First, let me reaffirm my position. I sit here today a better person, a better citizen and forever a soldier because of my military service. I followed orders, and it was not until I saw that our soldiers in uniform needed soldiers to protect their interest, did I question my service.

That’s right, our soldiers need soldiers to defend them against enemies more domestic than foreign, more familiar than unfamiliar and craftier than any so called insurgent.

In my ignorance, blinded by testosterone and a five-digit, signing bonus I swayed Army.

I really thought that the idea of me coming back to the hood in black jungle boots walking tall with a maroon beret would get     me. . .well honestly, more chicks, health insurance for my daughter (whom I had my senior year in high school) and a steady income to pay child support.

I chose greedily; I got a job with a high bonus (big carrot), with high risk. In fact, later in my career, my leaders would joke with hardened honesty that we lived about 13.5 seconds on the battle field and that my occupation stood a better chance of getting killed by friendly fire from an American gunship or bomber than enemy fire.

When I sat down to choose my occupation I settled on Fire Support Specialist, or 13F. I knew what I was getting into in terms of my job, and man did it make my blood flow. The picture was painted and the stage set, go forth and join the 82^nd Airborne Battalion. If someone so much as sharted^* out of turn in another country within hours of the call to arms, we would be in air ready to occupy a territory until ground or air forces were mobilized.

The idea of jumping out of a plane at night, with only what you can carry and what you need to kill, gave me a high that can addict lesser men.  At first, the sound of the planes engines and wind was unnerving. Then I and up to a few hundred buddies hit the air.

Silence and the cool air embraced me. Several moments later the ground reminded me that this was work and I had a mission to do. Once the ringing ceased in my head and I got orientated, I started moving: Off to spread democracy and improve the lands on behalf of the American system.

For the first nine weeks of the military indoctrination I operated at a seven-minute mile pace, while someone attempted to break me down mentally and physically; until I grew to appreciate whatever kindness the uniform afforded me, hence loving my capture.

I recall the first sour experience that made it difficult to embrace my career choice. The first time I had an opportunity to bounce my contract off of others on my career path was an eye-bulging occasion, but strangely not as much for me as some of my fellow soldiers. Can you imagine finding out five months into a 48 month contract that there are people, bunks down from you, that have the same contract but received a bonus up to nine times higher than you?  Better still, I met a couple of guys that actually thought the job “fire support specialist” meant to assist in fire fighting!

The job actually entailed being the first one and often the only one alone under cover with actual eyes on the enemy target.  More specifically, my team and I would infiltrate a territory, survey the land and call in artillery fire on the targets or terrain albeit support, offensive or defensive fire. The danger came from being so close to the enemy or target. You were also exposed to the risk of being mistaken for advancing enemy forces or fall victim to missile, bomb or artillery fire that fell short of the target, perhaps on your position.

It is understandable that someone who thought they got a good deal, a two-thousand dollar signing bonus to be a fireman’s assistant, could feel jaded or chaffed when they find that the contract is virtually iron clad, and they are not going to be putting out fires.

It was when the smoked settled in Advanced Individual Training, or AIT, that people started asking their moms to call their senators. Contracts were in direct contradiction to what recruiters committed, but by the time we found anyone to listen, we were absorbed in a world that pushed us forward on an escalator where there was literally no time or anyone who cared to challenge the inequities of the process. We were transformed into the last four digits of our social security number, a walking and talking tool no matter what our rank. There was always someone above us, which made us all tools - there simply to execute: Numb to the impact of your effort on the world.

Most people like me figured at least we’ve got steady incomes, benefits and a purpose. There was also Jesus, Jack and Paul; refuge sought in Jesus Christ, Jack Daniels and Paul Mason. You found these three often, but maybe not always together. I literally slept, trained, drank and had sex, not necessarily in that order and sometimes all three at once.

I’ve seen soldiers manipulate the system to finagle a plush civilian job for those in the “good old boys club,” only to see them disenchanted, dishonorably discharged and escorted off of the military installation with no money and only the clothes on their back. Too often in my career I had seen my people in uniform mistreated by the misuse of policy at the hands of angry leaders, leaders whose anger is displaced because of their soldier’s failed work/life balance.

My threshold reached capacity in January of 2002, when I saw wave upon wave of military service men and women looking for an exit strategy. That is when the classism became so grossly apparent: Officers in the “know” were able to bow out gracefully and took advantage of transitional assistance, while enlisted soldiers were under Stop Loss or bullied into deployment. Meanwhile, recruitment efforts produced more clueless personnel rather than patriots who wanted to serve their country.

I am not bitter about my experience, in fact the frustration I carry is because, as a veteran, I see an intended effort by our military to attract low income, under privileged kids to fight a war that the affluent have started under the cover of patriotism.

Well I’ve got news: If we can get kids to join the military even in light of facts that may paint a less than favorable picture of our occupation, we are pretty much saying we can buy patriotism. In the year 2000, the going rate for my service was a cash s bonus up to $20,000 and $40,000 for college. Today the cost for a patriot is a cash bonus of up to $40,000 and up to $73,836 for college.

I guess if twice as many Americans are aware of the hypocrisy that exists in our government and in our military, then it is only fitting that Uncle Sam offer us about twice as much to be silent and conceded to the military industrial complex.

*Sharted is an Urban slang term which our editors encourage you to look up if you do not know it’s meaning.