another son, yet I bid farewell to the boy I once was, and never would be again.

Over the years I lived up to the Marine Corps Motto, “Semper Fidelis”. The Latin word translated means “Always Faithful”. I have been faithful to the Corps. I watched in horror the death of 241 Marines. 23 October 1983, while in Beirut, Lebanon the unthinkable happened. A single man wiped out the lives of some of the greatest men I had ever met. While they slept, he plotted. While they slept, I walked my post. The explosion was surreal. Even today it seems like only but a dream. Twisted steel, concrete, smoke, and a mushroom cloud now stood where the Company Headquarters once was. Like my brothers, I would never be the same.

I cursed God, not for taking so many lives, but for not taking mine. Where was my glory and honor? How do I get past such tragedy? Why didn’t I stop the terrorist? Where was my pine box to lie down in? Where was my flag- draped coffin? Once again, my parents watched the TV as they did during the Vietnam War. Walter Cronkite returned once again to their lives. It was days before my parents determined my fate.

The war I fight today is the battle against me. Today I choose to write of my pain, in hopes of letting go. My brothers suffered in all aspects of their lives, for having left their will to fight in Southeast Asia. I will let the rest of the world write about the battles they fought; the bloody ghastly scenes. They can share of their glory as they have found honor in the battles they have won. I will write of the war I wage today; the one battle I choose to never let go of. I have struggled many weary years battling against the man in the mirror. I have no greater adversary than myself.

One can visit Arlington and find the gardens of stone that house the men that paid the ultimate price. Those that survived are many more, yet their battles no longer live on. They succumbed to the wounds of their soul and suffered each day of their life. They can be found in jail, homeless shelters, and insane asylums. Many others have died by their own hand, either by rope, the bottle, or syringe. I pay them all respect, as I have traveled the road they take. The images of my past are vivid today, yet the hottest engagement I have ever endured is the one with me; the one I choose to win. There will be no stone at Arlington, or stories told about my valor in combat. For when I die I will have left a mark in the world, as a man whose conquest was within, and whose battle was to win against sin.

When I stand before God for my final inspection, I will quiver when asked if I had turned the other cheek, or if I had been loyal to the church. My response will be honest as I tell God my sins, knowing a Marine can never be a Saint. “My life was hard”, “for it was what I chose”, “and would gladly do it again”. “Perhaps there is no place for me here Lord”, “I’ve never had, nor expected much”. “I spent my life in service of others”, “and if that’s not enough I understand dear lord”. “I have already been to Hell you see”, “but I always tried to be a better me”. I will not beg for acceptance to heaven, knowing that my life has not been free of sin, but I will explain to God that I have been to places that he must have forgotten. After all, Marines don’t die….we just go to Hell to regroup.

If God grants me entrance he will clearly see that I have borne my burdens well. I may not have achieved but have always believed that to me …..”My life was Hell”. The streets of Heaven will always be safe, for I will continue to walk my post. “Semper Fi”.