thedrifter
07-03-09, 08:07 AM
July 5, 2009
Lives
Warrior Day
By ANNE BERNAYS
This is the true story of a dyed-in-the-wool pacifist Jewish woman who recently spent two days at the Marine Corps Base at Quantico, Va., and survived, almost intact.
Years earlier she was a sure-footed young New Yorker with liberal convictions. She married an introverted editor, moved to Cambridge, Mass., and began raising three daughters. What a delightful life they led. The “best schools.” No money worries. The Vietnam War was raging, and the woman roiled in opposition to it, but she didn’t feel she could leave her children to protest.
Skip ahead more than a decade — during which the life of this family ran as smoothly as a Rolls Royce. The oldest daughter married a man who renovated houses, and they bought their own near Boston. Within five years they had two sons. David, the oldest, was a solid, handsome athlete who also excelled academically. He went to a college in Maine, where he did well in his studies and played on the football team. After school, Dave took a management-track job with a construction company. Then one day he announced he was joining the Marines.
This was a blow to the first woman (now referred to as “the grandmother”). She couldn’t conceive of anyone wanting to do this; it seemed as exotic and unsettling as if he had joined a monastery.
Dave’s graduation from the Basic School at Quantico (which the grandmother referred to silently as Guantánamo) took place this spring. His mother and grandparents flew down together on a Tuesday. The grandmother was filled with trepidation. The schedule: Wednesday, Warrior Day; Thursday, graduation.
Greeting them, Dave peppered his language with initials: P.O.V.; I.O.C. They passed through a checkpoint, and an enlisted man saluted Dave, whose new lieutenant’s bars shone. They walked along a corridor with posters and legends — reminders that marines always act in exemplary ways. Dave’s “bedroom” was the size of a walk-in closet: there were bunk beds and a sink. Another room held desks and a small refrigerator. His roommates were ordinary, bright 20-somethings, only more polite.
No time for breakfast. In a filled auditorium, a colonel welcomed them. He referred to himself as a teacher and the trainees as students. Quantico was a “campus.” The course was divided into segments: leadership; academics; military skills. The men were being trained not to be soldiers or marines but “warfighters.”
Next on the agenda: the firing range. Sitting on bleachers, the visitors were instructed in how to “employ the weapon system,” meaning how to shoot an M-16 rifle. The grandmother was issued a flak jacket, a Kevlar helmet and two little things she first thought were candies but turned out to be earplugs. A warrior helped her hold up her M-16. She pulled the trigger and hit the target five times. She felt a rush of excitement that embarrassed her. Later they saw an amphibious tank, an “up-armored” Humvee and a captured Iraqi tank, all beat up. Someone asked Dave why his dog tag was on the tongue of his boot, under the laces. He said, “You don’t want to know.”
Graduation Day. At 6:30 a.m. they drove to Dave’s barracks, but then he phoned his mother to say that he was delayed by an unspecified snafu. Waiting for him, the family saw one marine drop the white dress pants he was carrying onto the wet pavement. Another, in his dress uniform, dragged a vacuum cleaner. The grandmother found this almost unbearably poignant. Finally Dave appeared, smiling. It took him 45 minutes to put on his dress uniform. “There are lots of suspenders and straps and things that hold the thing together,” he explained. The grandmother recaptured a moment when, as a girl, she had a brief romance with a West Point cadet; his uniform was irresistible.
P.O.I.; A.A.V.; P.A.O. The graduation ceremony was S.R.O. Dave came in 11th in a class of 282, making him an honor graduate. He would be a platoon commander. How could the grandmother’s heart not swell with pride? Conflicting emotions swirled within. The speeches were crisp and to the point. Marines possessed the warrior spirit; had character and integrity; upheld the highest standards.
Each new second lieutenant, six platoons of them, walked straight-backed across the stage to receive his or her diploma. The women, more than a sprinkling, looked smart and self-conscious. The Marine brass band played beautifully. Dispersal. Picture-taking.
“You know,” Dave told his grandmother, “I’m responsible for the lives of 40 men.”
Anne Bernays has published nine novels, including “Growing Up Rich” and “Trophy House.” She is working on her 10th.
e-mail submissions for Lives to lives@nytimes.com. Because of the volume of e-mail, the magazine cannot respond to every submission.
