The Letter

So.

Wife comes up to me at work yesterday (We work at the same office, just in different departments). She says she has to talk to me. She produces a letter, forwarded to me by my parents, and which they opened before they sent it to me.

The return address says "Department of the Army."

I can't describe here the abject terror that that sight put into me. Next thing I know, I've jumped back about three feet, and my wife has to reassure me that it's not a deployment order. I haven't been IRR'ed, she tells me, but she goes on to add that she would like to talk to me more about this when I get a moment.

The letter, as it turns out, is an address verification request. In order to maintain their records, the letter tells me, Human Resources Command needs to know where I'm at, should I need to be called up during a "national emergency." Enclosed is an address form, which I am instructed to complete and return within ten days of reception.

I've been out for three months now.

This means two things, of course. First, it means that my parents have once again denied my request to not forward any government mail. Not only have they denied my request, but they actually opened and READ it, against my orders, and then sent it to me, without so much as a call. No, "Hey, what should we do with this," or "Hey, you got a letter from the Army coming." Nothing. So of course, rather than confront me on the subject--obviously, we disagree--they've just decided to drop the bomb on me without a word. Thanks, guys.

Number two: it also means that the Army is already wanting to get back into my life. I've only been out three months, and already they're sniffing around, wanting to know where I am. They say it's just, "in the event of a national emergency," but frankly I think that two wars of dubious intent and execution, qualify. I also know that the Army doesn't really draw any such distinction. So while they SAY it's just a formality, I've been around long enough to know better. If they know who to call in case of a hurricane, they know who to call in the case of a pending IRR call-up for Iraq. And let me tell you, I'm not likely to be laying down any Mabey-Johnson bridge down in Galveston.

So I think we all know what this means.

I've been dwelling on what to do all day. On the one hand, part of me says: "No. Fuck them. They lied to me and everyone I've ever cared about. They're not gonna know where I live. They can go fuck themselves." On the other hand, what have I got to lose? I've already stated that I won't be going back. What's the worst that can happen--I fill out the form, they send deployment orders to my house, and I refuse to report? Either way, I'm going to be fucked out of my money for college. So what do I have to lose?

I dunno. I shouldn't even have to be worried about this. I have a new job, where I've been recently promoted, and a wife to worry about. The Army nearly broke me, nearly killed me. I looked at my options, and decided "No. This isn't who I am anymore." And yet, not even a fiscal quarter after my departure, they've decided that they still want to keep tabs on me. This is the great crime at the core of today's military: even after you do your time, even if you were a good soldier who decided that this wasn't for him anymore, that doesn't matter. You're Uncle Sam's bitch now.

Even after everything else, you're still just a pawn, a warm body. I learned long ago that that was all Uncle Sam ever saw me as.

So I have a choice: Either throw the form out, and wait for my parents to sell me up the river; OR, fill out the form and send it in, and then tell the Army to kiss my ass when they send orders to my door. Either way, the answer is still no. I'm not fucking going back. Not now. Not next year.

Not. Ever.

I gave those bastards my all. All for a war that amounted to lies. And still it wasn't enough.