Nestled among the rolling hills along the Potomac River is a formidable military installation know as Quantico Marine Corps Base. This historic Virginia landmark is steeped in ageless Marine Corps tradition and is where I began my formal induction into the world of active duty military service. My goal — to become a Marine Corps officer and earn my wings of gold as a Marine aviator. The path to that lofty goal required a rite of passage, a veritable gauntlet of mental and physical obstacles specifically designed to build United States Marine Corps officers.

I arrived at Quantico, Va., in October of 1981 with the winds blowing an early chill off the Potomac. The Officer’s Candidates School was everything I expected it to be and I unfortunately received an unsettling premature introduction to my platoon sergeant. I was caught laughing in the barber shop at another candidate who only moments earlier could have passed as a John Denver look-a-like but soon resembled your common cue ball found on a pool table. I thought it was funny then and I still think it’s funny today!

The fall of 1981 slowly eased into the coldest winter I have ever endured. The constant early morning physical training, though rigorous and fatiguing, was both challenging and rewarding. I had progressed through my platoon as one of the fastest runners and looked forward to our final graduation PT test where I would eventually complete my three-mile run in 16 minutes and 36 seconds. The final endurance test still lay ahead, a 15-mile “ruck” march from a distant corner of the base back to our barracks. We were flown out to the bivouac starting point in CH-46 helicopters and immediately began prepping our shelter halves for the night.

As darkness fell so did the evening temperature. I knew it was going to be a cold night. A slight fog was hanging low in the air, barely above the ground. It eventually lifted only to be replaced with a light rain shower. The sounds of the night were not those of grown men laughing and sitting around a campfire telling stories. Far from it. The constant hammering of tent pegs into a quickly forming muddy quagmire, coupled with the deliberate words of “encouragement” from our platoon sergeant and sergeant instructor, made for what was otherwise a fairly “delightful” evening with 40 of your closest friends. That rain shower which had started earlier now changed to freezing rain. Ice was forming on my shelter half, my ALICE pack, and my Korean War vintage olive drab field coat. Bless my soul!

Just before taps our platoon commander assembled us around a fire built out of wooden pallets and empty wooden ammo boxes. A vat can was provided filled with hot water perfect for making coffee. I ran and got my trusty metal canteen cup and my evening chow, a World War II vintage box of C-Rats complete with a John Wayne P-38 can opener which I still have hanging from my dogtags today. The temperature continued to drop so a hot cup of “joe” was exactly what I needed.

I filled my cup to the rim with steaming hot water and carefully made my way back to the fire to create the perfect libation sure to warm me from the freezing rain. All was prepared. Carefully opening the c-rat box, I located the small brown envelope marked “coffee” and proceeded to delicately pour the contents into my cup. Next came the creamer which I located and of course poured into the cup as well. All that was missing was the sugar. For a final time, I reached back into the c-rat box and located the small envelope, pouring its contents into the steaming concoction. I hoped it would provide me with the much needed warmth and comfort I craved. The anticipation was building; this would be the first source of enjoyment I had experienced since the weather had begun deteriorating in the previous hours. First a sip … then another, after-all this liquid was still scalding hot. Mmm … what was that? A faint taste of salt … no, that couldn’t be. Another sip … still a taste of salt. The final sip revealed the truth, the unfortunate reality that I had mistakenly put salt in my coffee instead of sugar.

I’m sitting here drinking another cup of coffee, except this time, I’m in hot, arid Iraq. How did that happen? Did I open the Iraq envelope instead of the sugar?

How many of us have set out to accomplish something and ended up with a completely different outcome either intentional or otherwise? Anybody out there who ever dreamed of playing big league baseball but now enjoys the pursuit of an entirely different endeavor? Who sings in their church choir having never graced the stage of Carnegie Hall as they intended yet unknowingly inspires and instills peace among those who hear your voice?

I have often pondered the unique path which led me to where I am today. Almost 30 years ago, I was focused on becoming a Marine aviator screaming through the skies in an F-4 Phantom fighter jet. It was my boyhood dream, my lifelong goal. Everything I did was in preparation for that goal. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine while I was drinking salty coffee on a frigid, rain-soaked night that I would be deployed one day as an Air Force medical officer to take care of more than 300 airmen in Camp Bucca, Iraq.

Though my goal to become an aviator was never realized and I still have a fascination with flying, I now proudly wear the uniform of an Air Force officer, just like my father before me. I have deployed to both Afghanistan and Iraq in support of the Global War on Terror. The highly sought after aviator wings were replaced with airborne jump wings plus a set of aero-medical physician assistant wings and I wouldn’t trade a minute of my military career for all the coffee in Columbia.

There is no doubt that countless individuals like myself can attest to similar experiences regarding paths they began that ultimately led them somewhere else. Lives that did not go in the direction we intended, but led right to the place we should be. Life is after all what we make of it and how we respond to adversity is entirely up to us.

Now can anybody else find some sugar for my coffee? Who knows where I’ll end up if I reach for it.

Go Air Force, Army, Navy, Coast Guard and of course the Marine Corps. Aim High, Semper Fi!

Write to Greg Laffitte: Lt. Col. GS Laffitte Camp Bucca, 887 ESFS APO AE 09375; or e-mail greg.laffitte@gmail.com