Both Oars In Of Men, not so much of Arms

Feb 26, 2010

 

I have always liked the scene from "Good Morning, Vietnam" where Adrian Cronauer, played by Robin Williams, on the way to the airport to be shipped out against his will, pulls up behind a deuce-and-a-half filled with young recruits and engages them in conversation. To start, he asks one of them, “What’s your name, soldier?” He jokes with the men about their “just arrived status,” youth and nervousness. 

There is a profound sadness under the comedic back and forth dialogue of this scene: these men are headed into a battle, many to die. Fully aware of this, Cronauer takes a moment to engage with these otherwise numbered and herded men on a very individual human level. He jokes about their fears, but he also recognizes their authentic courage.  Like a modern Virgil, he honors their youth, beauty and character apart from the direness of their future exploits.

Cronauer is no war hawk; his humor is not propaganda, but a sincere gift of love to the men themselves. The scene is about human connection and appreciation, something deeper than simple patriotism. He is not revving them up; he just wants to show them a bit of compassion before they head into hell.

That scene has stuck with me for over 20 years. I have thought about it often and I have watched the movie several times since just for that scene. I have shed more than a few tears over it.  But, I never imaged that I would live it. Yet, last Tuesday, I did.

Early in the aftermath of Haiti’s 7.0 Quake, I invited Lieutenant Champion and his patrol to play basketball at our school. He and his men from the Red Falcon division of the 82nd Airborne were newly arrived to Haiti and making their first patrol of our neighborhood. They were eager to make “friendly” contact.  The prospect of basketball made us seem really friendly.

To be sure, I had an ulterior motive in mind when I asked them to make a detour down our street and play a bit of ball. The interaction with our students gave these men new purpose for being here and the pictures we were able to send home of the game increased the sense of security among our very worried supporters and volunteer parents. It was a win-win day.

Over the weeks that followed, Lt. Champion and his men made several visits to the school. During this time, we got to know their names, hometowns and backgrounds. We joked about their humiliating loss, 38 to 12, on their fist visit. And, we accused them of bringing back a ringer to settle the score. They faired much better in the final epic game, losing, voluntarily it would seem, 101 to 92.

During our ad hoc gatherings, we swapped home cooked rice and beans for their plastic packaged exotic MREs [Meals Ready to Eat]. This presented an opportunity for a new addiction on my part. These ready to eat meals are not your grandfather’s C ration. They come with individualized chemical heater packs that heat the meal.  They include condiments like Tabasco sauce, and cookies. And, thanks to the Surgeon General, chewing gum has replaced the cigarettes of old. The soldiers must tire of them, but the MREs have been a fun distraction for us.

During the games and swaps, we also learned that these men would be here for only a short time before heading to Afghanistan—some had already been to Iraq. We did not like to think about that looming albatross, so we threw kids at the men to hang on them and talked about how much we appreciated their keeping things boring. But, we knew that behind the smiles and laughs were seriously trained professional soldiers, ever ready to go where angels most certainly fear to tread.

On Monday, I got the call. Lt. Champion asked, “Can we make one last visit? We are heading out and Tuesday is our last chance to get out before packing up.”

The men came. We played for hours. They patiently acted as human jungle gyms for the youngest and let the basketball game with the oldest, or at least the tallest, go until they lost—but only by a little this time.

Time passed and Lt. Champion, Jerry, said it was time to go. They loaded their deuce-and-a-half and started to head out. During part of the several K turns it took for the large vehicle loaded with soldiers sitting on stiff benches—the personnel carriers have changed less than the chow—to to get out into of our narrow street, I ended up behind the truck. I yelled up, “Hey, what’s your name, soldier?”  Tears of joy and sadness rushed in as I laughed.

I am no warhawk either—actually never met one, especially in uniform—but, I will not only sing of these men. I will pray for them when I hear they have landed in Afghanistan.

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