thedrifter
02-15-07, 12:56 PM
Valley parents watch 3 sons deploy to war in Iraq
Angela Cara Pancrazio
The Arizona Republic
Feb. 15, 2007 12:00 AM
One hundred times a day, probably more, John Haldiman reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a plain silver cross and copies of three Marine dog tags.
It's how he thinks of his three sons.
In April, Jacob, 23, will be deployed to Iraq.
About that time, David, 22, will just be returning after a year in the war.
Zachary, 26, served two tours and was one of the first Marines on the ground in Iraq four years ago.
"Every time I stick my hand in my pocket, I get them out and look at them," John said. A life as a carpenter has left him with callused hands, but he rubs the dog tags gently.
Since the beginning of the war, John and Joan Haldiman have spent their days worrying about at least one son, if not all three.
"Even if only one of them is in Iraq, they're still training and training in dangerous fields day in and day out," John said.
The Phoenix family's story is reminiscent of World War II, when families sent all their sons to war. The terrible toll that could occur was realized in 1942, when all five brothers in the Sullivan family from Iowa were killed when their ship was sunk.
After that tragedy, the government adopted a policy making it easier for family members to avoid serving on the same ship or in the same unit. But the policy is not a blanket prohibition. Service members, not their parents, may ask to avoid being stationed together with their siblings during a time of war. It's up to the military to grant the request.
It's a request the Haldiman brothers did not make.
In decades past, families were much larger; many had 10 children. But in the 21st century, there aren't as many families with more than three children, said Charles Moskos, a military sociologist at Northwestern University.
This makes the Haldiman brothers even more unusual.
As soon as their mother, Joan, watched the planes go through the World Trade Center, she knew Zachary, already a Marine, would be on his way to a war. A few months later, Jacob enlisted.
Less than a year after his high school graduation, David, their youngest, announced that he had joined, too.
" 'Oh, David, please!' I cried," Joan recalled.
This week, the House debates whether to support President Bush's decision to send more troops to Iraq. In Washington, the political fighting continues. The Haldimans think only of their sons.
Just why their sons all joined the Marines is a question Joan and John Haldiman ask themselves. But the subtle signs of patriotism are all around.
They're an old Arizona family; the Haldiman brothers are fifth-generation Arizonans with a great grandfather and great uncle who were state senators. A letter from President Theodore Roosevelt to their great grandfather is a prized possession. It hangs beneath Roosevelt's portrait on a wall plastered with Marine memorabilia.
Joan is 57. John is 59.
Their own sense of patriotism comes from being born to fathers who served during World War II. The trait was embedded by the time patriotism faded with the Vietnam era and the Watergate scandal.
John's father was awarded a Bronze Star; the citation is framed beneath Roosevelt.
On holidays, John's father always unfurled a huge flag across their roof. The ritual was passed onto Joan and John's sons and their only daughter, Heather. John and the kids raised a flag outside their home each morning. When flags became tattered, another one was ready to fly.
Influenced by his own father and the John Wayne "soldier storming the beach" movies, John wanted to enlist during the Vietnam War but couldn't. After an accident in high school, he lost his right eye.
That didn't stop him from grooming his sons for future recruitment. He drilled the boys with push-ups and jumping jacks. All three were Boy Scouts. Zachary was a Star Scout; Jacob and David were Eagle Scouts.
Jacob always told his mother, "I have a stern father and a kind-hearted mother."
John taught them the value of hard work. His sons always tagged along with him on his construction projects.
But somehow, he never dreamed that the military tradition that skipped over him because of a physical disability would be passed on to each of his sons.
Neither did Joan.
At their home on acreage near South Mountain, Joan sits in the kitchen. Staring out the window, she sips coffee from an "Old Glory" mug and says, "I'm proud of them all.
"But I'm also a human being. I'm scared."
For her, each day follows a similar cadence.
"I've been ocean swimming," she says, "swimming against the current."
Zachary, Jacob and David are everywhere, on walls, windowsills. She stuck one portrait on the water heater in the laundry room.
Taped to the front window is a red-and-white banner with three blue stars, one for each son. It's a symbol that started during World Wars I and II when mothers hung their hand-made flags.
Grazing outside is her chestnut gelding, a horse born the day the war began. Joan named him Semper Fidelis, or "always faithful," the Marine motto.
Like her coffee mug, the flag theme is repeated on her bathroom towels and the horse's tack room door.
A yellow ribbon is draped around the rearview mirror of her Chevrolet Suburban. The ribbon that was knotted around the pine tree in the front yard vanished.
"It wore out because I'm worn out," she says. "I'm war-weary."
It does her no good, she says, to worry about tomorrow today. "Keep busy. That's how you stay up."
Still, on bad days, like the day she detected her son David's own weariness, she weeps.
Recently, he called from Iraq. "I have to get out of here," he told his mother.
"How many Bibles do you have?" she asked.
"Five."
"Give four of them away, open one up, go to Proverbs or Psalms," she told him. "Ask God to help you."
She knows grief well. Her first son, Matthew, was 18 months old when a tree fell, killing him on their ranch near Globe.
"The depth of that great loss will always be there," she says.
With her sons in and out of Iraq, whenever her imagination wanders, she rides Semper Fidelis. She prays for peace. She "can't handle the politics, the fighting." But once, just once, she penned a letter to President Bush.
"Please always remember our loved ones in harm's way," she wrote.
