We All Have Our Place
One of the best parts of my job is the people. (Consequently, it’s also sometimes the worst, but that’s another story). I get to work alongside some of the most hard working, knowledgeable, physically and mentally capable people in the military. When the action is real, and all of the training I’ve seen and undergone suddenly becomes the difference between life and death, the soldiers to my left and to my right become an anchor to this life. I have a lot of respect for the people I work with, because they do things that the vast majority of people can’t or won’t do.
They spend years training and learning all they need to know in order to become the solid, steady soldiers that they are on the battlefield. The training is tough, the work is tougher, but every one of them is here because there is a reason for them to be, and they each serve an integral purpose to the mission and team as a whole.
And then there’s me.
When I show up to a team, there is inevitable scrutiny and distrust. Not only am I a support soldier with very, very little experience and far less training than anyone else, but I am also a (drum roll please). . . f*cking photographer. Or, as many like to refer to me as, ‘the camera person’.
In the Army we call anyone who isn’t infantry a ‘POG’ (said by elongating the ‘o’). It stands for Person Other than Grunt, and is often used in derogatory ways to demean soldiers who aren’t infantrymen. Which is completely senseless, because why the f*ck would I want to be a damn grunt?
Anyway, my job is seen as one of the POGiest jobs in the military. It’s reasonably justified, given the only thing I can offer is cool photos and sometimes a sort-of-well-edited video or two, and cannot, by contrast, offer much in terms of army knowledge or skills useful to literally anything else. It also doesn’t help that I barely know what’s going on half the time, given my lack of experience and the classic ‘figure-it-out-on-your-own’ attitude of the military. Not to mention I do things like put batteries in backwards and wonder why the laser on my weapon isn’t working.
But at least I can take a decent photograph.
All of this has given me an opportunity to really examine my worth and purpose in the position that I’m in. The conclusion I often come to is dreary and pessimistic.
Of course, objectively speaking, my job does serve a purpose. We fight the information operations war of our modern age; we document history and provide lessons for future generations to learn and grow from; we capture the stories of our soldiers to show the world.
But trust me when I say that most people on the ground don’t give a flying f*ck about any of that.
It hasn’t been an easy pill for me to swallow.
I make it a point to ask if there is any other way I can help the team before going out on a mission. Is there any extra equipment I can carry? Does anyone need help getting anything together? What can I do to be a greater asset to this team? Teach me, and I will learn!
I usually just get laughed at, which never offends me because it’s what I always expect. Nevertheless, my inner child screams inside her cage, “Let me do it! I can do it, I can do it, just give me a chance!” and her words pitifully echo in the emptiness of listeners turning away, laughing as they do.
And so I crawl shamefully back to my place; my place of near uselessness and quiet desperation, on the sidelines and out of the way.
It’s a place I don’t like being, and it sends me reeling into fits of desperately wishing I could do and be more, contribute in a more meaningful way, or, at the very least, be seen as more than just the camera person.
Despite being an outsider, I find myself having beautifully meaningful connections with the guys, even if they are only fleeting at best. War has a peculiar way of making everything feel closer and more vibrant than it does elsewhere. We sit, we joke, we laugh, and we share in each other’s lives, knowing full well our moments of friendship are entirely provisional. Nonetheless, it feels good and right to be there, in the moment, in the company of someone or someones we are invariably connected with, if only by circumstance.
Last night I grabbed some food with several of the guys during midnight chow hours (the perfect excuse to have a midnight snack, warranted only when deployed), and came to that wonderful place of connection that has become one of the few sparkling joys I have found in this whole experience.
I also came to the conclusion that each of us has our own place in this life, and we are always where we are meant to be.
For a bunch of SF dudes sitting down for midnight chow, that place is one without proper knowledge of English grammar. For me, it is trying to gently explain the difference between ‘to’, ‘too’, and ‘two’, a conversation (or, perhaps more accurately, a debate) that lasted entirely way too long.
The ‘Tip of the Spear’, ladies and gents. America’s finest.
When the conversation ended, we laughed. “We all have our place,” the team sergeant said, shrugging nonchalantly. I silently agreed, knowing his words meant more than simply knowing the difference between ‘to’ and ‘too’. Because it’s true: we do all have our place, and that’s whether we think we like it or not.
I don’t always like my place, but I understand it. I’m sure they don’t always like their place either, but where we are is where we’re meant to be. They are there and I am here; together we drive forward, each of us wheels and cogs in a greater picture that no being but the Universe will ever fully understand.
And, if I’m being completely honest, simply staying out of the way of the main force is plenty for me to handle. Their place is in the bloodstream of battle, in the heart of war, on the breath of the warrior; mine is behind and out of the way (and probably wondering when the mission is over). They keep me from stepping on IEDs, and I keep them somewhat informed on their native language.
*shrugs* We all have our place.
