Many, many years ago, before I accepted the hand that destiny had dealt me, or the finger that the Fickle Finger of Fate had given me, I really worried about my place in the world.
I worried about being the “go- to guy” or “the stick that stirred the drink.” It seemed like a better choice than the “hand that rocked the cradle” or even the one who “rocked the boat.”
So as a young man, it was somewhat distressing when I joined the Army and endured the first of many natural disasters.
The military has a way of letting you know your standing in the world. Any time a major snowstorm or other weather-related disaster hit, the military would tell soldiers to stay in the barracks — or at home, for the lucky ones who lived off base — except for anyone who had been named “mission essential.”
“Mission essential” meant you had to go to work. Everyone else was deemed “non-essential personnel.”
As a young buck private, I took it personally. I wanted to be one of those “mission-essential” people, one of the soldiers who would could hold down the fort if it needed to be held down. Or up, depending on the circumstances at the time.
After my first couple of snowstorms and what seemed like an eternity trying unsuccessfully to teach other soldiers the game of euchre, I went to talk to my sergeant in charge to see if I could become essential instead of non-essential.
Thinking that mission-essential troops were the type to not beat around the bush, I cut to the chase.
“What kind of mission-essential people do you need?” I asked the Big Sarge. No one ever really called him the Big Sarge, but the nature of family friendly newspaper content prohibits an accurate recounting here.
The Big Sarge eyed me slowly from top to bottom, then leaned back in his chair.
“Well, first of all, we need dedicated troopers. Soldiers who can be an army of one, when an army of two, or maybe, 200,000, are needed.”
“That sure sounds like me. What characteristics are you looking for in a mission-essential soldier?”
“Specifically, we need someone with the keys to show up and unlock the building,” he said.
“Can I do that?”
“No, we got one of those already.”
“What else you need?
“We need soldiers who are willing to go the extra mile. For example, before coming directly to work, a mission-essential soldier would stop by the mess hall and see if there are any leftover bagels or donuts that could be procured and brought to the office.”
“Actually, that sounds like something I would do, but then I would be going in the other direction, and, well.”
“Then you’re non-essential,” the Big Sarge said.
“I could pick up coffee instead.”
“Got one of those,” he said.
“There has to be some other way to classify me as essential,”
I protested. “Can family history be considered?”
“Is your father a senator?”
“No, but I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“A Yankee Doodle do or die?”
“Still doesn’t matter, if you’re not stopping for donuts.”
“But I’m a real live nephew of my Uncle Sam’s, born on the Fourth of July.”
“Born on the Fourth of July, really?”
“Really.”
“Well, I don’t know. Let me check with the lieutenant,” the Big Sarge said. He leaned over and shouted into the adjoining room. “Hey, XO, do we need another doodle dandy?
“No,” the lieutenant shouted back. “PFC Davidson’s our doodle dandy. Another doodle dandy would be redundant.”
“Sorry kid,” the Big Sarge said.
Eventually, I overcame my disappointment at not achieving the coveted “mission-essential” label. It came after older, wiser soldiers taught me that the soldiers who were truly mission essential were the ones who came to the barrack’s poker game right after they cashed their paycheck.
Next time: More ripped from the headlines.
