Fort Lewis, Washington. 1995 to 1997. I was a light infantry medic. Charlie Company, 25th Forward Support Battalion.
If you’ve never been a soldier, I’ll try to explain what those years meant without getting too sentimental about it. (Too late, probably.)
You’re young. You’re in the best shape of your life. You’re surrounded by people your age who are all going through the same ridiculous, grueling, occasionally hilarious experience. You’re cold. You’re wet. The Pacific Northwest is basically a rain forest that someone accidentally put an Army base inside of. You’re tired. You’re doing things that sound insane when you describe them to civilians later. And you’re happy. Genuinely, deeply happy. Not because it’s easy. Because it matters.
I was a medic, which means I was the guy people came to when something went wrong. Or when they wanted an illegal handful of Motrin. Twisted ankles, busted fingers, the occasional allergic reaction to something stupid. Peacetime Army. The emergencies were mostly small. But the trust wasn’t small. When you’re the medic, people trust you with the one thing they care about most. Themselves.
I loved that job. I loved those guys. I still think about my buddies from Charlie Company more often than they’d probably be comfortable knowing. No homo. Back then, we could say that.
So here I am, twenty-three years later, driving through Tacoma on the way to a shoot, and everything is different and nothing is different.
The base has a new name now. Joint Base Lewis-McChord. Very official. Very hyphenated. The Tacoma Dome is still there. Mount Rainier is still there, doing that thing where it just dominates the entire horizon like it’s the main character and the rest of the landscape is supporting cast. The trees are still impossibly green. The sky is still impossibly gray.
I didn’t go on base. I thought about it. I even drove close enough to see the gate. But I didn’t go in. Some things are better left as they were. The Fort Lewis in my memory is populated by twenty-two-year-olds who thought they were tough, and the barracks smell like boot polish, and somebody is always playing Bone Thugs too loud in the bay. I didn’t need to see what it looks like now. I needed to keep what it looked like then.
The couple’s film turned out great. Seattle is a gorgeous backdrop and they were natural storytellers. It was one of those shoots where you almost forget you’re working because the conversation is that good.
But the drive home (well, the flight home, but you know what I mean) was quiet. Not sad. Just full. Full of then and now sitting side by side in my head, not competing, just coexisting.
I joined the Army at 21. I left at twenty-four. Those four years shaped everything that came after. The discipline. The ability to talk to anyone. The comfort with uncomfortable situations. The instinct to run toward the problem instead of away from it.
Heritage Films wouldn’t exist without Fort Lewis. I wouldn’t exist without Fort Lewis. Not the version of me that does this work, anyway.
Thanks, Charlie Company. Even the guy who played No Doubt too loud.
Heritage Films has produced personal documentary films across the United States and world. If you’re thinking about making one, for a parent, a grandparent, yourself, someone you love, we’d be glad to talk.