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BOOTS ON THE GROUND BY DUSK: MY TRIBUTE TO PAT TILLMAN |
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Chapter 2
Friday, May 27, 2004: One month and five days have passed since Pat's death. I sit in a small room next to my classroom at Bret Harte Middle School wondering why I came back to work. Two and a half weeks ago, it seemed the right thing to do. Staying home trying to comprehend what I have lost would be too painful. It seemed wise to get back to work and keep my mind busy. With just over a month of school left before the summer break, I believed it was important, for my students and for me, to finish the year. Clearly, I made a mistake. The patience I once had is gone. I'm not ready to cope with the demands of middle school students. Some of my seventh- and eighth-grade students had met Pat, and they were devastated to learn of his death. By now their horror has waned, but I continue to live in a state of shock. At times, standing in front of them, I'm struck by the set of a child's jaw, an earnest look in the eyes, the way a small hand holds a pen. I feel the onset of nausea, and my throat tightens to a point where I cannot speak. Memorial Day is three days from now, and I am telling my students the day is set aside to honor fallen soldiers. A wave of unbearable sadness comes over me as I speak the words "fallen soldiers," and I have to leave the room. Pat is dead, a fallen soldier. Sitting in this anteroom, I feel safe, shielded from the triggers that uncover grief I'm trying not to reveal. My co-workers, Carmen and Nancy, are letting the kids play bingo. I hear their laughter, and I find myself feeling angry that they can laugh and have fun, and Pat will never laugh again. I force myself to concentrate on the paperwork that mounted up during the two and a half weeks I was away from the classroom. Nancy tells the kids to pick up and get ready for the bell. The sound of fifteen kids scrambling to turn in bingo cards and load their backpacks prompts me to gather my paperwork and go back to the classroom. They hardly notice me as they hastily grab their chairs and put them on their tables with a collective bang. The bell rings, and they stand behind their tables looking at me anxiously, awaiting their dismissal. "Good-bye," I say, forcing a weak smile. "Have a relaxing three days." Most of them are too eager to get out the door to respond, but several little stragglers look back at me and chirp, "You, too." Carmen and Nancy help me get the room in order. They hug me and tell me to try to enjoy my three days off. I see feeble smiles and the helpless looks in their eyes as they turn to leave. They know there is nothing they can say or do to help me. Nancy lost a brother in a car accident when she was in her early twenties; he was fourteen. She understands the pain I feel and realizes there is little anyone can do but to know when -- and when not -- to be present. As I lock the door to my classroom, I focus on Kevin, Richard, and my daughter-in-law, Marie, Pat's widow, who are coming home for the three-day weekend. I haven't seen them in several weeks; it will be good to have them home. From in my car, I check my phone messages on my home answering service. A reporter from the Arizona Republic left a message asking that I call him. His voice sounds strange to me. Maybe he is confused because on the message machine I refer to myself by my nickname, Dannie. He may not be sure he has the correct number. But there's something else in his voice that gives me an eerie feeling. I haven't heard from reporters for nearly three weeks. I find it odd one is calling now. I call Pat's father -- now my ex-husband -- and tell him about the message. He assures me the reporter probably was calling to verify some information. I feel something is wrong, but I push the thought out of my mind while I go to the grocery store to pick up some food for the weekend. Once home, I again become concerned about the phone message. I decide to call the reporter in Arizona. "Hello, this is Mary Tillman. You left a message for me to call you." "Yes, Mrs. Tillman," the voice sounds uncomfortable. "I'm sorry to bother you. But what do you and your family think of the news the Army has just given you?" "What news?" I ask. I'm overcome with a feeling of dread. "You mean the Army hasn't told you?" "Told me what? What are you talking about?" I ask, trying to contain my panic. "What do you have to say about the fact Pat may have been killed by friendly fire?" His words stun me. Blood rushes to my chest, and I feel sick. "I have nothing to say about it and I never will!" I snap. Pushing the off button on the portable phone, I hurl it onto the table and begin pacing the floor, a dozen thoughts -- all terrifying -- racing through my head. Does Kevin know? Does Marie know? How do I tell them? How do I tell Richard? What will