Quiescent Objector [NYT Sunday Mag]

["Hunter Gray" <hunterbadbear@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>]

Note by Hunterbear:

Troy Melhus is a good friend of our family.  He was a key reporter on the
Bismarck Trib when my son, Peter, was its State Editor  Troy did solid
interviews with me on regional issues. [Pete is now a key editor on the
state-wide Lincoln, Nebraska paper and Troy is with the Minneapolis
Star-Trib.]  This is an excellent piece by Troy, just sent to me by Pete,
and it'll appear in tomorrow's Sunday NYT magazine's "First Person" section.


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.



Hunter Gray  [Hunterbear]
www.hunterbear.org
Protected by Na´shdo´i´ba´i´
and Ohkwari'

In our Gray Hole, the ghosts often dance in the junipers and sage, on the
game trails, in the tributary canyons with the thick red maples, and on the
high windy ridges -- and they dance from within the very essence of our own
inner being. They do this especially when the bright night moon shines down
on the clean white snow that covers the valley and its surroundings.  Then
it is as bright as day -- but in an always soft and mysterious and
remembering way. [Hunterbear]







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