Too Close to Home

Today, a schoolmate of mine, a tuba player, an alumnus, came back and visited our band. He has finished his 13 weeks of boot camp, the following combat training and music training; he is soon to be a fully-fledged member of the Marine Corps band: a prestigious honor, truly, but we always knew he'd make it--he is very talented.

He talked to us in class all day about his experiences in boot camp and so on. The combat training, he hated. The jazz band, he loved. The food wasn't so bad--he actually gained 10 pounds (he was always painfully tall and thin). He is different now; quieter, less cocky, more eloquent. He still tells a good story: he has the kind of wry humor that makes awful tales funny.

Toward the tail end of the question-answer session that was the whole class (and never, ever have I seen our band so dead quiet and rapt; it is quite shocking to see one of your own comrades suddenly very much an adult and a soldier--full uniform, no less), someone asked:

"Could you get sent to Iraq?"

I flashed back in my mind to the year previous, when the same thought had flitted across my mind.

* * *

Staff Sgt. Diaz was giving his yearly video-presentation-and-speech on the Marine Corps Band. The video was the same every year, as were the questions. What do you get paid? What do you eat? How long is boot camp? Is it really hard? Once you sign up, can you get out?

I normally stayed rather silent during this entire recruitment spiel--as much as I am opposed to recruitment in schools (trust me, if you went to high school every day, you wouldn't trust these kids to make lasting life decisions either), I also respect those who choose that route. I know Staff Sgt. Diaz. I think he's a decent sort. I am very happy he is here and not in combat somewhere. This time, though, I couldn't help myself. I knew people who were trying out for this Marine Corps Band thing. I had to ask.

I raised a tentative hand and he called on me--I don't think he even knew my name at the time. "How...how likely is it that a member of the Marine Corps Band will see front-line warfare? That is to say, could you be deployed to Iraq?"

I believe that was how I worded it--when I get nervous, I use awful phrases like "that is to say." There was a sort of collective intake of breath around the room.

"Well, no," he said. "You're not exactly a regular Marine. You can be deployed places, but you play in the band--that's your job. You go through basic training and all...but no."

This was something of a relief to me, since at the time I knew three band members considering joining. It was something.

* * *

Only one of those three went through with it, and he now was standing in front of us answering the same anxious question.

"I take a playing exam," he said, after some reflection, "in a few weeks. If I score 3.0 or higher--I'm at a 2.65 now--if I score a 3.0 or higher, then I get preference." [I hope sincerely I recall the name of these things correctly; I know the gist but not the specifics.] "If I get preference, then I get to choose where I'm stationed--I'd like [some place or another near San Diego]--they don't get deployed to Iraq."

"...so you could?"

Our Marine (How presumptuous to say "our Marine!" But he is our Marine. There is nothing in high school like a band, nothing that remembers you after you go, nothing so like a family in the constant shifting that is each passing year, nothing save our shabby little band with its occasional gem.) inclined his head. "Possibly," he said, and if he was half as apprehensive as I was for him, he was ten times more stoic. "They have bands in Iraq--but if you're there, you play, of course, and you also do security." He paused. It didn't make sense to him, he said quietly, it was not his job: he was not a fighter, he was in the band.

"So," he said, "I'm hoping to get preference. 3.0 or better. I think I can do it."

Ms. Rogers voice was somewhat moved from the back. "That's right; good, good. You can."

* * *

The Veterans for Peace (the sort of anti-recruiters of high school campuses) told me that recruiters can lie, lie, lie through their teeth and no promise they make is worth a penny, so I am not astonished. I do not think Staff Sgt. Diaz has it in him to be too misleading, though. I should not have said "front-line warfare," I suppose; I should have phrased it, "anywhere near somewhere they might get shot." His answer was probably better than I give it credit for, I heard the no and was relieved and relief easily can wash out reservations. That is probably the idea.

* * *

Today the BBC reported that President Bush will soon give a speech unveiling his latest plans for Iraq. He seems to be inclined to take the "surge" position, a.k.a. "go big," a.k.a. "a plan to send more US troops to Iraq to focus on ways of bringing greater security, rather than training Iraqi forces." I trust the BBC's statement that the President will speak about increasing troop numbers. I also believe their statement as to the moral of President Bush's address: "Its central theme will be sacrifice."