this do to Kevin? I run out the front door and across my yard to my neighbors' house. Peggy and Syd Melbourne have lived next door to me for more than twenty-five years. They've watched my sons grow up. Syd was a calm and steady figure in their lives, someone who never seemed to know or care what they were doing but never missed a thing. Peggy, on the other hand, was obviously vigilant. She was a school yard supervisor at their high school. As a teenager, Pat thought she was a "royal pain in the ass," but as he matured, he grew to respect her and love her dearly. They were the first people I ran to upon hearing of Pat's death, and they continue to offer unwavering support. I knock on the screen door. Peggy walks toward me, sensing right away that something is wrong. "What's happened, Dannie?" she asks solemnly as she steps out onto her porch. "Peg, I just heard from a reporter that Pat may have been killed by friendly fire." Tears form in Peggy's eyes, and her arms open to hug me. "What next?" she asks as she holds me close. "I don't know what to do." Peg stands back to wipe away her tears. "I don't know if Kevin knows yet; I'm afraid to call him." She looks at me intently and says, "Call Alex." Alex Garwood was Pat's brother-in-law; he is married to Marie's sister, Christine. "Alex. You're right. He might know something. Thanks, Peggy. I'll call him right away." I run back to my house and dial Alex's number. "Alex, this is Dannie. A reporter just told me Pat may have been killed by friendly fire." I can barely get the words out. "I don't know what to do. How do I tell Kevin, Marie, and Richard?" Tears well in my eyes. "Dannie. Dannie!" Alex says firmly. "They know. That's the reason they're coming home this weekend. They wanted to tell you in person before you found out this way. Kevin was told Monday morning that Pat was killed by his own guys." Tears spill down my cheeks at the sound of those words, "killed by his own guys." I try to process everything else Alex is saying. "Dannie, I think Kevin called Richard Monday to tell him. Everyone is coming home to tell you in person. The Army assured Kevin the press would not be informed until after he had a chance to tell you. There obviously was a leak." I don't know what to say. Part of me is relieved that I don't have to be the one to break such horrible news, but I am also heavy with sadness imagining how my sons and daughter-in-law felt when they were told. "Dannie, are you all right?" Alex asks. "Yes. I'm fine." I say good-bye. Holding the receiver in my hand, I sit on the front stoop of my house in a daze, looking out at the trees. Trees always remind me of Pat. He loved trees. He loved climbing them, hiking among them, and sitting in them to think. Several minutes pass; the phone rings. "Hello," I answer with trepidation, not even looking to see the number on my caller ID. "Mom?" The voice is full of concern and sounds tired. "Kevin! Kevin, are you all right?" Hearing the worry in his voice, I forget about my own distress. "Mom, Alex just called me. I'm sorry you had to find out from a reporter. I wanted to tell you in person. Someone leaked the story." "It's not your fault, Kevin. How are you holding up? How is Marie?" "We're both fine. We're flying home tonight." Kevin had returned to Fort Lewis in Tacoma, Washington, several days after Pat's memorial service. "Richard is driving home right now. Lieutenant Colonel Bailey, my Ranger commander, will be flying in to meet with us unofficially on Sunday to tell us what happened. He went over it with Marie and me already. We will get a formal briefing later." "Have you talked to your dad? I haven't called him yet. I wanted to get more information." I tell Kevin about the brief conversation I had with his father about the reporter's voice mail message before I learned the news. "I'll call him. Mom, are you sure you're solid?" I can hear Kevin's voice take a different, almost businesslike, tone. "Yes, I'm fine. What time are you and Marie flying in?" I think of my lovely daughter-in-law, so young and so dignified, having to deal with Pat's death, and now this. "I'm not sure. Don't worry about picking us up at the airport; we'll probably rent a car." "I'll see you both when you get here." As we hang up, I look out the window and see a car arrive. It's Alex. He walks across the yard and reaches out to give me a hug. "It's deja vu, isn't it?" he says. "You're right, Alex," I tell him as we sit on the front porch stoop. "This is like the evening you came over after learning of Pat's death. Richard is driving up from Los Angeles right now. I haven't talked to him yet. Do you mind if I give him a call?" "No, go ahead." I get up, get the phone, and dial Richard's cell. "Hello." "Rich, it's Mom. I know you're on your way home. Honey, I know about the friendly fire." I explain about the reporter's call. ''I'm sorry, Mom," Richard says sympathetically. "Michelle