Reluctant Sacrifice

July 4, 2019

I wrote this story years ago to remember my own son’s service in the Army, of what he went through, and of my own reluctance to give my most precious child to our country’s defense.

With dismal regularity our country flexes its muscles and grows restless to practice the Art of War, cautiously inching nearer to the flames, trying not to get burned.  And, with dismal regularity the political climate reaches flashpoint, sending America’s sons and daughters to smother the flames.  Each time we enter the fire unwelcome memories bring back the fear I once felt for my own son. 

He was half way through his senior year in high school when he announced he would join the Army after graduation, the last thing this child of the Vietnam era wanted for her child.  His route would not be an easy road, but the rugged, treacherous path of an Airborne Ranger.  This elite piece of the military machine stealthily conducts ambushes, raids and reconnaissance, most often in the black of night. 

It would be another year before he would be accepted into the fearsome training school as part of the 75^thRanger Regiment. I wrestled in quiet insanity, imagining the hardships awaiting him, the unimaginable challenges of his body and soul.  For his part, youth is blessed with the inability to fathom the worst that can happen. 

At that time, Ranger training consisted of 4 phases: Darby, Desert, Mountain and Jungle; each phase lasting approximately 4 weeks, with a day of rest between.  In an effort to simulate the stress of actual combat, they receive one hour of rest and one meal a day.  The MRE’s, meals-ready-to-eat, are designed to give energy and sustain the soldier’s life, but not necessarily to maintain his health.  The conditions of depravation wreak havoc on his mind as well as his body. As the soldiers begin to weaken physically and emotionally they are pushed to their limits to “Run, feel no pain, run, food and sleep are crutches!  Rangers lead the way!”  The objective of their commanding officers is to break down the spirit then build it up again.  “Can you take it?  Go ahead, quit!  Do us all a favor and fail!”  Their plan weeds out those with normal tolerance for pain and suffering quickly, while the survivors rush on into the next phase.

Darby, meant to sharpen and hone skills, contains equal amounts of abusive hazing.  Hunger and fatigue gnaw at their insides.  “Can you think of anything but food and rest?   Can you take it?  Go ahead, quit!  Do us all a favor and fail!”

After a day’s rest they head for Texas and the Desert Phase. There the heat saps their strength and confuses an already fuzzy brain.  Many suffer dehydration and heat stroke; a condition one never fully recovers from.  Once overtaken by the heat, these men become vulnerable and from then on, a weak link in the group.  Hot dusty winds suffocate them by day, replaced by frigid cold as the sun goes down. Visions of food crowd out the more important issues at hand; watch for snakes, scorpions, the enemy.  A hamburger rolls by in a gust of dusty heat, but no, it is only a tumbleweed. I awaken at odd hours in the middle of the night, heart pounding and, staring into the darkness, wonder, Is he in pain, is he afraid, is he lonely, is he all right?  Only silence answers my fears.

Month three begins with the Mountain Phase in the rocky terrain of Georgia where they are on the move 23 hours a day.  Their packs weigh 75 pounds, filled with gear and extra socks. A soldier’s feet are his most vital body part and must be preserved at all cost. No need for a sleeping bag; there will be no sleeping.  No need for extra warm clothing; warmth invites sleep. Son is one of the bigger guys so he carries an additional 25 pounds as the beast of burden for a machine gun and ammo assigned to him. 

His journey is torturous, hiking up rocky hillsides, tumbling down the other side through blinding brush. Only the stars overhead offer weak light in the dense forest that surrounds them.  Don’t light a fire, the enemy will see you!  Put your MRE inside your one layer of clothing, next to your body; that’s called a warm meal.  Shiver until your bones ache and stiffness sets in; stop chattering teeth!   Hoard salt and sugar packets to indulge in one flavorful bite.  At home I worry, I pray, I hate the unknown. 

While the physical rigors go on and on, the soldiers are assigned missions.  Can you think clearly, make a sound judgement, look out for your men and the enemy, as well?  Each man takes his turn in control of a group of nine.  The success or failure of the mission falls squarely upon the leader: set up perimeters, assign watches, form a plan of assault, execute the mission and pray that each man stays awake to do his part. Unfortunately, on Son’s mission, a man is found asleep; the mission fails, so the group fails.  These nine men must repeat the entire Mountain Phase and endure an extra grueling month.

While on the break between phases, care packages from home deliver rich and fattening foods to satisfy the cravings and letters to quench thirsty souls. The men plead for cookies, candy, home-baked anything and especially, anything with peanut butter.  I send huge amounts knowing I am feeding more than one starving young man.  And I send this psalm (121) to my son on the back of a recipe card:

           “I will lift up mine eyes to the mountains; from whence shall my help come? My help comes from the Lord…He will not allow your foot to slip; He who keep You…will neither slumber nor sleep.  The Lord is your shade on your right hand. The sun will not smite you by day nor the moon by night…He will keep your Soul…From this time forth and forever.

He carried this card with him out into the Georgian mountains to try again and read it when his spirit longed to give in and give up.

The final phase takes place in the swamps of Florida. There conditions simulate combat in the jungle.  Chest deep in frigid water for hours without end, their energy quickly drains away. Bugs drive them crazy.  But the light lies somewhere ahead in the mist; the end is near, maybe there is life after a walking death.  Three weeks later, when the next class came through, four young Rangers died of hypothermia in those icy Florida waters.

Nearly five months after it began, Son’s ordeal ended.  Of the 425 who started, only 102 finish, he is the youngest.  His slender 6’3” frame dropped 50 pounds and malnutrition caused infection in his knees. I try not to let this mother’s mind run wild with worry.

Three years later Son received his discharge while the government held claim to him for five more years, should we jump into war’s flames feet first.  

I have not been to war but I have felt its heat, a heat that sears and scars forever.  Its flames will flare up again and our country will beat its chest and draw lines in the sand to prepare, once again, to practice the Art of War. Other mothers will lay awake in the middle of the night while their sons and daughters put their lives upon that line.  I try not to become complacent about those who are sent to our defense and remember they are someone’s son or daughter, someone’s husband or wife, someone’s father or mother.  And, I secretly worry and selfishly pray, not my son.

Post Script: From now on, Son’s frostbitten hands will cause him pain whenever the temperature drops and his feet will never be the same. He recently had 3 vertebra in his neck fused together…residual damage from carrying so much weight on his back and hard parachute landings. But, thank God, he is alive.