I enlisted into the United States Army Reserve on March 30, 1998. At the time I was just barely seventeen years old. I was a high school drop out with only a G.E.D. to show I had any remnant of an education. I was not a criminal escaping the law; I was not a young father to be. There wasn’t a war or an armed conflict to participate in; Kosovo and Bosnia Herzegovina were the responsibility of the National Guard. I was running away from the future I had been headed toward. Dropping out of high school so early destroyed my chances for a timely college education and thrust me into associations with people that most folks would consider less than desirable. This future would have certainly led to poverty and drugs. However, I also felt it was my duty to enlist. I joined the Army to honor those who came before me, those currently in service and the many who will follow me. Men and women fought and often died or were left permanently maimed or disfigured, all in an effort to protect the freedoms I enjoy as a citizen. I was also inspired by my father who served for twenty years in the United States Air Force. He, like me, served in no notable campaigns, but the idea is that we volunteered our lives for the greater idea of the United States.

Fort Jackson, South Carolina was hot and humid. I remember vividly that each day at 0430 hours we rose to the sound of a light switch. It seemed that even the light itself made an unmistakable thud. The whole floor of eighty men scrambled to a bathroom containing twelve sinks and all of us brushed our teeth and shaved in ten minutes in a quiet rhythmic cadence. By 0445 hours we formed outside our barracks. The air was crisp, the sandy, rocky ground wet with dew. We recited our Soldier’s Creed, our inspiration, in unison, and the drill sergeants led us in formation on a run. Afterwards we showered and dressed for the morning parade. After chow, we started Bayonet Training.

The bayonet doesn’t appear menacing in the least, at least not in comparison to an M-16 or maybe a shoulder fired missile. It’s simply a double edged knife with notches to make it attachable to our rifles. I didn’t think much of using it; I joined the Army as a technician, not an infantryman. I just wanted to stay behind the scenes and fix tanks. What was I thinking?

I do not mean to imply that I was not aware that soldiers were trained to kill. I was taught how to shoot a person down with a rifle. There are more ways of killing people than I could ever possibly learn. However, the bayonet is a dramatically personal weapon. Using a bayonet puts a soldier face to face with an enemy and a decision. The decision is to kill or be killed, regardless of why the battle is being fought.

In a blur of time we were all spread out on a gigantic field. Drill Sergeant Ingram stood on a platform. He was a tall, slender African American man, and unlike our other drill sergeants, he seemed to be quite sophisticated. He was strong and fit, but once in a while, he’d let you see his tender side. I hadn’t expected this from a man weathered by years of military service.

His voice boomed through a megaphone. He’d shout to us, “What makes the grass grow?!”

To which my fellow recruits and I would respond in unison, “Blood! Blood! Blood makes the grass grow, drill sergeant!”

Then he’d holler, “What makes the grass grow green?!”

In reply we’d shout, “Guts! Guts! Guts make the grass grow green, drill sergeant!”

The other drill sergeants walked amongst us, heckling us, taunting us, as was their way. We were taught to twirl and slash, butt and stab, all sorts of horrific methods of killing and maiming with this bayonet. At some point I felt as though I was becoming a robot; we all seemed like robots. We were being programmed to kill without thought or hesitation. Nevertheless, I had not recognized the fact that one day my duty could require me to kill another person with this bayonet. My duty may put me face to face with another human being. I’d have to look that soldier in the eyes, and I would try to kill that person, to save my own life. It’s much easier for a soldier to launch a missile or drop a bomb, since neither action brings one into intimate contact with death. Later, after lunch chow, we marched to a bayonet range. On the range we ran here and there, we stabbed, slashed, poked and butted our rifles and bayonets against dummies made up to look like Russian soldiers. The dummies were left over from a time when all American service members were taught to fight Communists. On that very range, I finally realized that my duty, my responsibility, my choice as a citizen, may lead me to take another life.

I understood that sometimes diplomacy doesn’t work and that war is sometimes necessary. I had a responsibility now to my nation that I would bear arms and fight for our nation’s chosen causes, even those causes that seem to serve no good purpose. It would be naïve of me to have thought that everything we fight for is good and just. Take Iraq for example. Did we fight there to oust a tyrant? Has anyone found the weapons of mass destruction? Maybe we are there to quench our thirst for oil. I understand that the purpose of war is sometimes blurry. However, in the performance of my duties I will always give my best effort to fulfill them.

I feel a great sense of pride about my decision to enter the military. There is a measure of honor given to those willing to fight and die for the right to our freedoms. This volunteerism is deserving of the label “citizen.” No longer will I view a citizen simply as someone who can vote, own property, or pay taxes. A citizen treasures, defends, even yields to their nation, even when it means they might compromise their personal values. As a result of this training in the United States Army, I now feel that I’ve earned the right to the esteem of an American citizen.