They're sure as shit about to find out...
Gung-Ho, but What Do They Know of Death?
By Nancy Y. Bekavac
Nancy Y. Bekavac is president of Scripps College in Claremont.
March 4, 2005
Every morning at sunrise, I walk my large mixed-breed dogs through my small college town. There's a dreamlike quality to most mornings, and not just because I walk before I have coffee. I've gotten to know my neighbors' gardens and trees. Sometimes I pick the route for specific reasons. One recent day, it was for the flowering cherry that had just opened up, and the last of the crab apple blossoms. The dogs were snuffling in the ivy when I heard a group of strong young voices calling out a marching cadence.
There's an ROTC unit at the colleges. As I walked south, they came toward me, running in formation on the street, three or four abreast, mostly short-haired men, but there were some women with pony tails. They wore gray "ARMY" T-shirts, black shorts and orange web belts. The lead officer, a chesty 40-year-old, responded to my "Hello," and he and the group ran in place to let me and the dogs cross in front of them. As they passed behind me, a woman's voice called out the next verse, and then they all repeated it:
If I die in a combat zone,
put me in a box and ship me home.
Their rubber soles hit the pavement with a dull thud as they jogged slowly past. As I reached the far corner, I tried to get hold of my feelings. Only one of them was likely to have seen a combat zone, and I bet none of them had ever looked into "a box."
