My time left as a civilian measures in hours.  A year ago I made the decision to put my entire life behind me and join the Army.  If I had chosen to go Enlisted, all I would have had to do was hand over a copy of my DD-214.  The Army would have rubber-stamped me and stuck me on a bus.  That would have been fine if I was looking for a job.  I walked into the recruiting office, ID card in hand, and told them I wanted to be an Infantry Officer.

The last year has been a difficult one.  The lengthy vetting process included the obligatory trip to MEPS.  I stood in my underwear while a smarmy physician documented my tattoos.  I have had ten years to collect them, and my markings are numerous.  The doctor lectured me about my decision making, talking about safety and regret.

Considering the career move I was making, I had to laugh at the irony.

Officers are high-value targets.  As such, Infantry Officers are responsible for training all of their soldiers to be Platoon Leaders.  Combat doesn’t stop because LT is dying from a sucking chest wound.  The word “lieutenant” means placeholder.

Some people read Officer and think privilege, but that isn’t the case.  Officers show up early and leave late.  They don’t sleep until their boys are sorted out.  They do paperwork while the platoon smokes cigarettes.

Officers eat last.