and I are halfway home." I'm so relieved Richard is with Michelle. I don't like to think of him driving alone under the circumstances. Michelle has been Richard's friend for more than seven months. I got to know her wonderful character when she stayed here for five days right after Pat died. She knew how to just be there for us. I tell Richard I'm glad Michelle is coming and ask how he is handling this new information. "It's fucked up, Mom. Are you okay?" "Yes, but I'll be better when all of you are here." "I'll see you in a few hours, Mom." "Be careful, Rich." When I hang up, I see Alex is making coffee in the kitchen. I call my brother Mike. He is saddened by the news but not shocked. He reminds me gently that fratricide, unfortunately, is a real part of battle. He also assures me that he will come to hear what the Ranger commander has to say on Sunday. Pat's father calls me almost immediately after I finish talking to Mike. He is frustrated that Kevin gave him no details of what happened. I explain that Kevin did not get into any details with me, either, and that we'll have to wait to hear from the colonel when he arrives. Patrick is very angry, and I realize that I am of little comfort. I hang up feeling sad and emotionally drained. I go out to the stoop where Alex is sitting. He asks me if I'm okay and hands me a cup of coffee. "Alex, when Kevin called you Monday, did he give you any details of what he learned?" "All I can say is that it seems the stars were aligned that Pat would die that night." A chill runs through my body as I stare at the sky. I want to ask more, but right now I'm afraid to hear it. We turn toward the driveway when we hear the sound of an approaching car. Marie's parents, Paul and Bindy Ugenti, pull up. It is clear they are shaken by the news. In an attempt to comfort me, Paul tells us it really doesn't matter how Pat died; nothing will bring him back. I don't know how to respond. My phone rings. It's Steve White, the Navy SEAL friend of Pat and Kevin who spoke so eloquently at Pat's memorial. He has just learned the news from Kevin, and he is very upset. He tells me that friendly fire happens more often than anyone knows, adding that one of his friends was killed by his own men shortly after Pat died. I thank Steve for calling and hand Alex the phone. While speaking with Paul and Bindy, I overhear him tell Steve there was a "military blunder." I immediately turn to Alex. "What! What do you mean, 'military blunder'?" I ask, my anger building. Alex looks at me, horrified. He quickly excuses himself and gets off the phone. "Dannie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to hear me. Kevin didn't want me to tell you anything yet. All I know is that a series of mistakes and poor decisions led to Pat's death." "What!" I scream. I begin to cry. Later, after Alex, Bindy, and Paul leave, I sit numbly on the front stoop staring at the sky and wondering what circumstances led to Pat's death. When I first heard about the fratricide, I thought it was errant fire that caused Pat's death. Learning now that the Army made mistakes that could have been prevented makes me sick. Suddenly, I'm aware of the night chill and go inside. Grabbing the knitted afghan draped over the couch and wrapping it around my shoulders, I go into the kitchen to make some tea. I lean against the kitchen counter and stare at a picture of Pat and Marie that hangs on the refrigerator door. I grab the whistling teakettle from the burner and pour the boiling water through the strainer of tea into a cup. Switching off the kitchen light, I walk to the family room, where I coil myself into a corner of the couch. I'm reminded of the day Pat and Kevin told me they had decided to enlist in the Army. Mother's Day 2002 fell on May 9, which is also my brother Mike's birthday. It was the day before Pat and Marie were leaving for their honeymoon in Bora Bora. My plan was to spend a relaxing day at home with my brother and mom. Mike and I went for a hike in Quicksilver Park. We got to a fork in the road, and Mike decided to run a particular trail. We decided to split up and meet where the two trails intersect. Our attempt to meet up was like a scene out of a Three Stooges movie; we kept missing each other, walking past where the other had just been. I yelled for Mike a few times and asked a woman who was hiking past if she had seen anyone; she hadn't. I decided to head home to shower and get dinner started. Fifteen minutes after I got home, Mike walked up the driveway, wondering what happened to me. He told me he had run into a woman, the same woman I saw, but she indicated she hadn't seen me. We laughed at an image of the two of us standing back-to-back, our hands shading our eyes, each looking out over the expanse of hills for the other. Just before I got in the shower, Richard called to wish me a happy Mother's Day. I noticed Mike's expression change when