Seven of my soldiers are dead. Two committed suicide. Bombs got the others in Iraq and Afghanistan. One young man lost three limbs. Another is paralyzed. I entered West Point a couple of months before 9/11. Eight of my classmates died "over there."
Military service, war, sacrifice - when I was 17, I felt sure this would bring me meaning, adulation, even glory. It went another way.
Sixteen years later, my generation of soldiers is still ensnared in an indecisive, unfulfilling series of losing wars: Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Libya, Yemen, Somalia, Niger—who even keeps count anymore? Sometimes, I allow myself to wonder what it's all been for.
I find it hard to believe I'm the only one who sees it. Nonetheless, you hear few dissenting voices among the veterans of the "global war on terror." See, soldiers are all "professionals" now, at least since Richard Nixon ditched the draft in 1973. Mostly the troops—especially the officers—uphold an unwritten code, speak in esoteric vernacular and hide behind a veil of reticence. It's a camouflage wall as thick as the "blue line" of police silence. Maybe it's necessary to keep the machine running. I used to believe that. Sometimes, though, we tell you lies. Don't take it personally: We tell them to each other and ourselves as well.