I heard today, again, that tired old assertion that the only reason people join the military is because they are so poor they have no other option. I hate that notion. I grew up poor. I joined the Army at age 18. Now, while it is true that I did get a pretty good deal, financially, it is not true that I joined in order to finance an education.

In one of the great ironies of life, the greatest reasons I had for joining was my Vietnam-War-protesting mother. Don't get the wrong idea: my mother was not anti-military or unqualifiedly anti-war. She really didn't have a problem, in theory, with our presence in Vietnam. So what was her problem? Our soldiers, airmen, marines and sailors were not being allowed to do what she had every confidence that they could do: win. It would have been different had our military people been there to do something other than just get killed.

This attitude was rooted in tremendous respect for the military. "Baby killer" never came out of her mouth. And she did not permit her children to talk about the military, especially the people who serve, in any but a respectful manner. Unlike, Bill Clinton, my mother did not loathe the military--quite the opposite in fact.

It is said that young boys tend to have a certain respect for what their mothers respect in other men. I learned by at least age twelve that my mother had a genuine liking for men in the military. And I don't mean that she "had a thing" for men in uniform. So it was that at age twelve I made the decision that I would serve at least one "hitch" in the military--especially if I could be allowed to serve on tanks, which I was.

In another one of those ironies of life, my mother was quite upset when at age eighteen I made good on my resolve--which, apparently, I neglected to share with her. I say it is an irony because the woman who was upset by my enlistment really had no one to blame but herself! To be fair, it wasn't my enlisting, in and of itself, that bothered her. She couldn't understand why it had to be tanks. Couldn't I do something else? I told her that if I was going to be in the Army, and feel that it was worthwhile for me to be, it was going to be one of the combat arms. I wasn't joining the Army to get job training. (Not that I take a dim view of those who join the Army and do not serve in combat arms: I have very little patience for administration type things; if the job is break and or otherwise damage stuff (or people) I can do it. Ask my wife; she'll tell you.)

My mother was afraid that, because the world was, shall we say, a rather "warm" place in 1983, I would see combat. She was wrong. I missed the Gulf War by about two years. I would like to believe that had she been right, and I did see combat and die in it, she would not have shamed me the way some parents are doing right now as the war in Iraq goes on.

This Memorial Day will find me, as it has each year since the war began, and as it did during the Gulf War, feeling something a bit like survivor's guilt. It is said that no man in his right mind wants to be in a war, and I believe it. But there are times when I would rather be in it than watching from the sidelines. After all, for all our past sins--and we can be reminded of them everyday--there is still much good about, and in, this country, and it is worth fighting for. And remember those who have done so is what has always made this weekend a high holy day.

HOOAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!