Ellie
Lives
Warrior Day
By ANNE BERNAYS
This is the true story of a dyed-in-the-wool pacifist Jewish woman who recently spent two days at the Marine Corps Base at Quantico, Va., and survived, almost intact.
Years earlier she was a sure-footed young New Yorker with liberal convictions. She married an introverted editor, moved to Cambridge, Mass., and began raising three daughters. What a delightful life they led. The “best schools.” No money worries. The Vietnam War was raging, and the woman roiled in opposition to it, but she didn’t feel she could leave her children to protest.
Skip ahead more than a decade — during which the life of this family ran as smoothly as a Rolls Royce. The oldest daughter married a man who renovated houses, and they bought their own near Boston. Within five years they had two sons. David, the oldest, was a solid, handsome athlete who also excelled academically. He went to a college in Maine, where he did well in his studies and played on the football team. After school, Dave took a management-track job with a construction company. Then one day he announced he was joining the Marines.
This was a blow to the first woman (now referred to as “the grandmother”). She couldn’t conceive of anyone wanting to do this; it seemed as exotic and unsettling as if he had joined a monastery.
Dave’s graduation from the Basic School at Quantico (which the grandmother referred to silently as Guantánamo) took place this spring. His mother and grandparents flew down together on a Tuesday. The grandmother was filled with trepidation. The schedule: Wednesday, Warrior Day; Thursday, graduation.
Greeting them, Dave peppered his language with initials: P.O.V.; I.O.C. They passed through a checkpoint, and an enlisted man saluted Dave, whose new lieutenant’s bars shone. They walked along a corridor with posters and legends — reminders that marines always act in exemplary ways. Dave’s “bedroom” was the size of a walk-in closet: there were bunk beds and a sink. Another room held desks and a small refrigerator. His roommates were ordinary, bright 20-somethings, only more polite.
No time for breakfast. In a filled auditorium, a colonel welcomed them. He referred to himself as a teacher and the trainees as students. Quantico was a “campus.” The course was divided into segments: leadership; academics; military skills. The men were being trained not to be soldiers or marines but “warfighters.”
Next on the agenda: the firing range. Sitting on bleachers, the visitors were instructed in how to “employ the weapon system,” meaning how to shoot an M-16 rifle. The grandmother was issued a flak jacket, a Kevlar helmet and two little things she first thought were candies but turned out to be earplugs. A warrior helped her hold up her M-16. She pulled the trigger and hit the target five times. She felt a rush of excitement that embarrassed her. Later they saw an amphibious tank, an “up-armored” Humvee and a captured Iraqi tank, all beat up. Someone asked Dave why his dog tag was on the tongue of his boot, under the laces. He said, “You don’t want to know.”
Graduation Day. At 6:30 a.m. they drove to Dave’s barracks, but then he phoned his mother to say that he was delayed by an unspecified snafu. Waiting for him, the family saw one marine drop the white dress pants he was carrying onto the wet pavement. Another, in his dress uniform, dragged a vacuum cleaner. The grandmother found this almost unbearably poignant. Finally Dave appeared, smiling. It took him 45 minutes to put on his dress uniform. “There are lots of suspenders and straps and things that hold the thing together,” he explained. The grandmother recaptured a moment when, as a girl, she had a brief romance with a West Point cadet; his uniform was irresistible.
P.O.I.; A.A.V.; P.A.O. The graduation ceremony was S.R.O. Dave came in 11th in a class of 282, making him an honor graduate. He would be a platoon commander. How could the grandmother’s heart not swell with pride? Conflicting emotions swirled within. The speeches were crisp and to the point. Marines possessed the warrior spirit; had character and integrity; upheld the highest standards.
Each new second lieutenant, six platoons of them, walked straight-backed across the stage to receive his or her diploma. The women, more than a sprinkling, looked smart and self-conscious. The Marine brass band played beautifully. Dispersal. Picture-taking.
“You know,” Dave told his grandmother, “I’m responsible for the lives of 40 men.”
Anne Bernays has published nine novels, including “Growing Up Rich” and “Trophy House.” She is working on her 10th.
e-mail submissions for Lives to lives@nytimes.com. Because of the volume of e-mail, the magazine cannot respond to every submission.
Ellie