the phone rang, but I didn't think much of it. I told Rich about the comical experience Mike and I had on our hike, and he talked about his latest trip to Santa Monica and Venice Beach with his friends. He wished my mom a happy Mother's Day, and she passed the phone to Mike. I yelled good-bye to Rich and jumped into the shower. Later I was making dinner and talking to my mom and Mike when the phone rang again. I was hoping it was a call from Pat, Marie, and Kevin. Kevin had been released from the Burlington Indians, one of Cleveland's farm teams, just weeks before, and he was staying with Pat and Marie, who were preparing to leave for their honeymoon. As I picked up the phone, Mike looked over at me with an expression of foreboding. "Hello," I said, not taking my eyes off Mike. There wasn't an immediate reply from the other end, and I started to tense. "Happy Mother's Day, Ma!" Kevin said cheerfully. "Thank you, Nub," I responded, relaxing at the sound of his voice. "Are you having a good day?" "Yes, it's beautiful today. Mike and I went on a hike ... " "Ma," he interrupted gently. "Is Mike there?" "Yes, he's right here," I said softly, feeling something ominous was about to happen. "Mom, you know how I have talked on and off about enlisting in the military?" My heart froze. He had talked about joining the military over the past few years. Suddenly, I realized that Kevin was telling me he was enlisting. My stomach dropped at the thought of how Richard was going to cope with this decision. Shortly after September 11, Kevin had discussed enlisting with Richard. Rich got extremely scared and angry. I stood holding the phone, my knees shaking. "Kevin, have you really thought about this?" I felt sick, and my body was getting clammy. "Kevin, do you know what you're doing? Are you positive? What does Pat have to say about this?" "Mom," he paused. "Pat's joining, too." I was absolutely speechless. I turned to Mike with an expression of horror. Our eyes locked. It dawned on me that Mike already knew about this. "Mom, I'm putting Pat on the phone," Kevin said. Pat's voice sounded pained. "I'm sorry, Mom, to have to tell you over the phone. Kevin and I planned to tell you in person when Marie and I got back from Bora Bora. But someone recognized Kevin and me when we were in an enlistment office, and we were afraid you would find out from a newspaper while Marie and I were gone." I clutched the table to get my balance before I spoke. "Pat," I said, my voice trembling, "I don't understand. You just got married. What about Marie? How does she feel about this?" Mike grabbed a chair and placed it behind me, gently nudging my shoulders to prompt me to sit down. I listened as Pat told me how in November 2001, he and Kevin had started talking about enlisting. He told me they believed it was the right thing to do because our country had been attacked, and Marie was involved in the decision. Characteristically, Pat had done a lot of research, particularly about the Army Rangers. He had read about them and traveled to Utah to talk to a former member of the Marine Reconnaissance units to learn more about special operations forces. He introduced Pat to a general, who answered many of Pat's questions. Pat and Kevin did not do things impulsively, and this was no exception: They had been preparing to enlist for six months. I asked Pat if they had told Richard; they had. My heart was breaking for him. His greatest fear had been that Kevin might enlist; now both of his brothers were signing up. "Pat, I don't know what to say right now. You and Marie are leaving on your honeymoon tomorrow, and I don't want to take anything away from that. We all have to talk when you get back." "We will." "Pat, have you told your dad?" "We haven't reached him yet, but we're trying. I'll talk to you soon .... Ma?" "Yes, Pat." "I love you." "I love you, too," I said, trying not to cry. "Say good-bye to Kevin and tell him I'll call him tomorrow after he sees you and Marie off. Have a great time in Bora Bora." "We will. Bye, Mom." My heart was racing, but my movements were leaden. Mindlessly, I turned off the phone and placed it on the table. My mom sat down across from me and gently took hold of my hand. I raised my head slowly to meet Mike's grim expression. "Dannie," Mike said solemnly as he pulled up a seat next to me, "Pat and Kevin called me yesterday to tell me. They wanted to make certain I was here with you when they called. I tried to talk them out of it over the phone, but I really need to speak to them in person." I could tell Mike felt terrible for not telling me, but I knew Pat and Kevin had to tell me themselves, and I was grateful Mike was with me. "I can't believe they're doing this," I said numbly. Yet, even as I said the words, a part of me wasn't shocked. A feeling of dread had lingered in me since the September 11 terrorist attacks, knowing that horrible act could move Pat