Bright Star

EPILOGUE:

Deciding that he had sat enough all day, Dixon set the retch green paper tray holding his meal on the hood of his hummvee and prepared to eat standing up. As he opened the plastic package of flatware, Dixon looked down at his tray of food. For a moment he watched the steam rise off the food into the cold night air. There was little point, he thought, of trying to figure out what the assorted piles of food were supposed to be. He didn't have much of a choice — eat that, eat another cold MRE, or starve. The meal on the tray was at least hot, his first hot meal in over three days. Whether or not he would enjoy it was immaterial.

Digging into his food with a tiny plastic fork, Dixon began to mechanically shovel it into his mouth, slowly chewing it without much thought. The last thing Dixon wanted to do right now was think. His only concern at that moment was the warm meal before him. Its main course was some type of meat covered by a heavy gravy that had the consistency of paste. Still, it was warm. That in itself was something to be thankful about. He was also thankful that the war was over. In addition, their arrival in the assembly area had been greeted by rumors that redeployment would commence on 25 December, Christmas Day. Those rumors had been confirmed in the middle of the afternoon when word arrived that Division had published its order for that operation. Though the Egyptian 1st Army still had to withdraw from Libya, and stray Libyan units in Egypt needed to be rounded up, the war was over.

Dixon was no more than half finished when Captain Armstrong, the A Company commander, came up to him. Still unsure of the quiet lieutenant colonel who said little, thought a great deal, but seemed to be everywhere, watching everything, Armstrong stopped and saluted. Dixon returned the captain's salute by touching the tip of his tiny plastic fork to the rim of his helmet. "What can I do for you on this fine night, Armstrong?"

Armstrong was brash, his speech strong, sure, as he began to talk to Dixon. "I've been wanting to talk to you, sir. But if you're busy, it can wait."

Swallowing a clump of meat, Dixon paused before he answered. "Not a problem. What's on your mind?"

"Well, sir, some of the other officers in the task force and I were talking about this last operation. We understand what we did, but none of us can quite figure out why we quit just when we had the chance to do some serious ass-kicking."

For a moment Dixon could feel himself becoming upset. What a dumb fucking question, Dixon thought. He couldn't imagine a commissioned officer being so naive. But he checked his anger. Instead, he considered how best to answer the captain's question. "We did what we were sent here to do," he said at last. "Our mission was to assist the Egyptian government reestablish its national borders. You can understand that, can't you?"

There was no pause as Armstrong continued. "That, sir, doesn't make any sense. I mean, Libya has been a pain in the ass for years. How many terrorist attacks have they sponsored? How many Americans have died because of the assholes they've trained and armed? Here we finally get a chance to smash them and we get stopped short by a bunch of wimp politicians."

The urge to choke the shit out of the obnoxious captain was threatening to overwhelm Dixon's self-control. Who the hell did this guy think he was? One quick, cheap battle and suddenly he's ready to take on the world. Instead of lashing out, however, Dixon tried to figure out how he could gain the upper hand in this exchange and make Armstrong understand. Needing time, Dixon decided to put the captain on the defensive. "Do you remember your oath of commission, Captain?"

Thrown by Dixon's question, Armstrong paused and thought for a moment before he answered. "I don't understand, sir."

"The oath that you swore to when you were commissioned — the one you obligate yourself to."

Dixon had Armstrong going. The young captain thought for a moment. When he answered, he was hesitant. "To defend the United States and its people."

"Wrong. When you were commissioned, you pledged yourself to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Furthermore, you pledged your true faith and allegiance to the same." Dixon paused and allowed Armstrong to consider his statement.

Puzzled, Armstrong, with a quizzical look on his face, stared at Dixon. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't make the connection."

Having put Armstrong into the listening mode, Dixon began to explain. "You see, the people who framed the Constitution set things up so that the people elected to the presidency and Congress by the American voters were the ones who determined policy and implemented it. Under the Constitution, the President establishes and pursues policy. He also appoints other civilians to head the Department of Defense and the various armed service departments. Congress, according to the Constitution, has the responsibility for raising and supporting armies and navies, approving the civilians appointed by the President to lead the military departments, and, most importantly, the responsibility of declaring war. When our national policy so demands it, and Congress approves, we, the soldiers, are used. Even then it is the President, through his civilian military chiefs, that determines what our missions and goals are and issues the appropriate directives. For over two hundred years that system has worked, and worked well."

For several seconds neither man said anything as Dixon waited for Armstrong's response. When Armstrong spoke, he was less hostile. "Okay, sir. I understand that. I don't question that. What I do question is the wisdom of their — our civilian leaders'—decision. I mean, wouldn't it be in our best interests to take out Libya?"

