Written in 2005
Growing up in suburban New York, I did not know many young people who wanted to join the military. “Be All That You Can Be” commercials occasionally punctuated our regularly scheduled programming, but actual enlistment never seemed like a serious option. The First Gulf War and American intervention in Somalia just provided background noise to my adolescence. I came to Yale in the fall of 1994, never thinking that one day I would wear an Army uniform.
Yale once had a proud tradition of military service, but by the time I got there the University had distanced itself from its history. Against the backdrop of the Vietnam War, Yale had withdrawn its commitment to the Army’s Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC), and the ROTC program left campus. In 1993, Congress approved President Bill Clinton’s “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” proposal, which meant that – when I was an undergraduate – federal law still ran afoul of Yale’s own anti-discrimination policy. The result: Yale ROTC participants had to leave New Haven two or three days every week, taking several hours just to commute to and from the University of Connecticut at Storrs.
Despite the absence of ROTC on campus, coursework and extracurricular activities kindled my own interest in the military. In my history classes, I learned how civilizations fell apart when their people grew too weak or uninterested in physically protecting their societies. By relying upon mercenaries or provincial warrior classes, governments doomed themselves to extinction. Walking across campus, there were plenty of impressive memorials to Yalies’ sacrifices during wartime.
During formal college debates and late-night bull sessions, my friends and I would sometimes discuss the question of universal military service. Perhaps if all Americans served in the military, our society would be more united, our foreign policy would be more responsible, and we would all feel more invested in the political process. There was lots of talk. I argued that we should support the military by serving in the military. But again, at the time, it was just talk. Meanwhile, between “YDN” assignments, fencing practice, and whatever graduate seminars I could talk my way into, I felt swamped, too swamped to miss out on so much of the hallowed “Yale Experience” to spend several days each week at the University of Connecticut at Storrs.
I graduated from Yale in 1998 to attend law school in some backwater called Cambridge. After passing the New York Bar Exam, I joined the law firm of Sullivan & Cromwell in downtown Manhattan. My second day of work was September 11, 2001. That morning found me a few blocks away from Ground Zero, dodging burning debris as the Towers fell; I spent the evening at Chelsea Piers, helping doctors perform triage on injured police officers and firefighters. The heroism and carnage I witnessed that day made me realize that the protection of our country was not an abstract concept: it was my personal responsibility as a citizen.
In the coming months, I weighed my options. It would have been easy to trade in my law firm for a government agency and continue wearing a suit to work each morning, rationalizing that a salary cut was enough of a sacrifice for my country. Yet time and time again, I returned to the idea that the military needs greater participation from able-bodied Americans. Images of soldiers on the front lines made my comfortable existence in New York City ring hollow. I decided to join the Army.
I was 26 when I reported for Basic Training at Fort Benning, Georgia, surrounded by impossibly young 18-year-olds. Obstacle courses, rifle ranges, hand-to-hand combat, constant exercising – the physical hardships were significant. Every day I woke up to the drill sergeant’s kindly suggestion to “beat your face, private” (that is, “do push ups”). The recruits came from all over the country and all walks of life; this was truly an All-American organization. Despite our cultural and age differences, I learned a lot from my fellow trainees in my nine weeks of Basic.
My greatest challenge, however, came during Officer Candidate School. With only three or four hours of sleep most nights and far too many missions, the psychological trials of OCS exceeded the physical ones of Basic. We led midnight patrols, set up ambushes and checkpoints, and ran our own 120-soldier company. When we were not in the field, we were in the classroom, studying such topics as military law, the Army’s supply system, and the rules of engagement. In all, we lost about one-third of our officer candidates as the program wore on. Our evaluators could kick us out at any moment for the grave sin of “Failure to Progress in Leadership,” a catch-all term that got rid of the weakest candidates and encouraged the rest of us to develop energetic and thoughtful leadership styles.
I graduated from OCS and, in September 2004, arrived at Fort Hood, Texas, to serve as a platoon leader in the Fourth Infantry Division. With the Defense Department’s decision to expand the Army by 30,000 soldiers, my division had established a new brigade with a skeleton crew of commissioned and non-commissioned officers. Giving new meaning to the slogan “An Army of One,” I came to Fort Hood with orders to join a battalion that did not yet exist; for several weeks, I was the only soldier in a unit that now numbers more than 300. We originally had no rifles, no vehicles, and no equipment; now we are fully armed. In fact, between our body armor, weapons, and other required gear, we usually carry at least 40 lbs. wherever we go.
We have spent the past seven months training for our deployment. About half of our months in garrison have been spent on the Army’s equivalent of “business trips” – that is, field exercises taking us away from our homes for weeks at a time. As our significant others point out, garrison training is frequently indistinguishable from deployment.
In the next month, I will lead my platoon into Iraq. While I am concerned for my soldiers, we have trained hard and we are ready for the challenges that we will face in the next year.
I have never regretted my decision to enlist in the U.S. Army. No one class of citizens should bear the burden of our country’s overseas military commitments. As a society, we have decided to go to war. As Americans, we are all in this together.
