Every time Michael Moore speaks about the military, I get that same feeling you get when some jerk cuts you off in traffic. Sure, I know the guy didn’t cut me off personally, but I still want to see a cop pull him over and put him in jail for a few days so he can get in touch with his feminine side, courtesy of his cell mate “Bubba”. I know Moore doesn’t know me personally, but every time he even says the words “our troops” I have to restrain myself from breaking something. I feel like he is patently unqualified to speak about our military, and his portrayal of our troops in his movie Fahrenheit 9-11, just about makes me crazy. One particular scene in the movie features some Marine Corps recruiters scoping out possible recruits at a shopping center. Moore makes the case that the recruiters almost “prey” on the lower classes of society( especially black kids) to enlist them and ship them off to die in a foreign land. All the while, the affluent white kids are of no regard to the recruiters, as they have “options.”
Now, I have been collecting data on that issue for a few weeks now, and I can tell you that Moore definitely has it all wrong. Despite what Moore may try to tell you, the deaths in the military of white people as a percentage, is exactly the same of the percentage of white people in the US as a population: 75%. That is but one of dozens of statistics I am currently trying to formulate into a readable, understandable story. I hope to post that on Friday.
It’s the story of a bunch of guys in an all volunteer Army, from all walks and stations of life. It’s about what putting on the uniform means, regardless of whom the President is, and what we are doing in the world at the time. It’s about the part of the military reality that Moore has no knowledge of, because stories like this don’t make good scandalous movies.
It’s a true story, I’ve never told it before, but unlike Senator Kerry, I didn’t keep a diary of my every account, (just in case I wanted to pursue a career in politics one day), so it’s just from memory.
So then, the story of Adam.
As the first rays of sun pushed through the pines of Ft. Bragg, N.C., the men of the Second Brigade of the 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment did their best to seize the otherwise uneventful moment to catch a little shut-eye. The drone of the engines from the C-130’s they boarded a few hours earlier had the alternate effect of keeping half the troopers awake, while at the same time lulling the other half to sleep. Despite the usual pre-jump jitters that infect all paratroopers, the tension preceding this jump was relatively low. A summer jump in the light of day was a rare treat. No real pressure, this was just a training jump, to be followed by a 25-kilometer road march back to the barracks. Funny enough, this was considered a “fun” jump, as it wasn’t to be followed by twenty or thirty days of sleeping in a hole each day and practicing killing “the enemy” each night
.
The five birds lined up in a stacked formation and the navigator turned on the six minute light. The jump master started shouting his commands, 6 MINUTES!, STAND -UP!, HOOK -UP!, CHECK- EQUIPMENT!. We felt the acid rise in our throats as the loadmaster opened the jump doors. The jumpmaster checks the exit and does a nice looking “hang” to inspect for exterior obstacles.
60 SECONDS! We start started jerking up and down on our static lines, the rattling of the clips almost drowning out the roar of the engines, even with the doors open. We are getting psyched up to step out of the doors of an aircraft while it is slicing through the air at 160 knots. This is the time when you would try to hold your breath if the vacuum of the exterior pressure didn’t literally suck the air right out of you.
Green light. GO ! The rush to the exits is a mad escape, not so much from the tight confines of the aluminum fuselage, rather we are trying to out run our own apprehension. Every time you step off that platform is a step into the unknown. One of a dozen things could go wrong, but today was a one-in-a-million day. Being near the front of the stick on bird one, I was practically on the ground before PFC Adam K. put his knees to the breeze from bird four.
My heart literally stopped beating for a second when I learned that bird five had suddenly lost altitude, and flown through the parachutists from the plane in front of it in formation. PFC. Adam K.’s helmet and uniform would offer no protection against the 15 foot propellers turning at thousands of rpm’s. In an instant, he went from a living, breathing yellow haired kid from the south to a cloud of pink mist. The fog of an atomized paratrooper drifted down to the drop zone, where the mortal remains of PFC Adam K. still lie today,killed in the line of duty.
We prepared an empty flag-draped coffin for his family. We told his Mom and Dad all of the awkward things 19 year olds say when they would really just rather never ever speak again. “Adam was one of the best” “Adam was an inspiration” “We’re very sorry for your loss, and ours, we always knew we could count on Adam.” The empty coffin now rests six feet under the headstone bearing Adam’s name. The flag traveled back home with his parents to sit on the mantle of their home, a lasting reminder of a man who loved and served his country.
And so the tally for 1986 clicked one more time. It wouldn’t stop clicking that year until the number of soldiers accidentally killed would reach the astronomical sum of 1,172. This is of course on top of the 104 who were murdered, the 384 who died of illness, and the 269 who committed suicide that year. Soldiers do dangerous things. Soldiers will always be killed in the pursuit of freedom, regardless of their background, whether it is here, or over-seas fighting a so-called “fictitious” war.
You see, soldiers don’t choose death, death chooses soldiers. That day, he chose a white affluent kid. The next time, who knows? Death is unbigoted and color blind. Soldiers know that. It’s a reality that one becomes aware of quickly in the service to our country. It is the risk they take in exchange for living in a free nation. The military doesn’t recruit minorities because they are easy “prey” and are somehow expendable. They recruit Americans because they are willing, period. I don’t think that’s a concept that Moore can grasp. Through his lens, Moore sees future victims, while I see future heroes, and as far as I can tell they’re all Army green.
Next post, the numbers. As compelling as they are, they just don’t dovetail with the human side of this issue.
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