Human beings are waterproof, and personal comfort is a state of mind. Those are fine platitudes, to be sure. However, if you go about spouting such vapid tripe in the presence of truly miserable people you will quite probably be beaten to death. Ask me how I know this.
Folks gravitate toward military service for a variety of reasons. Some just need money for college. Others feel compelled to give something back. Literally nobody rucks up with the infantry for the five-star accommodations.
The mission of the US Army is to kill people and break things. There are myriad facets to that thorny challenge, but that is indeed the crux. Everyone in uniform either does that or supports someone who does in one way or another. What is not the Army’s ultimate priority, however, is producing healthy well-adjusted retirees.
The Setting
I was the Aviation Liaison Officer to a light infantry brigade. Each time one of their three subordinate battalions went to the field I tagged along to coordinate their air support. For a glorious year I lived with the grunts, PT’d with the grunts, and generally behaved like a grunt. It was a fascinating time and I made some great friends, but one year was enough. After that I was ready to go back to flying helicopters for a living.
We were in the desert on some grand exercise or other. This particular light infantry battalion went to the woods with but a single tent housing the TOC or Tactical Operation Center. Everybody else just bagged outside. The desert was blistering hot in the daytime, freezing cold at night, and utterly filthy all the time.
Serendipity
At some point I happened upon a discarded Whirlpool dishwasher box. I haven’t the foggiest how it got there. It’s not like there were any dishwashers. Being ever the opportunist packrat, I snatched it up and dragged it to the battalion bivouac area.
In short order I had converted that big piece of superfluous garbage into quite the cozy improvised domicile. I oriented the head of my fart sack (sleeping bag for the more sensitive among us) within the box along with my rucksack and sundry gear. I wrapped the exposed portion of my sleeping bag in my poncho and tucked the edges under. The end result seemed quite domesticated. It also drew a crowd.
The aggregate result was eminently sensible. The box kept the blowing sand out of my bag and gear. It was shade, shelter, and solitude, albeit all to a relative degree. My grunt buddies wandered by at all hours to admire my new digs. That’s when it hit me.
I was a captain, a commissioned officer in the Army of the most powerful nation on earth, and I was living in a cardboard box. Not only did I live in a cardboard box, other people sincerely coveted my cardboard box. I actually had to take some fairly extreme measures to keep somebody from stealing my cardboard box. I subsequently scored a Sharpie marker and wrote, “CPT Dabbs’ Box” across the outside just to keep folks honest.
Since that time life has taken me in some unexpected directions. I have traveled the world, survived medical school, and carved out a modest living as a word monkey. However, though there are the inevitable good days and bad, I indeed no longer live in a cardboard box.
That was the Army’s greatest gift to me. Uncle Sam put my problems in perspective. Nowadays I sleep at home and eat stuff I actually like. Nobody tries to kill me when I’m at work. With the benefit of hindsight, life is pretty darn good.
