Mom's pride tangles with objections to war
It was only three years ago, after high school, that Roman signed on for a four-year stint in the Army. Not long after boot camp, he was sent to Iraq with the 1st Armored Division. At the beginning of that deployment, I'd addressed letters and packages to "Pvt. Diaz." By the end of his 15 months there, that title had changed to "Spc."
"Just do your best," I tap out on my keyboard. "And you'll do fine." A motherly mantra as familiar to him as "eat your vegetables" and "pick up your socks."
But he doesn't see it as that simple. And he tells me why. He'd been given a practice test this morning, and he blew it, he says, big time. With the real test less than 24 hours away, he seriously doubts he'll be earning an extra stripe anytime soon.
A bright kid who always coasted to good grades, Roman has never been fond of memorizing facts for multiple choice tests. And this is that kind of quiz. Specifics. Technical details. Map reading. Procedure following.
But to his way of thinking, that isn't the worst of it. If he doesn't make sergeant, he won't be allowed to continue leading the group he's actually been in charge of training for the past couple of months. His previous boots-on-the-ground experience in places like Baghdad and al-Kut had been, I think, a factor in his being given those responsibilities shortly after he was assigned to the 101st Airborne in Ft. Campbell, Ky., earlier this year. None of the other men in this new squad of his had ever been to war. But that's where the 101st will be heading a few weeks from now. Roman, too, along with the men he's nicknamed his "Jedi."
Unlike them, he knows what lies ahead. Knows from experience that being well trained can mean the difference between life and death. Physical fitness, for instance, matters greatly when you've got a 70-pound pack on your back, a 6-foot wall between you and cover, and insurgent bullets churning up the dust at your feet.
With that knowledge, Roman had taken it upon himself to be an after-hours running coach for one of the soldiers in his group, a hefty guy, whose extra pounds had been slowing him down in their daily physical training. I pictured my lanky son showing that young man how to pace himself, how to breathe, and — true to form — lobbing just enough good-natured insults to keep the guy moving and motivated.
"You know, it's kinda weird. But with some of these guys, I almost feel like their dad," he told me the last time he was home on leave. And if it felt strange for him to say that, it felt even stranger for me to hear it.
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