I had a rare gift when I was five years old. I already knew what I wanted to be when I grew up — an infantry soldier who carried a rifle. When we played our career game we went around the room and each kid had to stand up and say what they wanted to be when they grew up. I was confused because mine wasn’t in the film — the thing I wanted to be when I grew up wasn’t in the film.
Was I striving to be something that didn’t exist? Did infantry soldiers even exist? DID I EXIST?? Kindergarten is a beautiful thing, but it just phuqt me up and confused the bejesus out of me in a few ways. Like, I never knew why I had to lay on a mat on the floor every day after lunch for an hour with my eyes wide open while my peers around me slept like corpses.
Going around the room we all stood up one-by-one. Yeah, yeah… I get it: doctor, nurse, fireman, nurse, policeman, nurse, milkman (loser!), nurse… oh, shit me; it’s my turn. I stood knowing that an infantry solder did not exist (because of the film), so I had to pick one.
“Eeny meeny my-knee moe,” — we had learned to select in kindergarten too — naw, naw, naw… I’ll just be a Goddamned spaceman for Christ’s sake. No, that kid with the runny nose and impossibly thick glasses already picked that. I’m not going to space with that punk.
“I want to be an infantry soldier!”
Well, the room clammed up, alright. Just got so quiet you could hear a cricket drop in there. That dumbass girl who didn’t know her right from her left hand or her ass from her mouth started crying.
“What did say, Georgie?” the teacher started in on me.
“Oh hell,” I panicked, “what rhymes with infantry soldier that was on that cock-a-doody film?!?”
“A spaceman… I said I wanted to be a spaceman and go to outer space with ah… four-eyed drippy faucet there.”
“Oh, how nice… kids, Georgie wants to be a spaceman and go to outer space with Bobbie Kreezle — isn’t that exciting?
“Yyyyeeeeeeessssss, Mrs. Milacheck.”
I had my career path figured out at five years old. I was guilty of no pretense. I wanted to be an infantry soldier — not a general or a fighter pilot or a tank commander — just an infantry soldier carrying a single rifle. If I ran ahead with that rifle the rest of the men in my unit would be motivated and empowered to pick their rifles up and run with me.
“Where in Judas Paste are we running to?”
“I don’t know, Joe… I’m just following that mug upfront with the rifle.”
I was a little bit shy about my desire to be “just” an infantryman. I knew it wasn’t just one helluva strive. It’s not like I was after being the next Lee Iacocca, but I knew what I wanted to do. Even at the army recruiter’s office, I got cold feet and just couldn’t spit it out to him that I wanted to be an infantry soldier.
I looked at the list of job specialties and I picked 12B, Combat Engineer. But the recruiter did me a favor and bamboozled me into choosing something else.
“Sorry pal, no openings in Combat Engineers — all full up. But ah… there are some openings in the infantry if yooz interested.”
A flash of thrill swept me: “Awww… darn! Well, shucks… I reckon I’ll take that-there infantry.”
That was how it played out for me. Funny how those things work out. There were no regrets for my part. I was elated that it had worked out in, what I deemed, as my favor. I soon was on a jetliner, packed with other brothers and sisters, headed to the U.S. Army.
“Hey, man… what are you comin’ in for; what are you going to be in the Army?” My seatmate inquired.
“Uh, a combat… field medical… surgeon doctor… guy…” I still had that minor pride issue to sort through.
By Almighty God and with honor,
geo sends
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** For more by George, click here.
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