In November 1971, I was stationed at Fort Knox, Kentucky, for U.S. Army Reserve basic training, an eight-week combat training program.
Our company faced three hills known as Agony Hill, Misery Hill and Heartbreak Hill. Imagine marching uphill in a rainstorm, carrying an M16 rifle and wearing a helmet and poncho, while your drill sergeant marches backwards, singing “Jody’s Got Your Cadillac” without missing a note. It was enough to make anyone reconsider his life choices.
But I had a more pressing concern. My older brother was getting married on Dec. 12, and I was to be his best man. I was one of only two Jewish men in our company of 162, and I needed permission to leave basic training after just two of its eight weeks.
My drill sergeant was unequivocal: “NOBODY LEAVES BASIC TRAINING AFTER TWO WEEKS! ONLY AFTER FOUR WEEKS!”
I appealed to the senior drill sergeant, who repeated the refusal. He was an intimidating figure who had once told our company that he wore the same underwear for 34 days during the Vietnam War. Finally, I approached the commanding officer, a captain, who listened sympathetically but also said no.
Then someone suggested I speak with the Jewish chaplain.
I approached him unsure what to expect. I even confessed that I had not been certain anyone like him actually existed at an Army base. He assured me that he did. After hearing my story, he replied with words I have never forgotten:
“Of course you are going to your brother’s wedding. It’s an emergency. You are your brother’s best man.”
After weeks of worry, I felt I had witnessed a small miracle. I went home, stood beside my brother at his wedding and returned to finish my training.
My drill sergeant was less than delighted to see me again. Fortunately, every Sunday I could visit the Louisville Jewish Community Center, where lovely older women welcomed me with salami sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies. I played ping-pong and basketball with other soldiers enjoying a day away from camp.
More than half a century later, I remember the punishing hills, but I also remember the chaplain who saw a brother rather than merely a soldier, and a Jewish community that made a young man from Cherry Hill, New Jersey, feel at home.
Perhaps that is the essence of chesed, or loving-kindness: recognizing what matters to another person and helping make it possible. My chaplain may not have parted the Red Sea, but he certainly helped deliver me from Pharaoh’s army!
I have never forgotten his kindness.
Jeffrey P. Romm has been happily married for 54 years, has three wonderful children and two exceptional grandchildren, and has many years of experience in the field of education.