or Kevin to enlist. My immediate fear was for Kevin, as he had previously expressed an interest in going into the military. When his rotator cuff surgery hadn't healed properly in January and he was released from the baseball team, I feared he'd have even more incentive to join. It hadn't occurred to me to worry about Pat as much; both he and Kevin were outraged and saddened by the violation against our country, but Pat was about to get married, and he was five years into a professional football career. Mom, Mike, and I ate our Mother's Day birthday dinner in relative silence. After cleaning the dishes, I made coffee, and we gradually started to talk about the circumstances that were unfolding. Mike and I had concerns about the Bush administration. Invading Afghanistan in October 2001 had seemed the right thing to do. The president had appeared to act cautiously before sending troops into that region, which seemed a good sign then. However, six months had passed, and there was something about Bush's cockiness and lack of empathy, which seemed borne of the fact that he had avoided battle during the Vietnam War, that made me uncomfortable. I was uneasy about what future decisions he might make. Several times that night, Mike repeated, "I'm proud of Pat and Kevin's decision to defend the country, but I don't want them fighting for this commander-in-chief." He said he planned to go to Phoenix to talk with Kevin while Pat and Marie were away. After Mike and Mom left, I called Richard. I wanted to give him all my attention when I spoke to him. As I dialed the number, a knot formed in my stomach. "Hello." He sounded cautious. "Richard, it's Mom. I know about Pat and Kevin." "When did they call you?" he asked sullenly. "Several hours ago, but I wanted to talk to you after Mike and Mom left ...." "This is just fucked up, Mom," his voice cracked. "I don't think I can talk about it right now. I'll call you tomorrow. Is that all right?" "Of course," I said, trying to stay strong for him. "How are you doing with this, Mom?" ''I'm not sure, Rich," I said. ''I'm in shock. It's probably better we talk tomorrow; I'll have a better idea of how I feel." "I'll call you when you get home from work," he told me. "Good. Hang in there, hon," I said. "You too, Mom." I hung up feeling overwhelmed but unable to move or cry. I began to wonder what my father would think if he were alive. Like Mike and me, I knew he would be proud of Pat and Kevin for wanting to serve their country. Yet I wondered whether he would share my doubts about the administration. Thirty-five years ago, he and I had been at odds over Vietnam. He'd died before seeing the outcome of that involvement. Would he have encouraged Pat and Kevin? Or would he have feared, as I did now, that our family had glamorized the honor of military service? Discussions about the military had been part of the boys' childhood -- why people fight for their country; why they should; when it is right to do so; the effect of war on people; how it crushes them tragically or enables them to do heroic things. At dinnertime and at holiday gatherings, our conversations had often turned to the military and its place in history and in our family. My sons were influenced by these stories and of our family's military past. My younger brothers, Richard and Mike, and I had inherited an appreciation of history from many relatives, but our fascination with military history came directly from my father, Richard M. Spalding, who had served as a Marine in the Korean War, and from my mother's brother, John Conlin, who had served in World War II and the Korean War, and then the National Guard. I'd majored in history at San Jose State University, and my ex-husband, Patrick, who was an economics major, had also studied history. My interest in military history, particularly the Civil War, developed during my frequent childhood visits to Gettysburg National Military Park in the mid-1960s. I was ten to twelve years old when we lived in New Cumberland, Pennsylvania, less than forty miles away from the historic battlefield. My father and mother took my brothers and me there nearly every weekend. With great poignancy, Dad would make the history of that war come alive for us. We could picture the Confederate troops advancing down the Chambersburg Pike on July 1, 1863, the first day of the battle, and those Southern forces charging the Union position on the third day. To help us understand the tragedy of the valiant but futile Pickett's Charge, Dad told us the story of the encounter at Cemetery Ridge on July 3, 1863, between Confederate Brigadier General Lewis Armistead and Union troops led by Major General Winfield Scott Hancock. These two men had met and became friends at West Point and served together in the same infantry in California before the Civil War. Armistead was wounded on Cemetery Ridge. He asked if he could see his adversary and once-good