"Camo"

One morning back in late April, I pulled in to a gas station to fill up on my way to the camp. It was about ten ‘til five, and I expected to be the only person at the filling station, save the clerk who I could see behind the thick plastic partition, working the register inside. Just like most early turkey mornings when I have to get gas, I leaned against the side of my truck, decked out in full camo, and sipped my coffee while I watched the numbers on the pump whiz by with a nonchalance that confirmed their indifference to the fact that those were really dollars whizzing by.

About halfway through the fill-up, an 80s model Lincoln Mark VII with tinted windows pulled up to the service station. It wasn’t in very good shape; faded paint job, worn tires, rusty quarterpanels. I like to think of myself as someone who believes that people are generally good, instead of inherently bad, but I must admit that watching an old jalopy zoom up to the entrance of a gas station at a few minutes before five in the morning tended to sharpen my senses a little.

The Mark VII sat there for probably 20 seconds or so before the driver’s door opened. The hinges moaned and then emitted a loud, metallic snap as the bushings caught the door at the extent of its swing. I watched intently for the driver to get out.

A moment later, a very pleasant looking African-American gentleman stepped out of the car, straightened himself up, glanced over at me and offered, “Mornin’” as he swung the door closed and walked around the car toward the entrance.

He, too, was decked out in full camo. But his wasn’t manufactured by Mossy Oak or Realtree. His was manufactured by Uncle Sam. And the pattern wasn’t Obsession, All Purpose Green, Bottomland or Hardwoods HD. It was the green digitized camouflage of US Army BDUs. And I don’t know whether the black combat boots into which his pants were bloused will stop a snake bite like the ones I was wearing will, but I know they’ve walked a lot more meaningful miles than my snake boots ever have.

I watched him through the window of the store as he chatted up the clerk after transacting whatever business he had inside. A couple of times, I noticed him turn and look out on me looking in on him. One of those times, he looked at me long enough that I wondered whether he found me to be a curious sight, leaning against my truck pumping gas in Shadowleaf camo from head to toe on a random Tuesday morning. I wondered if he knew it was turkey season and whether he was a hunter or came from a family of hunters.

Before long, he exited the store, walked swiftly to his car, got in, cranked it up and drove away.

Until I exchanged pleasantries with that serviceman, my biggest concern that morning had been a turkey that had proven too wily and elusive for its own good with which I’d been messing for a few days. After watching the serviceman drive away, however, I felt a little ashamed and a little embarrassed.

Here we were at the same service station on the same morning at the same time; each of us in full camo, on our respective ways to someplace worthy of spurring us out of bed at a most ambitious hour. Yet, my destination – as honorable and necessary as it is – was a sporting one, an elective one and one where “work” and “sacrifice” no doubt have vastly different meanings to me than they do to him. His destination, of course, I could not have known. But his camo told me in an instant that it was one of critical importance and demanded of him a willingness to sacrifice that I have never known and can only imagine.

I watched his taillights until they faded out of sight. Then the abrupt pop of the pump handle shutting off snapped me back to the moment at hand. As I hung the pump nozzle back on its rack and ripped off my receipt from the machine, I found myself wishing I’d thanked that soldier for his service to our country and his willingness to get up at quarter-to-ridiculous in the morning to do his job for us. For, no one was going to take his picture if he was successful that morning. And he wasn’t going to get paid to write a story about what he does on mornings like that.

I wish I’d said, “Thank you” to him. But I didn’t seize that opportunity before he drove away. So, if you’ve ever worn the camouflage of our nation’s Armed Services and been willing to sacrifice so much in order that I may rise in peace on spring mornings and pursue turkeys in my own style of camo, then, thank you. Who knows? Maybe somehow, some day, that serviceman will run across this and read it.

I hope he will.

(c) Roger Guilian 2010