INTRODUCTION: As, once again, American military is being sent into possible combat situations, it was time to pay tribute to those who must combat a different war. This war is not fought with rockets, bullets, chemicals, nor can diplomats help. This war is fought with patience, letters, phone calls, and the support of the unit fighting the same war. It is a war of worry, wait, worry, hope, worry, and tears; then worry some more. This is not only my diary of the war I fought while my son was in Desert Storm; it is a tribute to all who must fight the quiet, forgotten war of supporting a military person while in combat.
AUGUST, 1990: *TV NEWS: Kuwait has been invaded by Iraq. Tegular programming is interrupted by the latest updates. Americans and other non-Arabs are held "guests" in Iraq. They can not leave. The news is full of speculation as to what the U.S. will do.
I watch the new with little interest. There is always fighting somewhere in the world. Why should I get excited by the latest one? The newscasters liken them to the Eve of World War II. All nations are looking at Bush, waiting, watching, to see what he'll do. Because Americans are being held in a foreign country, we may be on the brink of war. Will Bush stand by and do nothing for Kuwait? Will he allow American citizens to be held as prisoners? Will he launch an immediate attack or will he try to negotiate for their release and a peace? All I can do is watch, wonder a little, then forget it. The news doesn't affect me.
*THE PHONE CALL: "Mom, I'm going to the Middle East. I'll call when I can. Don't know when I go, but it'll be soon. Can't talk now. Bye"
*PANIC: Where is the Middle East? On TV they are showing the troops leaving for Saudi Arabia. No, not my son! He is a mechanic, not a soldier! He can't go 5000 miles away to maybe fight in a war! Oh, God; I am really scared! He is just a boy!
CALMER: I hate the idea of my son going to war, but each generation has had to do it. Now is my son's turn. I have to remember that he is a man now, a trained soldier. I can understand the reasons for our troops going over there. This monster in Iraq has to be stopped. Better now then later when he could attack us. So far, the troops will go stand guard in the sand. Hopefully, Iraq will back down when it sees the world is serious about liberating Kuwait.
On a personal level, I am still very worried. There are so many questions to ask, so many things to say, so little time in which to say them. I can't let him know my fears. I have to be strong for him, so I talk about unimportant things. So afraid I will cry. He feels the same way. I hear the fear in his voice but I can't let him know...he is trying to protect me, while I am trying to protect him. Neither one os us wants the other to know what we are felling or thinking.
SEPTEMBER, 1990 My son calls home while I was out. He tells his dad "good-bye". By the time I get home, his plane has left. My son is gone and I did not get to say good-bye, good luck, or I love you. Now, the TV news affects me.
I can't help but think of "what if he doesn't come home". I don't want to think about that. Just before he left the states, he found out that he was going to be a dad. That was such great news. I had something to think about, plan for, hope for, and no matter what happens a part of my son was here and safe. Maybe it wasn't rational thinking, but for now it seems logical.
I think of the times he made me laugh, the funny things he said and did. The time he lost his football and told me I had eaten it. The way he loved to have the poem "the Duel" read to him. His crooked grin and even his middle finger-----the famous finger that was in most photos of him. I miss them already. I sit thinking of the stories I can tell his child of him. Is this blackmail to make sure he comes home?
I thought about the conversation we had just before he left about what the town was doing to honor the troops going over to the desert. At the time, I didn't want to tell him the truth--- nothing. I promised myself, unlike Viet Nam, our troops will get the support they desert and unlike my mother while my brother was in Nam, I would not be afraid or ashamed to let people know that my son was serving in the Persian Gulf.
My God, there were dozens of guys from our area going over there and more to go!
I watch the news. I hope for a glimpse of my son. I watch. I worry. I pray. I want peace-- NOW. Without anyone getting hurt. I want my son home----NOW. I want my baby back! But, it can't be. He is no longer my baby and I have to accept that fact. Just as I have to accept the fact that he has a job to do. All I can do is support him, pray for him, write letters, and not let him know my fears. That and make sure he and the others get the support and recognition they deserve.
His dad's hometown had a Ribbon Ceremony. We went over and hung a yellow ribbon with our son's name on it in the local park. I was crying when I tied the ribbon to the tree. I wondered how long before my son came home to take it down.....will he come home to take it down?
OCTOBER, 1990 I did it!!!! I kept my promise to my son. After a month of planing and talking, after even being called an instigator, our town was going to have a ribbon ceremony to honor the troops from our area.
The day was cool and sunny. Over a hundred people stood in the city park to honor our troops. The park is surrounded by flags, VFW, Viet Nam Vets, MIA/POW, and American Legion sent their honor guards to take part in dedicating several trees as "Trees of Honor". I look into the face of another mother as she proudly hangs her son's red, white and blue bow. Her eyes are shinny with unshed tears, just as are mine. We feel the same pride and fear. Was ask the same unspoken questions, "how long will the bows be us? Will he come home to take it down?" At least for this moment, I do not feel alone.
Several restaurants and stores have dedicated space for "Wall of Honor" . Flags and stars with the names of local service personnel have become the local decoration. The trees on Main Street all have bows tied around their bases. The list of guys serving in Operation Desert Shield grows longer every week.
