Combat Boots

January, 1982. The Great Freeze is upon us, dumping snow and ice everywhere. The drift at the side of my house is above my knees. It is time to go upstairs and get out my combat boots.

How I got my boots is not the usual story. It is strange, in fact, that I have them at all. I have never been in the Army. Quite the contrary: I am a conscientious objector, and I counsel soldiers who want to be civilians again.

About four or five years ago, a lot of exiles were coming back from Canada to Fort Dix, N.J., which in those days was a good place for a quick discharge. They were technically still in the Army, and the Army gave them haircuts, uniforms-and combat boots. The boots, among other paraphernalia, ended up at a counseling office in New Jersey. Free boots for the asking. I asked, and I got.

There is a moral here, about government waste and Army rigidity and things like that. But what I want to talk about is combat boots. My boots.

They are ordinary, standard-issue Army combat boots, size 10W. Like all Army boots, they are black, and, left unpolished, they become dull and almost unscuffable. They are eleven inches high, with ten eyelets on each side. The laces are undistinguished round, heavy black twine, rather too stiff to make a good knot. There is hardly enough string to make a bow if you lace the boots all the way up.

Friends who have been in the Army tell me that combat boots soften as you wear them. I don't know. I've worn mine quite a bit-mostly when it snows-and they seem stiff as ever. Walking down steps in them is unquestionably a learned art. I haven't quite got it: I make an embarrassing noise and I nearly fall every time. If I ever broke both ankles at once, my boots would make pretty good splints.

My boots are quite large, so I wear a thick wool hiking sock with them. I use an arch support: they are dead flat on the bottom. I lace them to the top and tuck my blue jeans in to keep out the snow. With a thick sock and an arch support, long underwear and tucked-in jeans, and my combat boots, I am a match for any snowdrift in Philadelphia.

It's hard, though, to imagine wearing my boots in a foxhole or a trench for days at a time. Charging through the woods or over a field might be a bit difficult. Not to speak of moving quietly through underbrush.

My boots are great in snow. They are waterproof and practically indestructible. I imagine they look good on a parade ground, provided you give them a good polishing. But fight in them? If I were a fighter, I'd be afraid to try.

Of course, I know good boots. I hike a lot, and I have hiking boots that go fourteen miles and more in the mountains without a sore foot anywhere. Good hiking boots move by themselves. Combat boots have to be coaxed along. Or maybe ordered by a sergeant, if you have one handy.

I suppose the problem is that I'm not only a civilian, but a pacifist. Combat boots must like only military folk. But I don't know. If my boots were to like any pacifist, they would like me. I study military strategy and understand military lingo and visit military bases. I don't hate the people in the Army or think they are immoral. But my boots just don't understand that I'm not against people (or combat boots). I'm against war and the use that is made of boots like mine.

That's all fantasy, of course. The trouble with my boots is that they are standard-issue, which in the military means not quite right for anybody. The Army has a lot of standard-issue: uniforms, food, quarters, enlistment contracts, you name it. They would like to have standard issue people, I guess. That's the real problem: no one is.

Armies have been doing it for thousands of years. Issuing bad footwear and then telling people to run up a hill, dodging bullets the while. Or marching them all night, giving them a shot of rum, and sending them into battle. It's a wonder anybody ever gets killed in wars. Or survives.

Maybe it's a blessing. Think how many more people would be killed if the military were really competent. Now that is a frightening thought.

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