friend, General Hancock, but was told Hancock had been wounded just minutes earlier. Although Armistead's wounds had not appeared to be life-threatening, he died the morning of July 5 in a Union field hospital. It was haunting to know that these two friends had fought against each other, both had been wounded in the same skirmish, and one had died. We often had picnics on a knoll between Little Round Top and Devil's Den and dangled our feet in a creek near Spangler's Spring. My father bought us Confederate and Union hats that we wore as we ran through the fields, climbing rocks and trees in the vast historical park. The statues, monuments, and cannons that memorialize the soldiers who fought there demanded reverence, and Dad made it very clear that climbing on the monuments was disrespectful. But sometimes we forgot ourselves, and Dad would catch us and get angry. I vividly remember being yanked firmly from an equestrian statue of Major General John Sedgwick and feeling ashamed and embarrassed. The museums, the cemetery, and the home of Ginnie Wade, the only civilian to be killed at the Battle of Gettysburg, fascinated me. My ghoulish little brothers were particularly intrigued by the replica field hospital, where bloody wax arms and legs were thrown into a barrel by the window. They referred to it as the "arms and legs museum." My father earnestly and patiently talked to us about battles, strategies, and tactics. I remember him telling us that prior to the Battle of Gettysburg, Robert E. Lee often had split his troops into sections. He did it out of necessity, and he got away with it because of the incompetence of Northern generals. However, my father cautioned that it was never a good idea to do that because troops can lose communication with one another, resulting in confusion and chaos. During the time we visited Gettysburg, former president Dwight David Eisenhower was living at his Gettysburg home. We once walked into the Gettysburg library and saw him sitting at a table, reading. I remember being in awe of this honored and respected World War II general, even though he was by then a frail old man. From 1944 through 1945, Eisenhower had been responsible for planning and directing the successful invasion of France and Germany by Allied forces, and still he'd cautioned against governments using military strength and resources to achieve political and commercial gain. As children, we'd played military games while visiting my uncle John. I knew that during World War II he had been the last soldier to parachute safely out of a crashing plane, and he had been so shaken by that experience that he never boarded another plane once he got out of the military. Uncle John had no children of his own, so his nieces and nephews were like his kids. Often, when we would visit him in Newark, Ohio, he would set up his military tent for us in the backyard in the summer and in the living room in the winter. We would sit in the tent eating Army rations, which were pretty terrible, and garlic popcorn. While Uncle John rarely spoke to us of his military experiences, he would take us to military cemeteries and army bases. Once when he and my grandmother visited us in Nyack, New York, they took me to West Point. I was only three years old, but I still remember the ornate swords and rifles displayed behind glass in one of the buildings. My parents took my brothers and me back to West Point when I was thirteen and living in Tenafly, New Jersey. The statues and buildings were old, formidable, and impressive. I didn't notice the plebes my first visit to the campus, but ten years later, they were the main attraction. Military service was part of the life of my husband's family as well, which of course became familiar to my sons. Their paternal grandfather, Hank Tillman, and two great uncles had served in the Navy, and all were stationed at Pearl Harbor when it was bombed by the Japanese; all three survived. My father-in-law did not talk about his painful wartime experiences, but he occasionally spoke about the fun times and camaraderie. I found his stories fascinating. One New Year's Eve, my husband, Patrick, and I went to a party and left two-month-old Pat with my in-laws. After several hours I left the party to go nurse the baby, intending to return before midnight to celebrate the New Year. But I ended up talking with my mother-in-law, Mary, my husband's youngest brother David, and Hank, who started telling stories about hitchhiking, drinking, and just hanging out with his Navy buddies. My dad, like my father-in-law, didn't talk much about the specifics of his military service or any horrors he might have seen. It wasn't until after he died that I learned his best friend had been blown up by a land mine just yards in front of him. When he talked about the Marines, he talked about friendships, drinking and brawling in seedy bars, hitchhiking from town to town, being