A Scene from Last Friday at the Marine Corps Museum

Congratulations to newly-pinned USMC Lieutenant, John Nelson. That’s one of my best friends from college at Central Connecticut State University. We were co-Resident Assistants together. We shared responsibility for a particularly rowdy group of freshmen -- alcohol incidents, drug dealing, weapons charges and the like. I wrote him a recommendation for Marine Corps Officer Candidate School. The selection process was especially competitive for his group. I have no doubt that my glowing remarks went a long way in helping him earn his current position in life. I feel a combination of sickness and pride for what I helped do to bring him where he is now.

I went to see his graduation at the National Museum of the Marine Corps in Quantico, VA last Friday. It was my first time being around a large group of currently active Marines since my final formation in June 2007. I think I had changed a lot: 15 extra pounds; a colorful tie and a cardigan; all black clothes instead of camouflage colors. I walked by the Medal of Honor Wall exhibit trying not to look at Corporal Dunham. He had died in Iraq, near the Syrian border, after jumping on a grenade to save his fellow Marines. He was reacting to an ambush that occurred to my Civil Affairs Team (they were wounded too; I was sent out that way as a combat replacement). My first day on the border, I attended his field memorial service. I swear to you it was a cloudy day, which of course, almost never happens in the desert. I didn’t want to look at his photo because I get emotionally overwhelmed when thinking about his sacrifice. I can’t stop crying when I envision the display of his boots, helmet and rifle; shiny dog-tags moving with the wind.

I arrived only just a few minutes before the ceremony, so I stopped checking out the displays and shoved my way into the main lobby. The Lieutenants began to file in; they wore their service alphas (the professional gabardine-green colored suit of the Marine Corps), smiles beamed from their faces.

From quite a distance away, I saw my very good friend, John. He couldn’t hold back his signature goofy-ass grin. He took his seat, returning his back to me. His jarhead haircut got lost in the neat arrangement of chairs and sitting men. 

When the band played the Marine Corps Hymn at the end of the ceremony, I had to turn off my mind completely to hold back a reservoir of tears. All the new Lieutenants dispersed themselves amongst the crowd and their families. I walked around for a long time trying to find him. I remembered when I graduated basic training at Marine Corps Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina. My mom hugged another boy that she swore was me.

I said hello to his family and friends briefly, and then left abruptly. “I have to leave or I’m going to cry,” I told them. They probably couldn’t have understood. Even John, probably didn’t get it. I’ve helped secure my friend's place in the business of killing and war. And I know that, while John is going to make an excellent leader of Marines, even an inexperienced insurgent marksman sometimes gets a lucky shot. It’s his decision, but I don’t know if I can deal with the potential consequences of the combat my friend will no doubt see after he finishes his training. Like I said, I’m filled with sickness and pride for my friend. Over the past two years I’ve been complacent, just like the rest of America that has been removed from the battle. I too don’t want to be connected to the war. I don’t want to experience a personal reaction to the inevitable outcome of sending men and machines into hostile lands – Death – anymore.

I’ll pray for John and the other troops, just like I’ve done for years – just like I’ve done since I faced my own mortality in the Spring of 2003.

There is nothing else I can do.

Connect with Dario online:

Personal Website (Free Writing, Podcast, Dario in the Media, Biography, Books, Blogs)

20 Something Magazine (Editor-in-Chief, Creator)

JMWW Literary Journal (Senior Nonfiction Editor)

The Veterans Writing Project (Instructor, Nonfiction Editor)

LinkedIn (Professional Stuff)

Facebook (Be my friend?)