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I’m Glad We Know

The Source

For most of us it would have been nightmare. You walk up to the departure door at the airport, hand them your boarding pass, and there’s a mistake. The airline has misspelled your name. You’re a scant 20 minutes from departure and you’re faced with the time-gobbling prospect of going back to the check-in desk and going through the entire process all over again. But not for Phil. Phil was once a student of mine…a quiet and polite young man who’d sit by himself at Triopia lunch hours, usually foregoing lunch to sit under one of the school’s shade trees reading a book. Phil loved westerns and eventually grew into a six-foot-four-inch national teen rodeo champion…and most recently, a U.S. Marine in Afghanistan. I’m blessed in that whenever Phil comes home on leave he stops by. We talk horses. We talk rodeo. Most recently we’ve talked about life as a Marine in Afghanistan. He told me about the airline on his most recent visit. “I figured I’d missed that flight. There was no way they’d get my name straightened out and besides, my seat was probably gone by now.” The fellow behind the ticket counter asked for an I.D. Phil handed him his Marine card. “The guy took one look at it and asked me where I was serving.” Phil told him he was spending his military time in Afghanistan. “The guy said, ‘Then you’re going first class.’” And handing him a ticket, directing him to the less time-consuming first class security check where they did little more than ask him a couple of questions. On a recent break from the Southern Afghan desert Phil stopped at a Western Goods store in Washington State. “I’ve needed a new hat for rodeo,” he said, “and the one I picked out cost $400.” Phil’s not wealthy, but I guess that a cowboy’s hat is pretty important and only the best will do. “It was a preacher-style hat and I wanted it shaped more Western style so they told me that the shop’s hat shaper would see me.” The guy apparently looked at Phil’s military bearing, observed his polite manner and guessed that he was in the military. “Ended up,” said Phil, “I got a free hat then he said, pick out any ball cap and shirt and take that, too.” Phil took an unscheduled break from his job as a Marine sniper when he volunteered to ride in the turret gun of his company’s tank. “It’s the most dangerous place but most of the other guys in my group were married and some had kids. I figured that I’d have the least people miss me if something happened.” It did. The armored carrier ran over an IED and Phil quickly found himself on his way to Germany for medical treatment. “It was kind of nice,” he told me. “I got to sneak out and see a lot of the country.” The same attitude that caused 7th-grade Phil to seek a shade tree and Zane Gray novel instead of the noise of an adolescent noon hour made it possible for him to look upon even an Improvised Explosive Device as an opportunity. He’s good kid. I was sitting in an airport recently when a group of old vets came walking through. They were a part of the “Honor Flight” program in which World War II vets are flown to Washington free of charge as a way of saying thanks on behalf of a grateful nation. I forget the details, but it was a cap or a flight bag or something that gave them away. As they slowly walked through our part of the concourse, some of them in wheelchairs, the several hundred waiting passengers began to applaud. The old fellas were a bit startled and assumed that something big had just happened so they stopped and began applauding until it became obvious that the ovation was for them. It was one of those very good moments where the selfishness and deal making in Washington dimmed and America’s true spirit shone brightly. I know it was shining brightly because the brilliance of the moment brought tears to many eyes. Phil said, “I don’t usually wear my uniform in civilian life. I don’t want to make a big thing of it.” While the nightly news is filled with office holders eager to make a big thing out of everything they do, eager to be on the side that will get them the most votes in the next election, and eager to get their name before the public in any way possible, I’m glad that the guys on the front line are named “soldier,” instead of “senator.” And I’m glad that a thankful nation knows this.