Dixon changed his approach. "All right, let's look at this from a military standpoint. Do you think the Russians are going to let us stroll into Libya and occupy it while there are some eighteen thousand Soviet and twenty-five thousand Cubans in there? No. We would have to fight them. And what do you think the response of the Soviet government and people would be to that? What do you think the American public would do if the Soviets cut off Berlin and slaughtered the American brigade there? And even if that didn't happen, consider what it would take to occupy Libya. Five divisions? Maybe six? After all, we would be invaders, foreigners. And even worse, Christians. Their leaders will paint us as infidels trying to subvert Islam and make them a colony again. When the Italians tried to suppress one and a half million Libyans in 1922, it took them ten years and the killing of over seven hundred fifty thousand Libyans to do so. Do you think the American public would condone a ten-year war and the killing of hundreds of thousands of Libyans?"

Armstrong didn't answer. He realized that Dixon was probably right. "So all we did was keep the status quo. We've changed nothing."

"It's not that easy. Things do change. They change all the time. But we aren't the people who should be making those changes. That's what the politicians are for. We're like the fire department. When things get out of hand, we're called out to put out the fire before it consumes that which we hold dear — freedom. Sometimes, like in Korea or Grenada, we get there in the nick of time. Sometimes, like in World War II, we get called in too late to save everything and everyone. Still, even in a world war, it is the politicians that determine what is and isn't policy. Does any of this make sense?"

There was a slight sigh before Armstrong answered. "Yes, sir. I still find it difficult to believe that there isn't a better way of doing business."

Dixon chuckled. "Well, don't feel alone. A lot of very smart people have tried to figure that one out. Don't worry. Perhaps someday you'll be able to get a handle on it. Maybe you never will. Doing so, if you remain in the Army, isn't really important. What is important is that you, and the men charged to your responsibility, are ready to go fight a fire, anywhere, anytime, when the President calls for you."

For several minutes both Armstrong and Dixon stood there. In the darkness they could only see each other's form, Armstrong standing at a loose parade rest, Dixon leaning forward on the hood of his hummvee. Coming to attention, Armstrong saluted. "I appreciate the time, sir. I hope I didn't ruin your meal."

Again Dixon let out another chuckle. "Don't worry about that either. This meal was ruined before they boxed it and shipped it to us."

"Goodnight, sir."

As he watched Armstrong walk back to his company area, Dixon thought about what he had just told his young company commander. Did he, Dixon, really believe everything he had said? Was their job all that simple? Perhaps it was. Maybe Dixon and his men were nothing more than firemen, charged with risking their lives to protect civilians against dangers the civilians couldn't handle or deal with.

Picking up his tray, Dixon slowly began to make his way to the trash point to throw it away. Since the trash point was set up where the field kitchen was, he passed a number of soldiers who had also just finished their meals and were headed to the same place. Some recognized Dixon and saluted. He did not, however, return their salutes. He was deep in thought, considering his own analogy and how he fit into it. Dixon decided that there was much to his comparing his soldiers to firemen. His grandfather and father had been volunteer firemen. Both had always been ready and willing, at a moment's notice, to drop everything and rush forward to risk their lives to protect others when the alarm was sounded. In doing so they had experienced life more than any normal man could ever hope. It hadn't been easy for either one. They saw things that neither could ever forget. Dead friends and broken dreams. But they had served. They had served well and willingly. Dixon doubted if either man would have, or could have, done otherwise.

Besides the idea of service, there was more. There had to be more. The warm fuzzes firemen and soldiers receive as payment from grateful citizens for serving the public need wear thin when it is night, the temperature is below zero, and duty calls. And the motivation that allows men to rush into a burning building or face a well-armed enemy in open battle didn't come from high principles and moral concepts that are at best mere abstractions. Like his father and grandfather before him, he enjoyed what he did for a living. The fear, the danger, the challenge, the risk — he enjoyed it all. Only through pushing himself to the limit was he able to exceed that limit, to see what he was truly made of. The fight just completed only served to confirm what he already suspected.

After dropping his tray on top of other discarded trays sitting precariously in a pile in an overfull trash can, Dixon turned away and wandered back to the small tent his driver had set up for him. Like a top, his mind continued to spin about the issue of who he was and where he was going. Though he used weapons instead of a hose, Dixon knew that what he did was no different than what his father and grandfather had done. And he also knew, at that moment, that he could do no differently. He was a soldier, a fireman who fought international brush fires. He might abhor what he did — every sane man who had seen battle did. The legacy of those battles was memories of the horrors he had seen and had helped create. Those memories, as vivid now as they had been at the moment, would never go away. Yet he knew in his heart that when the alarm sounded, he would drop everything and rush out to answer the call. For he was a soldier, clear and simple.