New York Times 22 December 2002
Quiescent Objector
By TROY MELHUS
In 1990, on Christmas Day, I had a peace symbol tattooed on my back,
a week after signing my will. I was 22 years old. Three weeks later,
I met Sam Lwin. I was a United States marine, a reservist, and I had
just been ordered to deploy to the Persian Gulf. Sam was a marine who
had refused to fight. He had applied to become a conscientious
objector along with two dozen other marines who all ended up with me
at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina.
My reserve unit, based in Des Moines, had been called to active duty
a day after Thanksgiving, some three months after Saddam Hussein
invaded Kuwait. One week later, we flew to Lejeune, and spent
December preparing to ship out. The night we arrived, a reservist in
nearby barracks tried to commit suicide. We stood silent, listening
to his screams at 3 a.m. as the military police struggled to carry
him away.
We would be seeing action, our platoon sergeants told us, most likely
on the front lines. We could very likely be attacked with chemical or
biological gas. We had served under Gunnery Sergeant Brasher for
years; he had taught us everything from marksmanship to what to do if
there was a chemical attack -- and even he was sounding nervous. As
members of the infantry, we would be among those at the greatest
risk. But that's what you signed up for, our platoon sergeants said.
I joined the Marine Corps in 1986 for some $5,000 in college money
and to be one of the few and the proud. I accepted the recruiters'
challenges as thousands of 19-year-olds do every year; I wanted to
showcase my strength and will. By the end of boot camp, I was at the
top of my platoon. As the honor man, I graduated in the coveted dress
blues; later, I was recruited to become an officer. I was a living
poster of all heroes Marine. But war? I would maybe see war games.
Even during Vietnam, my reserve unit hadn't been activated, the
recruiters had told me. Seeing action was about as abstract a thought
as nuclear war.
No question that I had joined the Marines on that bet. Even by the
time of our activation, I didn't expect to immediately see the gulf.
Eleven months before, I injured my knee on a weekend drill and was
declared unfit for duty. I didn't know it then, but that would give
me an out. My company flew to Saudi Arabia just days after New
Year's. I was detached to a medical platoon at Lejeune and told I
would rejoin my company when I was fit.
Some 10 days after U.S. forces began bombing Iraq, I was assigned to
barracks adjacent to the conscientious objectors' platoon. I was
regularly ordered to take head counts of the group while they awaited
trials for their military crimes. While it was not a crime to apply
to be a C.O., it was criminal to refuse to obey orders -- in this
case reporting for duty overseas. And Sam Lwin, my new superiors told
me, was trouble. When his reserve unit was activated, they said, Sam
persuaded four others in his company to follow in his steps. He had a
civilian support group (''Hands Off!'') and high-profile attorneys
and had questioned the authority of corporals like myself.
But over the next two months at Lejeune, Sam and I began to talk and
play chess. I didn't see him as a criminal. I saw shades of myself
and my doubts. I had heard of conscientious objection only once --
the day I joined the corps. All marines, on the day they enlist, must
initial a statement swearing that they are not now nor have ever been
C.O.'s. A footnote, really.
By February -- near the war's end -- an orthopedic specialist on the
base gave me a choice. I could remain indefinitely on active duty
with the medical platoon. Or I could end my service now. On March 21,
1991, in a small ceremony in front of my medical platoon, I was
honorably discharged. I flew home to Iowa City the next day. Two
months later, Sam was convicted of unauthorized absence and missing a
troop movement. He was sentenced to four months in the brig.
We were cowards. That's the only way you'll ever hear it. That's the
only way it will ever be told. We walked away when we were called to
fight. I was given a choice, and I chose to excuse myself. Some
marines understood. Others thought I should have swallowed the pain
or at least stayed, even if it took months for my knee to heal. But
Sam had no choice. He followed his conscience. I am now 34, though
some days I hardly feel like a man. I hate myself for feeling
manipulated; I hate myself for joining the Marines; and I hate myself
for feeling like I chickened out.
My family and friends may think I'm a coward because I didn't fight.
I think I'm a coward because I couldn't refuse. To this day, Sam
tells me that he doesn't regret what he did. But I'm not so sure
about myself. More than a decade ago, I didn't have the courage to be
a conscientious objector. I was afraid -- afraid to kill, afraid to
die. I had the same feelings as Sam; I just couldn't speak them
aloud. But I knew. I wear the reminder every day on my left shoulder
blade.
Troy Melhus is a writer and editor for The Minneapolis Star Tribune.
He served in the Marine Corps from 1987 to 1991.
<http://www.nytimes.com/2002/12/22/magazine/22LIVES.html>
--
Yoshie
* Calendar of Events in Columbus:
<http://www.osu.edu/students/sif/calendar.html>
* Anti-War Activist Resources: <http://www.osu.edu/students/sif/activist.html>
* Student International Forum: <http://www.osu.edu/students/sif/>
* Committee for Justice in Palestine: <http://www.osu.edu/students/CJP/>
_______________________________________________
Leninist-International mailing list
[EMAIL PROTECTED]
To change your options or unsubscribe go to:
http://lists.econ.utah.edu/mailman/listinfo/leninist-international
