Column Right

Another place, another time, and it would've been almost cute. Two young boys, one dressed up like a soldier, showing the other how to march like a soldier. The fancy footwork that leads to an abrupt about-face, a sharp column left or right. The slow, gliding steps that create a sense of military precision and pageantry. "This is how we do it in the Corps," he seems to be saying, emphasis on the "we." He demonstrates each move, first in slow motion, then up to speed. The civilian boy seems impressed, which of course was the boy soldier's intent all along.

But this was not child's play unfolding at the next gate as I waited to board my flight to Seattle. The boy soldier was a baby Marine, all spit and polish in his still-unstriped uniform, shiny black shoes. Fresh out of boot camp. And eager to show his friend what he learned there. The Marine's mother walked up then, smiling, seemingly amused by her son's childlike enthusiasm. And proud, too. You could see it in her eyes. If she was worried when she kissed him good-bye, she did not show it. But surely she must have known, as all mothers and sweethearts and wives of young soldiers know, that when he comes back, if he comes back, he will no longer be a boy. And he will never play soldier again.