Growing up in suburban New York, I did not know many young people who wanted to join the military. “Be All That You Can Be” commercials occasionally punctuated our regularly scheduled programming, but actual enlistment never seemed like a serious option. The First Gulf War and American intervention in Somalia just provided background noise to my adolescence. I came to Yale in the fall of 1994, never thinking that one day I would wear an Army uniform.
Yale once had a proud tradition of military service, but by the time I got there the University had distanced itself from its history. Against the backdrop of the Vietnam War, Yale had withdrawn its commitment to the Army’s Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC), and the ROTC program left campus. In 1993, Congress approved President Bill Clinton’s “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” proposal, which meant that – when I was an undergraduate – federal law still ran afoul of Yale’s own anti-discrimination policy. The result: Yale ROTC participants had to leave New Haven two or three days every week, taking several hours just to commute to and from the University of Connecticut at Storrs.
Despite the absence of ROTC on campus, coursework and extracurricular activities kindled my own interest in the military. In my history classes, I learned how civilizations fell apart when their people grew too weak or uninterested in physically protecting their societies. By relying upon mercenaries or provincial warrior classes, governments doomed themselves to extinction. Walking across campus, there were plenty of impressive memorials to Yalies’ sacrifices during wartime.
During formal college debates and late-night bull sessions, my friends and I would sometimes discuss the question of universal military service. Perhaps if all Americans served in the military, our society would be more united, our foreign policy would be more responsible, and we would all feel more invested in the political process. There was lots of talk. I argued that we should support the military by serving in the military. But again, at the time, it was just talk. Meanwhile, between “YDN” assignments, fencing practice, and whatever graduate seminars I could talk my way into, I felt swamped, too swamped to miss out on so much of the hallowed “Yale Experience” to spend several days each week at the University of Connecticut at Storrs.
I graduated from Yale in 1998 to attend law school in some backwater called Cambridge. After passing the New York Bar Exam, I joined the law firm of Sullivan & Cromwell in downtown Manhattan. My second day of work was September 11, 2001. That morning found me a few blocks away from Ground Zero, dodging burning debris as the Towers fell; I spent the evening at Chelsea Piers, helping doctors perform triage on injured police officers and firefighters. The heroism and carnage I witnessed that day made me realize that the protection of our country was not an abstract concept: it was my personal responsibility as a citizen.
In the coming months, I weighed my options. It would have been easy to trade in my law firm for a government agency and continue wearing a suit to work each morning, rationalizing that a salary cut was enough of a sacrifice for my country. Yet time and time again, I returned to the idea that the military needs greater participation from able-bodied Americans. Images of soldiers on the front lines made my comfortable existence in New York City ring hollow. I decided to join the Army.
I was 26 when I reported for Basic Training at Fort Benning, Georgia, surrounded by impossibly young 18-year-olds. Obstacle courses, rifle ranges, hand-to-hand combat, constant exercising – the physical hardships were significant. Every day I woke up to the drill sergeant’s kindly suggestion to “beat your face, private” (that is, “do push ups”). The recruits came from all over the country and all walks of life; this was truly an All-American organization. Despite our cultural and age differences, I learned a lot from my fellow trainees in my nine weeks of Basic.
My greatest challenge, however, came during Officer Candidate School. With only three or four hours of sleep most nights and far too many missions, the psychological trials of OCS exceeded the physical ones of Basic. We led midnight patrols, set up ambushes and checkpoints, and ran our own 120-soldier company. When we were not in the field, we were in the classroom, studying such topics as military law, the Army’s supply system, and the rules of engagement. In all, we lost about one-third of our officer candidates as the program wore on. Our evaluators could kick us out at any moment for the grave sin of “Failure to Progress in Leadership,” a catch-all term that got rid of the weakest candidates and encouraged the rest of us to develop energetic and thoughtful leadership styles.
I graduated from OCS and, in September 2004, arrived at Fort Hood, Texas, to serve as a platoon leader in the Fourth Infantry Division. With the Defense Department’s decision to expand the Army by 30,000 soldiers, my division had established a new brigade with a skeleton crew of commissioned and non-commissioned officers. Giving new meaning to the slogan “An Army of One,” I came to Fort Hood with orders to join a battalion that did not yet exist; for several weeks, I was the only soldier in a unit that now numbers more than 300. We originally had no rifles, no vehicles, and no equipment; now we are fully armed. In fact, between our body armor, weapons, and other required gear, we usually carry at least 40 lbs. wherever we go.
We have spent the past seven months training for our deployment. About half of our months in garrison have been spent on the Army’s equivalent of “business trips” – that is, field exercises taking us away from our homes for weeks at a time. As our significant others point out, garrison training is frequently indistinguishable from deployment.
In the next month, I will lead my platoon into Iraq. While I am concerned for my soldiers, we have trained hard and we are ready for the challenges that we will face in the next year.
I have never regretted my decision to enlist in the U.S. Army. No one class of citizens should bear the burden of our country’s overseas military commitments. As a society, we have decided to go to war. As Americans, we are all in this together.