3,000 dead and counting; 3.os. It is said that bad things come in threes. I'm not superstitious. Still, I just want to cry. Someone went to high school with all 3,000 of those kids. They went away looking as gawky and nervous and brave as our Justin. They finished boot camp as lean and grown-up and brave. They will never again come home for Christmas and stop by to say hello to their high school bands.

* * *

Dear Mr. President,

I am not a general. I am not a tactician. I am not a diplomat. I am not a politician. I am not a soldier. I am not the mother, or the sister, or the daughter, or the cousin, or the best friend of any service member in Iraq, or elsewhere. I cannot vote this year, nor can I drink a toast to our country's future. My familiarity with history is poor, with war poorer, and with military tactics worst of all.

That said, all ethos completely gone, (for, Mr. President, I must respectfully note that there is no ethos you cannot destroy; no general you cannot force down; no war veteran you and your political machine cannot dismantle,) I beseech you. You have expressed your turmoil over this decision. You have retired to ponder it. You have seen Iraq, you have seen our soldiers, you have seen the Iraq Study Group report, you have seen the American people pull away. You have seen the polls at 40, 35, 31% support for the war. You have seen the polls at 15, 12, 11% support for a troop increase. You have seen the polls for you, sir, at 42, 37, 32%.

You say the polls do not matter to you, Mr. President, and I am sure that this strikes many as an admirable dedication to your own principles and morality, despite the shifting sands of public opinion so easily swayed by a sweating brow or a fumbled phrase. There is a point, though, sir, at which one must recall the inspiration behind our Founding Fathers, which I shall here repeat not to patronize but merely because my few years offer up no more eloquent way to state it: "a government of the people, by the people, and for the people." You, sir, are our leader, our President, our Commander in Chief, but you are ours; like fathers say to their stubborn sons--we brought you here, we may take you out.

I am but one tiny drop in the 89% of this country that would rather you not send more troops to Iraq, sir, until we see one tiny flicker of hope that this will not fail as everything has failed. Would rather you not send more troops to Iraq ever. Would rather you ensure that Justin can practice his tuba and play in your successor's inauguration rather than be patrolling the streets of Baghdad.

Mr. President, you have spoken and will speak of sacrifice. You will remind the American people of the necessity of sacrifice. With all due respect, sir, I believe that the American people know sacrifice. To this war we have already sacrificed 3,000 young people; our trust in you has sacrificed countless more Iraqis--it is literally impossible to count.

89% of us will not sacrifice any more. Perhaps others have lost loved ones or fear to, perhaps they merely feel for those who do, perhaps they have rationally assessed the costs, perhaps, like me, they have put a face to that distant soldier, that human sacrifice on the altar of Iraq and found the possibilities too horrible to contemplate. 89%, Mr. President. Do not shove this poll aside.

You are the decider, sir. You, and you alone, must ultimately decide, and bear the full weight of history's judgment thereafter. But recall, the greatest asset, the greatest aid, the greatest power, the only power a President is given is the will and trust of the American people. We will not be taken lightly for long.

Should we be wrong about this, Mr. President, and you listen to us, history will treat you kindly as a leader plagued by a misguided population, press, and advisers; by incorrect generals; by terrible odds; who could not have helped but listen to the world's overwhelming but incorrect cry.

Should we be right, sir, you had best change your policy swiftly, for I know not what the history books would say of a President who so blatantly disregarded the will of the people, the advice of his generals, and reality. You will recall Lyndon B. Johnson, hounded out of office with jeers of "Hey, hey, LBJ; how many kids did you kill today?" You may be relieved somewhat that "Bush" is not particularly rhymeable.

But please, sir, reconsider this plan. Reconsider it for the scrawny, tuba-playing Marines who would like nothing more than the honor of playing in a concert hall for you; who don't think they are capable of picking up a gun and shooting some one, not yet.


Respectfully,

Sylvia Puglisi