"My three sons are most precious to me.
"And they are there."
Angela Cara Pancrazio
The Arizona Republic
Feb. 15, 2007 12:00 AM
One hundred times a day, probably more, John Haldiman reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a plain silver cross and copies of three Marine dog tags.
It's how he thinks of his three sons.
In April, Jacob, 23, will be deployed to Iraq.
About that time, David, 22, will just be returning after a year in the war.
Zachary, 26, served two tours and was one of the first Marines on the ground in Iraq four years ago.
"Every time I stick my hand in my pocket, I get them out and look at them," John said. A life as a carpenter has left him with callused hands, but he rubs the dog tags gently.
Since the beginning of the war, John and Joan Haldiman have spent their days worrying about at least one son, if not all three.
"Even if only one of them is in Iraq, they're still training and training in dangerous fields day in and day out," John said.
The Phoenix family's story is reminiscent of World War II, when families sent all their sons to war. The terrible toll that could occur was realized in 1942, when all five brothers in the Sullivan family from Iowa were killed when their ship was sunk.
After that tragedy, the government adopted a policy making it easier for family members to avoid serving on the same ship or in the same unit. But the policy is not a blanket prohibition. Service members, not their parents, may ask to avoid being stationed together with their siblings during a time of war. It's up to the military to grant the request.
It's a request the Haldiman brothers did not make.
In decades past, families were much larger; many had 10 children. But in the 21st century, there aren't as many families with more than three children, said Charles Moskos, a military sociologist at Northwestern University.
This makes the Haldiman brothers even more unusual.
As soon as their mother, Joan, watched the planes go through the World Trade Center, she knew Zachary, already a Marine, would be on his way to a war. A few months later, Jacob enlisted.
Less than a year after his high school graduation, David, their youngest, announced that he had joined, too.
" 'Oh, David, please!' I cried," Joan recalled.
This week, the House debates whether to support President Bush's decision to send more troops to Iraq. In Washington, the political fighting continues. The Haldimans think only of their sons.
Just why their sons all joined the Marines is a question Joan and John Haldiman ask themselves. But the subtle signs of patriotism are all around.
They're an old Arizona family; the Haldiman brothers are fifth-generation Arizonans with a great grandfather and great uncle who were state senators. A letter from President Theodore Roosevelt to their great grandfather is a prized possession. It hangs beneath Roosevelt's portrait on a wall plastered with Marine memorabilia.
Joan is 57. John is 59.
Their own sense of patriotism comes from being born to fathers who served during World War II. The trait was embedded by the time patriotism faded with the Vietnam era and the Watergate scandal.
John's father was awarded a Bronze Star; the citation is framed beneath Roosevelt.
On holidays, John's father always unfurled a huge flag across their roof. The ritual was passed onto Joan and John's sons and their only daughter, Heather. John and the kids raised a flag outside their home each morning. When flags became tattered, another one was ready to fly.
Influenced by his own father and the John Wayne "soldier storming the beach" movies, John wanted to enlist during the Vietnam War but couldn't. After an accident in high school, he lost his right eye.
That didn't stop him from grooming his sons for future recruitment. He drilled the boys with push-ups and jumping jacks. All three were Boy Scouts. Zachary was a Star Scout; Jacob and David were Eagle Scouts.
Jacob always told his mother, "I have a stern father and a kind-hearted mother."
John taught them the value of hard work. His sons always tagged along with him on his construction projects.
But somehow, he never dreamed that the military tradition that skipped over him because of a physical disability would be passed on to each of his sons.
Neither did Joan.
At their home on acreage near South Mountain, Joan sits in the kitchen. Staring out the window, she sips coffee from an "Old Glory" mug and says, "I'm proud of them all.
"But I'm also a human being. I'm scared."
For her, each day follows a similar cadence.
"I've been ocean swimming," she says, "swimming against the current."
Zachary, Jacob and David are everywhere, on walls, windowsills. She stuck one portrait on the water heater in the laundry room.
Taped to the front window is a red-and-white banner with three blue stars, one for each son. It's a symbol that started during World Wars I and II when mothers hung their hand-made flags.
Grazing outside is her chestnut gelding, a horse born the day the war began. Joan named him Semper Fidelis, or "always faithful," the Marine motto.
Like her coffee mug, the flag theme is repeated on her bathroom towels and the horse's tack room door.
A yellow ribbon is draped around the rearview mirror of her Chevrolet Suburban. The ribbon that was knotted around the pine tree in the front yard vanished.
"It wore out because I'm worn out," she says. "I'm war-weary."
It does her no good, she says, to worry about tomorrow today. "Keep busy. That's how you stay up."
Still, on bad days, like the day she detected her son David's own weariness, she weeps.
Recently, he called from Iraq. "I have to get out of here," he told his mother.
"How many Bibles do you have?" she asked.
"Five."
"Give four of them away, open one up, go to Proverbs or Psalms," she told him. "Ask God to help you."
She knows grief well. Her first son, Matthew, was 18 months old when a tree fell, killing him on their ranch near Globe.
"The depth of that great loss will always be there," she says.
With her sons in and out of Iraq, whenever her imagination wanders, she rides Semper Fidelis. She prays for peace. She "can't handle the politics, the fighting." But once, just once, she penned a letter to President Bush.
"Please always remember our loved ones in harm's way," she wrote.
"My three sons are most precious to me.
"And they are there."