stationed on the USS New Jersey, swimming with dolphins in the Pacific Ocean, and boot camp. Dad had been stationed at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. With a wistful expression, he would recall how he and his fellow Marines had to run miles along the beach on the thick sand in their combat boots. The exercise was grueling and the drill sergeants, merciless. Yet, when the drill was over, even though they all complained and grumbled, everyone who completed it experienced a sense of achievement and solidarity. My brothers liked the story my dad told of a group of Marines maneuvering under barbed wire on their bellies as they were being shot at with live rounds. One Marine kept sticking his butt in the air. The drill instructors continually yelled at him to get his butt down, but he continued to jut it out until it took a bullet. The guy was out of commission for weeks, but he had a great time holding court in the infirmary. To this day I wonder if the story is true. From the time I was very little, I was aware of my father's pride in being a Marine. When I was three years old, in the days before children's car seats, I would stand between my parents, feet digging into the soft leather of the big front seat, and sing the entire Marine Corps Hymn at the top of my lungs: "From the Halls of Montezuma ... " My father would sing with me. My brother Richard served in the Marines in the late seventies, and my brother-in-law Jim served in the Army around the same time. Military service was prevalent in my family and my husband's family, and we were taught to respect it. The 1960s and '70s produced good war movies, and I saw most of them: Battle of the Bulge, The Great Escape, Patton, The Devil's Brigade, The Dirty Dozen, A Bridge Too Far, and many more. When my boys were old enough, my husband and I shared these old films with them, and we also watched and discussed contemporary war movies: Platoon; Apocalypse Now; Good Morning, Vietnam; and The Thin Red Line. We talked about how war best exemplifies the camaraderie of men, especially when in battle, and puts people in positions to think about what they value, making them put their integrity on the line. The subject fascinated me. I had always believed that war brings out the best and the worst in people. This belief would come to dominate my life in a way I never would have imagined at the time. My own thoughts about war evolved over the years. The United States' involvement in Vietnam had begun before I was born. By the time I was thirteen, I already felt very conflicted about it. My father supported our presence there and believed we were doing the right thing. I loved and respected my dad, so I was deeply influenced by his opinions. But I had teachers I also respected who were telling me our involvement in Southeast Asia was wrong. By the time I was in high school, I had decided that Vietnam was not at all a moral war and we didn't belong there. I got into an argument with my father about it. I had never shouted at him before, and I remember becoming very angry and running out of the room in tears. After that, we never spoke about Vietnam again. Looking back, I can understand the conflict he must have felt. The senseless destruction, loss of life, and government deception clashed with his belief that ours is a righteous country. The first Gulf War started when Pat and Kevin were in their early teens and Richard was ten. I felt it was an unjust war. As with Vietnam, we had not been attacked, nor had we been threatened; a motivating factor was oil, and I believed it was unacceptable, outrageous, and inhumane to put lives on the line in a fight over oil. I also was appalled when President George H. W. Bush told the people of Iraq to rise up against Saddam Hussein and then backed out, leaving the Kurds to be slaughtered by Hussein's men. No one knew what was going to happen in the region. I wondered at the time if tensions there would escalate due to our involvement. My sons were getting closer to draft age by then; there might come a time when the draft would be reinstated and they would be called. Because we had talked so much with the boys about the honor of military service, I wanted them to understand that this was not the kind of war to get into. I did not glorify this war. The briefings to the public by Generals Norman Schwarzkopf and Colin Powell did not stress the serious nature of what was happening, and it disturbed me that the daily visuals from the war zone looked like a video game. My sons spoke of the war as cool. They had trouble understanding that people were dying. My husband and I would remind them, "You're not seeing the death there." Curled up on my couch, securing the blanket over my shoulders, I recoil. All of those discussions of the military and the honor of serving come back to haunt me. Through tear-filled eyes, I look out the picture window into the darkness. |