“Which one of you is going Infantry?”

The senior NCO was a little guy, shorter than me, with a shaved head and wire-rimmed glasses.  He was constantly in motion, hustling back and forth through the office.  My eyes fixed on the Ranger tab on his arm.

“That’s me, sergeant.”

“You’re up.  They want to talk to you first.”

-     –     -

I reported to the office early.  I was wearing a black pin-striped three piece, my jump boots polished to a parade-worthy gloss.  After five hours of Hurry Up and Wait, the Board had whittled the crowd of prospective candidates down to two.  The other guy looked at me and shrugged.

The interviews were running half an hour at a rip.  At that point, another thirty gut-sick minutes made no difference to me.

“Flip you for it?” he asked.

“Works for me.  Call it in the air.”

“Heads,” he said.

The quarter hit the floor and bounced.  Tails.  I smoothed the front of my suit and adjusted my tie.  My blood pressure had been high since I got out of bed.  It spiked and waned all day from anticipation.  My heart beat was audible.

I tried to compose myself.  I was stone-faced, but I could feel an artery bulging in my neck.  I bought the dress shirt a size too big, but the neck was still too small.  I tried to cinch it up with just my tie, but my recruiter insisted on fastening the top button.  I was slowly strangling.

The sergeant informed me I was next and my recruiter laughed.

“See that?  It’s fate.”

“Here goes nothing,” I replied.

I was suddenly intensely aware of my appearance.  I checked my clothes one more time.  The coat was borrowed, and didn’t quite match.  Why the fuck did I wear a vest? I looked like a wanna-be gangster.  I looked like an asshole, and I felt ridiculous.

“You know what to do?” asked the sergeant.

I flashed him a Thumbs Up.  I knocked three times.

“Enter . . . ” came the voice through the door.

I snapped to attention and rendered a salute, presenting myself to the board.  The major waved me off half-heartedly and motioned to the chair behind me.  Each of the officers introduced themselves, citing their credentials.

ROTC.  OCS.  West Point.

Someone from every commissioning path.  The OCS captain was wearing a Ranger tab.  The major rattled off a few formalities before informing me that the Ranger captain wanted to lead off.  The captain looked at me squarely and asked:

“Why do you want to do this?”

It was a simple question.  People have been asking me for months “What the Hell are you thinking?”  I’d gotten used to firing off half-hearted answers because the truth is much harder to verbalize.

He might as well have asked me to describe a feeling.

I could have rattled off a canned response, but I didn’t.  These men were gate-keepers, and I hadn’t come this far just to tell them what they wanted to hear.  I opened my mouth without a response and the words fell out on their own.

” . . . Because I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try.”

It sounded stupid.  I felt foolish for saying it, but I meant every word.

The captain proceeded to grill me.  At first I thought he was just gauging how serious I was for the sake of the interview.  I found out later that it was much more personal than that.  I broke eye contact only briefly, when considering my responses.  I delivered them in a low and even tone.

The major had very little to ask me.  I had prepped for the kind of questions he shot me, so my answers were clear and concise.  He passed the interview to the second captain, the West Point grad.

He started to ask me what I thought I would bring to the table,  but I cut him off mid-sentence.

“Commitment.”

He pressed his lips together and looked at the major.

“That’s all I have.  Sir?”

“I don’t have anything else,” the major said.  He looked back to the Ranger captain, as though it were his interview to lead.

The captain restated a question he had asked me before, about what I would do if things didn’t work out the way I wanted them to.  I realized that it hadn’t been a simple Structured Interview question.

I told him I would do whatever it took.

Total time – from start to finish – 5 minutes.

They thanked me for my time and told me they would call me back in with their decision.  As I walked out of the interview room the Ranger sergeant went in.  My recruiter’s face went slack.  He looked at the time on his phone.

“What did you say?”

I didn’t have time to respond.  The sergeant came out of the interview room and pointed at my recruiter.

“They want to talk to you.”

He tucked his phone away and walked past me into the interview.  I heard the major tell him to call me in as well.  I slid through the door and stood reflexively at parade rest.  The major looked up at me from his paperwork.

“I wish I could say congratulations,” he said, pausing.  ” . . . but the worst part is still in front of you.”

“Confidence, bearing, maturity . . . all excellent.  It is the decision of this board that you be highly recommended.  Good luck, son.”

The major smiled and reached out to shake my recruiter’s hand.  Then he and the two captains each offered me their hand.  The stony expression on my face didn’t budge.  The anxiety I had been choking back all day turned briefly to elation, but you wouldn’t have known it to look at me.

The feeling quickly faded.  I knew that this had only been one more hurdle.  The Ranger captain stopped me before I left the room and asked if I would stick around for a few minutes afterward.

When I walked out into the office, the Ranger sergeant shook my hand.

“I wish I could tell you Ranger School ain’t as bad as you probably think, but it’s worse.”

“Suck it up and soldier on, right?”

“Pretty much.”

I loosened my stupid fucking tie and dropped onto a couch.  The other guy went in for his interview, which was not nearly as brief as mine.  When all was said and done, the board members looked late for the door.  All except for the Ranger captain, who motioned me back to the interview room.

“The reason I wanted to talk to you is that I was you six years ago.”

Like me, he joined up later.  Most guys are only 21 or 22, with no life experience and maybe someone pushing them into the decision.  Like me, he couldn’t stand civilian life.

“Out there?” he said, pointing out the window.  ”I was a Failure To Adapt.”

He gave me the low-down on how the selection process would go, and some pointers for navigating the bureaucratic mess.

“When I got to Basic I looked around wondering, ‘What the fuck are these people doing here?’  Once you hit the Infantry, everything is different.  They’re guys just like you.  You’re gonna fit right in.

“Once you get to your unit, you’ll see.  Being a PO [platoon officer] is . . . probably the most rewarding experience you’ll ever get.”

. . .