I have always that there ought to be some kind of mandatory

Host: The bus depot at dawn was half-asleep, humming faintly with the sounds of departure — the slow whine of engines, the murmur of tired voices, the shuffle of boots on concrete. The air was cold, thin with anticipation and exhaust, and the sky hung pale and colorless, waiting to decide what kind of day it would become.

Jack stood near the loading platform, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. His breath came out in clouds. Beside him, Jeeny sat on a bench, her fingers curled around a cup of black coffee, steam twisting upward like the first fragile sign of warmth.

The world around them was ordinary — which somehow made it sacred.

Jeeny: reading from her phone, voice steady but thoughtful “Robert M. Gates once said — ‘I have always thought that there ought to be some kind of mandatory national service, not necessarily in the military, but to show everybody that freedom isn't free — that everybody has an obligation to the nation as a community.’”

Jack: smiling faintly, eyes still on the empty road ahead “That sounds like the kind of thing people nod at but never do.”

Jeeny: raising an eyebrow “Maybe. But he’s right. We talk about freedom like it’s an inheritance, not a responsibility.”

Host: The morning light began to bloom through the fog, brushing against the metal edges of parked buses, turning dull gray into silver. Somewhere, a radio played softly — an old country song about home and loss.

Jack: quietly “You think service should be mandatory? Seems dangerous to force virtue.”

Jeeny: sipping her coffee, shaking her head “It’s not about forcing virtue. It’s about teaching perspective. Most people never see beyond their own small corner of life. Service — military or not — pulls you out of that. Makes you part of something that’s not about you.”

Jack: nodding slowly “I get that. But people resist what they don’t choose. They’ll call it control.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Maybe freedom isn’t about doing whatever you want. Maybe it’s about understanding the cost of what you have.”

Host: The bus driver called out boarding times, his voice echoing through the depot. Around them, young men and women in plain clothes began lining up — some nervous, some eager, some unreadable. Jack watched them, his expression unreadable too.

Jack: softly “When I was younger, I thought freedom meant getting away — from rules, from expectations, from everything. But the older I get, the more it feels like freedom’s about showing up.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Exactly. Freedom’s not escape — it’s endurance. It’s work.”

Jack: half-smiling “Sounds like you’ve been talking to veterans again.”

Jeeny: grinning lightly “Maybe I have. You know what they all say? That serving — even in small ways — gives them something they didn’t expect. Not pride. Not glory. Clarity.”

Host: The air filled with motion — the rustle of papers, the squeak of suitcase wheels, the thump of heavy boots on pavement. The depot smelled of diesel and rain. Life in transit.

Jack: quietly, almost to himself “Gates is right, though. Freedom’s become… comfortable. Something people decorate with slogans instead of earning through action.”

Jeeny: softly “Because we’ve forgotten that liberty needs labor. That community isn’t automatic — it’s maintained.”

Jack: looking at her, his tone shifting “So what would that look like to you? A year of service? Everyone — rich, poor, connected or not — required to give something back?”

Jeeny: after a pause “Yes. A year where you live beside someone who doesn’t look like you, believe like you, or vote like you — and you still build something together. Not war. Not politics. Just something that lasts.”

Jack: smiling faintly, thoughtful “That might be the only real cure for division.”

Jeeny: quietly “It’s certainly the only one that’s earned.”

Host: The sun finally broke the horizon, spilling gold over the buses, the faces, the flags stitched to jackets and backpacks. The moment was tender — a hush before motion.

Jack: softly “You think freedom still means the same thing it did to them?” He gestured toward the young passengers.

Jeeny: gazing at them “Maybe not yet. But one day it will. You only learn what freedom costs when you have to give something for it.”

Jack: after a pause “Maybe that’s the problem — too many people inherit liberty like a trust fund. They spend it, but they never earn the interest.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly. National service isn’t about debt. It’s about gratitude with muscles.”

Host: The first bus roared to life, its engine shaking the ground. A few people waved from the windows, smiles stretched thin between pride and fear. Jeeny stood, her coffee finished, and watched as the convoy pulled away.

Jack: quietly “You ever think about doing it? Serving?”

Jeeny: smiling “Every day. Maybe I am — just differently. Service doesn’t have to wear a uniform.”

Jack: softly “No, but it still leaves a mark.”

Host: The sound of the engines faded into distance, leaving behind the hum of early morning traffic and a silence that felt like reverence. The fog had lifted; the world looked clearer somehow — sharper, cleaner, as if stripped of excuses.

Jeeny: after a pause, voice soft but sure “Freedom without contribution turns to complacency. And complacency rots what it was meant to protect.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Then maybe that’s the lesson Gates wanted to leave — that the price of freedom isn’t fear. It’s participation.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. Not the right to stand apart, but the duty to stand together.”

Host: The camera would pan upward, catching the rising sun breaking through the clouds, washing the depot in gold — the symbol of beginning, of responsibility renewed.

Because Robert M. Gates was right —
freedom is not a gift; it’s a guardianship.

It demands action, not applause.
It asks not only for gratitude, but for service.
And service — whether in uniform, in community, or in quiet acts of care —
is the heartbeat of democracy.

To serve is to understand that liberty is not owned,
but shared.

And as Jack and Jeeny stood in that depot,
the echo of departing engines fading into the distance,
they understood that freedom,
real freedom,
isn’t found in leaving others behind —

but in standing beside them,
and carrying, together,
the weight of what it means to be free.