Implicit in the question, "Why does someone choose a profession which places them in harm's way?" is the assumption that preserving one's life is the single most important consideration for an individual. To understand the motivation of a person who accepts death as a risk inherent in his/her day-to-day responsibilities, it must be understood that such an individual prizes other values more highly than his/her instinct for self-preservation. These values, for a soldier, most often include personal honor, a commitment to shared personal and institutional standards of conduct, and a belief in placing the interest of his/her country ahead of his/her own.

Why does someone choose a career in the Armed Forces? I believe it is a combination of idealism and a desire to test oneself. Indeed, I often consider the service as the last refuge for American idealists. It is an institution in which men and women seek to belong to a profession which extols service above self, performance above heritage or background, and personal character above all. The values and expectations are well-defined and absolute, even if those who seek to embody and exceed them are unformed and imperfect. To live in a culture where such values prevail, one must understand and accept the principle that is their foundation, neatly summarized by the phrase, "mission, men, myself." This phrase not only means the willingness to take personal responsibility for the completion of an assigned task, but also the sacrifice of one's personal interest and well-being for the overall good of the collective organization. It is the understanding and willing acceptance of the need for sacrifice that underpins soldiers' coming to terms with the possibility of dying for their country.

Why did I place myself in harm's way? It is a good question, one that I considered, albeit not at great length, when I entered the U.S. Army in 1971 as a second lieutenant. The United States' involvement in the Vietnam War was winding down. I endured a chaotic and turbulent four year period in which students were shot by National Guardsmen at Kent State University, when someone's attitude toward the war was the central political and social litmus test on many university campuses, when I was routinely subjected to taunts ("ROTC Nazi," etc.) by my fellow students at Syracuse University. I never wavered in my motivation for joining the Army. I wanted to serve in something that transcended myself. I wanted a calling, not a job. I opted for a career which entailed physical risk because I wanted to challenge myself in a number of dimensions: physically, emotionally, and intellectually. What were my limits and what were the limits of others? Could I evaluate situations clearly, make decisions and lead others when the consequences could be death for myself or someone else?

Several examples, I think, would best explain how I, as a soldier, faced and coped with the reality of death. During a career that spanned more than a quarter century, I ran the risks that came with the job. I volunteered for the Army's most demanding and inherently dangerous combat skill training, Airborne and Ranger qualification, in which injury, and occasionally death are unwanted but not unexpected by-products. I accepted the potential risk as the price for the opportunity to understand better my own strengths and weaknesses.

My most immediate experiences with death involved the loss of two friends in hostile action. One died from a landmine while serving as a UN Observer in Lebanon in 1982, and the other was shot and killed by a Soviet sentry in East Germany in 1985. The first died when the vehicle of a multinational group of observers ran over a landmine while on patrol. He was trying to preserve a fragile peace, the result of a multinational effort to end the death and destruction in the Middle East. The other died at the hands of a young Soviet draftee. Both were, in a sense, victims of the Cold War.

Both deaths affected me greatly, but in different ways. The death of my friend in Lebanon was the first time I had encountered a service-related loss of someone I knew personally. It was a stark reminder that life in the service entails real as well as theoretical risk. While I mourned my friend's death, I also engaged in a process that many soldiers experience when faced with the same situation: I wondered if the policy that resulted in his death was sufficiently important to merit his sacrifice. As a soldier, one is ready to place oneself at risk, but one wants to be reassured that one's leaders have carefully considered whether the potential return is commensurate.

In the second case, a friend was killed while engaged in monitoring Soviet military activity in the former German Democratic Republic (East Germany). Both he and I were part of a post-World War II anachronism, the United States Military Liaison Mission. The Mission was a detachment of liaison officers officially assigned to the Headquarters of Soviet Forces in (East) Germany. At the end of World War II, the armies occupying the defeated Germany (the United States, France, the United Kingdom and the Soviet Union) recognized the need to have officers from the respective armies assist them in the coordination of an occupation policy, repatriation of prisoners-of-war, and myriad other projects incident to the end of the conflict. As relations between East and West deteriorated, the mission of these liaison organizations transitioned from being a "helping hand" to being the "eyes and ears" of mutually suspicious blocs - the Cold War took hold.

In our role as liaison officers, we were able to travel throughout one of the most sensitive and heavily militarized areas in the world. (The Soviet Union alone had 400,000 troops in a country roughly the size of the state of Ohio!) To say that our presence, no matter how legitimate, was unwelcome would be an understatement of gargantuan scale. Soviet and East German troops routinely harassed liaison officers by chasing us - and at times ramming us - in tanks, armored personnel carriers and trucks. If personnel were captured, they were sometimes beaten. Occasionally, shots were fired, most often as a warning, but from time to time, in earnest. In the more than 40-year history of the allied missions, several personnel were wounded and two were killed. One of those was an officer I had known for 13 years.

He was shot and killed by a Soviet soldier on a Sunday afternoon in March, 1985. The soldier (whom the Soviet Army would never identify) was probably a young draftee, 18 or 19 years old, living in a strange country far from his home. He most likely fired in fear and imagined danger rather than in hate or careful calculation. Nevertheless, an American officer lay dead. For me, it signified how quixotic and random death can be. My friend had done no more and no less than any of us who performed the mission. Yet, on this one day, at this one place, his luck ran out. My grief and anger in the unprovoked and unnecessary death of this officer were tempered by the acceptance of what might be termed the "soldier's contract." The mission we performed was sufficiently critical to the security of the United States that the associated risks were worthwhile. An understanding of that "contract" helps to explain my willingness, and that of others, to face death, through military service, for a cause in which we believe.

Roger Bort recently retired as a full colonel from the United States Army.