Miltary Men

I am a military failure. My family's history is not easy to trace. Family legends about immigrating from Poland and Russia (on my mother's side) and Italy and Poland (on my father's side) have gotten so skewed over the years, that no one really knows the truth. Most of the people who can offer a history of the Fosco and Gold names are either gone or age has helped blur the memory.

One thing I know is that several of the men in my family served time in the military. I can't go that far back; my knowledge begins with my grandfather, Albino. He served in the Army during WWII. My father was alive then, a little boy who was born to a teenage mother, who was banished from her family for marrying outside of the religion. My dad didn't share much about what he knew about Al's time overseas. I don't think he really ever asked her dad to share.

When he came back from Japan, my grandfather possessed a Samurai sword. When we were kids, occasionally, he would bring it out when we visited their house. I am sure there is a history behind how he obtained the item, as well as a long-standing history of the sword itself. It's not farfetched to think that he either took it from a man he killed, or that he won it in a poker game. Things like that happened all the time, so I've heard.

The sword was heavy. It was encased in an olive colored sheath that had Japanese characters on it. I have no idea what the letters say. When my grandfather died, and my grandmother moved to Tucson permanently, the sword was given to my father--an item passed down from one male to another, so to speak. My father never really did anything with the sword once he had it. At least not publicly. My father lived alone after my parents divorced, so I imagine he took the sword out of his gun safe--where he kept it along with an arsenal of other weapons, bullets, and private items. I imagine he fingered the Japanese lettering, remembering his father fondly. I imagine he pulled the sword out, standing ready like a skilled Samurai, waving the sword about like a child would do on Halloween. I imagine these things, but I doubt they happened. I guess I'd just like to think they did.

The desire to serve in the military was another thing Al passed along to my father. At an early age--16 to be exact--my father altered his birth certificate, and joined the Marines. He didn't serve in a war, and didn't get the opportunity to serve overseas, but my father had experiences he both loved and hated. He was also tight lipped about his military career. Occasionally, he would speak about Boot Camp, and how the Drill Sergeant scared the shit out of him from Day 1. He had wanted to run back to Chicago when he witnessed the DI punch out his 6'4" tall friend, Eddie Weinstein--"cold cocked him" was how my father described it. But he stayed, and the Marine blood stayed in him until the day he died.

After his funeral, I went through my father's things and found his discharge papers. He had at least a dozen copies of the document in different boxes. My friend, Bob, asked me for one, saying he wanted to look up his rank throughout his time in the core.

Several weeks later, a shipment arrived. Bob had made a shadowbox for me. He filled it with uniform patches, ribbons, and awards; the items my father was given during his time. I had no idea he had passed through four ranks, reaching Sergeant (E-5) by the time he left. The shadowbox is hanging on a wall in my office. I just looked up at it and can see the picture Bob included. A young Marine—a stud—proud to be in his uniform, proud to be serving his country.

The desire to serve was passed on to my father's younger brother, Uncle Shelly, who served in the Army like their father. My oldest brother, Darrell, joined the Air Force shortly after high school. So it seemed like the Fosco men were destined to serve their country.

My middle brother, Ira, would have been next, but he really never wanted to. He started working in retail while he was in high school, and was more interested in putting money in his bank account (and girls) than he was in serving.

By the time I made it to my senior year, I was so full of steroids that my head wasn't really screwed on right. I was 200 pounds, had 17" arms, a 30" waist, and a fleeting desire to be a Marine, kind of like my father, but one step further. I wanted to be an Officer. When I mentioned my wish to my dad--which was out of character for me and completely out of the blue--he was excited. He helped me secure the necessary sponsorship from our Congressman, Henry Hyde, and continued to encourage me.

Just after graduation, I got sick. The steroids I was pumping through my veins for two years caught up with me. I had a lump on my right testicle, the doctor called it a Nubin, and I had to have surgery to remove it. I continued to lie to my parents and family about my steroid use, but confessed everything to the doctor. Since I was 18, he had promised not to tell my parents as long as I gave them up, which I did.

Things started to take a turn on me and my short-lived dream to be a Marine was quickly fading. I lost 20 pounds right away, and then another 20 during the summer. I started thinking about my future and realized that I didn't really want to go to Annapolis. I wanted to stay local and go to Loyola.

The Marine Academy just kind of faded away for me. We stopped talking about it when it was clear my heard wasn't in it anymore, and the "Marine mentality" I once possessed was gone. I think my father was secretly disappointed in me. He never said so, but I believe he would have liked having one of his sons be an officer; or at the very least, be a Marine.

I didn't give up on the military once I was at Loyola. They offered the Army ROTC on campus, so I joined my sophomore year. I knew my heart still wasn't in it, but I wanted to see if I could make a connection with my father. Not a very good reason for joining, but not something many males probably do. I didn't need to sign any official papers until my junior year, which I did. The Army owned me, so I committed, for four years of possible active duty after graduation, and then another four and a half in the reserves after. Sure I would be an officer, but eight years was a long time out for a guy who was only 20.

My military failure didn't end with the Annapolis disaster. Shortly before I was to enter my senior year, and go to Advanced Camp over the summer, I started having testicle problems again. There was talk about me losing it completely, and the ROTC program at Loyola was being cut. If I opted to stay, I would have had to go to UIC for the ROTC program; something I wasn't interested in doing. So I got out. The Army gave me a medical discharge, and I was thanked for my service with my junior year tuition being covered by Uncle Sam.

Whenever I hear or read news stories about the young men and women who are serving in Afghanistan and Iraq, I think about my military failure. I took the easy way out. I probably could have fought to stay in. I probably could have stayed at Loyola and taken the L to UIC for ROTC classes. I probably could have served my country like my grandfather, my father, my uncle, and my brother.

I could have, but I didn't.