The Men And Women Of Our Armed Services Have The Same Crushing Workloads, The Same Office Politics, The Same Splitting Headaches And The Same Meager Compensation That Most Of Us Do. The Difference Is That People Shoot At Them At Their Jobs.
The last Wednesday in June for the GMHTP staff was not unlike any other hard-driving American workday: full email inboxes, multiple phone messages, token lunches and the daily stack of brain-numbing paperwork that has come to define a "normal" workload in this shaky economy. Everyone on staff was dragging--the summer show schedule made for weeks without a day off, and the deadlines don't stop coming just because you're out of the office. My editors were still cranking, and the stories were rolling in. I remember reading a large number of them that day, and polishing up those rough drafts was giving me the kind of headache that sneers at painkillers. Mid-preposition my mind began to wander, but this all-too-brief reverie involving myself and about a pound of codeine-laced Tylenol was interrupted by the day's mail smacking my desk. I eyed the stack with the seasoned pessimism of an exhausted East Coast writer, but as I picked through the press releases and junk mail, an envelope bearing the letters "FPO AP" in the upper left corner caught my eye. Military speak. Corporal Bryant Jimenez of the United States Marine Corps had found time in his busy schedule to pen a letter, and you can bet I found time to read it.
Jimenez's letter is printed in its entirety in this month's Voice Mail column. It tells of two of his most cherished companions in this world: his pregnant wife, and his 2000 Z28 with all of the bolt-on trimmings. Like many of our readers, Bryant can't wait to venture beyond the minor mods and strap a heads and cam package to his high-tech GM when--God willing--he comes home.
Jimenez is stationed in Iraq, which is half a world away as the crow flies--and worlds apart from the water cooler and boardroom battles that most of us fight. The U.S.-led war against an evil regime, though still raging, faded from the national consciousness when the network coverage turned from embedded to token after the climactic fall of Baghdad. But the violence in that volatile country is still happening, as evidenced by a recent conversation with one of our former managing editors. One of her son's friends--some 19-year-old kid from New York--had been forced to kill an Iraqi who had raised his rifle at an oncoming convoy. "When he gets back from there, he won't ever be the same again," she remarked sadly.
I was brought up in a family that was a generation removed from active duty, but that didn't stop me from living vicariously through an older friend who entered the service. In high school, this guy had a better chance of going to jail than the military. He put my hooptie '74 Monte's engine on the chip and did a tranny drop, much to the TH-350's detriment. He constantly cut class and played Tecmo Bowl religiously. He spent nights stealing construction signs off the highway. Basically, he did the same moronic things as I did. But three years later when I was drinking beer at college, he was humping an M-60 in 150-degree desert heat in a post-Desert Storm Kuwait. We didn't see the firefights on TV like we did in Baghdad, but I saw them in his eyes when he returned. He was two things after Kuwait: quieter and tougher.
I remember going a few rounds with him out of sheer boredom one afternoon. I was five inches taller with some martial arts and boxing training. He had trained with the Army Rangers before shipping out. And yes, this little match turned out as badly as you think it did. I remember him taking a couple of hard side kicks and brushing off a jab, then he nonchalantly dropped me with a leg sweep and held a fist to my throat. I learned right then and there how serious the business of war is, but it took two full weeks before I could walk again
I have always had tremendous respect and appreciation for our soldiers, and it was reinforced as I sat in my air-conditioned office reading that letter. These kind words about the magazine were probably written in some tiny tent in the middle of a hostile country, by a Leatherneck who can't afford to have a bad day at the office. What gets me most about Corporal Jimenez is how enthusiastically he described his upcoming modifications. He couldn't send pictures or tell me where he's at, and you know the Marines are right in the thick of the action. But his tone was that of a bench racer, planning mods over a couple of beers. He doesn't sound concerned, which should make all of us feel better. But the reality of his occupation is a harsh one: The men and women of our armed services have the same crushing workloads, the same office politics, the same splitting headaches and the same meager compensation that most of us do. The difference is that people shoot at them at their jobs.
So when you look at it that way, a busy summer day in the office is paradise. We all have bad days--a blown motor, an irritated spouse, or a demanding boss is sometimes all it takes to convince us that life sucks. But the next time that you curse your job, your boss, or your car, think about Jimenez and all of America's bravest. Remember that they are out there right now keeping our little problems from becoming real ones. So the next time you get a chance, tell America's bravest thank you. It's the very least we can do.