Last night, I went on a short adventure that got me to thinking about my time in the military. We were having dinner with friends when we learned that their son, in his 20s, was stuck out on a dirt road somewhere and needed help. They had contacted another friend, Mick, who lived nearby, and we also ventured out to help. When we arrived, Mick was on the scene, but he was surprised to see me. I said “I can’t let a Navy man have all the fun!” Later that evening, I was thinking about the ribbing that guys give each other when they’ve served in different branches. But I also thought about the bonds that exist almost immediately between most men, once they learn that each other served.

In my case, I spent four years Active Duty in the Army, as a tanker. I was fortunate to spend most of that time in Europe and never ended up in the Gulf. I regularly think about the time that has passed since I got out, compared to how long I was alive before I joined. I was 18 when I joined, and nearly 25 years have passed since I got out. I think about those numbers a lot — which I’ve always thought was odd — until last night, when it hit me why it is important to me. The four years I spent in the Army are a pivot time for my life in many ways. Up until then, those years were filled with points of adversity that were the greatest I’d faced in my short life. I met different kinds of people. I lost a lot of weight and became physically fit. I did a lot of things that most people would never do. I saw concentration camps close up. I visited cities like Paris and Frankfurt. And I was a part of a long tradition that went all the way back to George Washington.