On military service

Über wonk-blogger Matthew Yglesias posted this comment today, of all days, on his blog:

“Veterans are great and I respect their service. I’m also glad that CAP [his think-tank employer] actually gives us this day as a holiday. But I think we’d be better off celebrating Armistice Day. War is, at the end of the day, more tragic than heroic and our commemorations ought to reflect that.”

So glad he’s enjoying the holiday. And, on behalf of all veterans, you’re welcome.

Look, being an American (in no-draft periods) includes the right of not serving in the military. Exercising that right, Yglesias, 29, has never served. And that’s fine. But there is something vaguely blithe and backhanded about his comments. That’s less fine. But it is spoken by someone who is clueless about what it means to wear the uniform, let alone doing so in war. And, sadly, his cluelessness is shared by too many of us. As for the Armistice Day idea, nobody would be happier to celebrate it more than veterans -- just as soon as they stop shooting at us.

Summoning the courage to join the American armed forces, to earn the right to wear its uniform, to perform its often dangerous missions and, if necessary, to die in service of the nation it protects, is no small thing.

Choosing military service today is especially momentous since the odds of seeing combat – probably over multiple tours – are excellent. In the Army and Marine Corps, it’s a virtual certainty. The odds of suffering grievous injury or death are not inconsequential. All of which makes the act of volunteering even more brave and honorable.

Why do young men and women do it? Only they can answer that complicated question.

As Joe College, I had many options other than military service. But I loved this big, messy, imperfect country, this beautiful place we call America. I figured I owed her a little quality time at the peak of my physical prowess. So I joined the Marines. And had I known what the future held, I surely would not have left. And I regret not being able to lend a hand. But destiny goes its own way.

And so I write about my Marines and the others in harm’s way. History will not remember the ubiquitous grunt, sailor or airman now on the line, the kids shouldering America’s burden virtually alone. But as long as there is breath in my body, I’ll remember them in as many words as I can muster. It is the least I can do.