On the home front, family and friends become more thoughtful. My son's friends made our home the designated party spot. Every weekend they gather here to talk, keep me from watching the news, and if lucky...talk to my son when he calls home.
NOVEMBER, 1990 The days are getting shorter and colder. There is no longer the hope that you will be home for the holidays. The families of service personnel are busy putting together Christmas boxes to send overseas. The schools have started a letter writing program. Cards and letters are flying to every service person on our list. With the help of some of the merchants, care packages are being sent out from out town.
I have never seen a town band together and work so hard on a project before in my life. It is not just our town, but towns all over the nation are doing this. Will this spirit of support and togetherness last after our people come home?
DECEMBER, 1990 We got your tape today. Your brother's and I listened and laughed so hard at your description of "point" and the interruptions from passing camels. Yet, I can hear the fear in your voice and in the things you do not say.
Your phone calls home mean so much more now. Even your letters are looked forward to and read many times over. The holidays are near, but yet it doesn't seem like Christmas. Your friends come over with a video recorder. You are the guest of honor at this years Christmas Party. They take the recorder cruising so you don't feel left out of the fun. The local policeman was sure they were drunk. They even videoed the party store and bought you a beer.
The one good thing about this years holidays, I do not have to worry about you drinking and driving. The beer they sent to you on tape can do no harm. Still, the unspoken questions are on everyone's mind. When will you be home? What will next week bring?
The days follow a pattern of not talking about it, but not thinking of anything else. Each of us handle the news in different ways. Yet, it is the only thing that any of us really think about. At night, I watch the news and write in a diary. I tell you all the things I can not write to you now. I tell you how the town is reacting, what your friends are doing, but most of all, I write down all the things that have to be left unsaid.
FEBRUARY, 1991 It is now six weeks since the war began. It has gone better than any of us dared to dream. But war is still war. People get hurt. People get killed. I pray that it isn't you.
I get so mad at the reporters during the news briefings. They ask questions that shouldn't be asked. I yell at the TV "Shut up, you fool! Are you trying to get my son killed? Where are your brains?" Of course, the reporters do not hear me. But their questions go unanswered also.
On the home front, the support groups have grown in number and in size. More flags are flying through out town, every town. Support is coming from people I barely know, who do not have a loved one in the service. It is amazing to me the support for both the troops and the families left here to wait.
The news is announcing the ground war has begun. Where are you? Are you in the rear like you thought? Now we do not get letters nor phone calls. I watch the news, but have no idea where you are. I pray, I write.....the thoughts left unsaid. The fear that if they are spoken, they will come true. The questions unasked. The worry and the fear, still left unsaid.
I started a scrapbook. It will be for your child. Will you look at it someday? Will you read this in some future time?
On the news tonight, they talked about how some Apaches took over 40 POWS. A reporter asked in a confused voice, "Do you mean, General, that for the first time in over 100 years, Apaches have taken prisoners?" Of course he was referring to the Apache helicopters. Oh my God! We are at war. My son is fighting in that war and here I am laughing at the news. I think I am losing it!
I cry and pray for the families of the dead, injured, and the POWs. I cry with relief that you are not one of them. Yet I feel that we are quitting to soon. I want it over. I want you home. I want to see American tanks roll down Bagdad's main street. I want to know that it will no happen again.
I watch the news report that showed how the military fought the ground war. I wondered where in that scheme did you fit. The plan worked. But most of feel that we should have taken Bagdad. We believe that it is not over yet.
MARCH, 1991 The news reported that American troops were starting to come home. I called you base to find out when you would be coming. Your base told me that you were in Germany at that moment. Oh! There was going to be a welcome home party at the base for you guys. I was asked if you dad and I were coming. I wanted to be there so badly, but they would not send a helicopter for us. No Way to make a 17 hour drive in less than 8 hours! So the family and friends gather by the phone ans await your call.
When you finally do call, my first greeting to you is "What the hell took you so long to get to the phone?" Sounds like a mom, right? You did not know that we knew you were coming home. The noise and excitement on both ends of the phone were so bad that we could not hear. Tomorrow we would talk again.
Across American plans were being made to give you guys a heros welcome home. There were plans for parties and parades, special concerts in some towns and even stories in the home town papers. We were doing the same.
You said that you were not a hero. But to us you are.....all of you are. You all performed a job, one you may not have personally agreed with, but you did it with courage and honor. You gave your nation back a sense of pride that was lost after Viet Nam. You gave us back a sense of community that was lost after World War II. You showed the world that our nation had the guts to stand behind a promise made to a friend. A hero is not John Wayne, storming into battle with guns blazing. He is not Rambo who takes on the world and wins. A hero is someone who sees a duty, a job to be done and does it with honor and courage. A hero is someone who does his job even in the face of fear. In this respect, you are all heros.
UPDATE: In April, my son got a surprise four day pass. His guardian angel must have been on duty that day. During his unexpected leave, we had time to talk, take down his ribbon, and he was home to go hold his daughter just hours after her birth. We did give my son a hero's party in May of 1991. Most towns planed parades to honor the vets on either Memorial Day or Independence Day. This time the returning soldiers came home to a hero's welcome.
Today, my son and thousands of other Desert Storm Vets are fighting a mystery illness. While the VA is recognizing this illness and suppling benefits for many of the vets, our government still will not give us any answers as to the cause.
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