thedrifter
05-19-07, 08:02 AM
May 16, 2007 - 12:00AM
Youngsters cling to wounded Marine
JAY PRICE
NEWS AND OBSERVER OF RALEIGH
The uniformed Marine wedged into the tiny chair and the 5-year-old girl were allies, holding Iraq at bay with unlikely weapons - construction paper and rubber stamps of flowers and beetles. For one more art project, one more school day, they succeeded.
"Can you help me with my name part?" said Lauren Fowler.
Sure, said Lance Cpl. Robert Schlaff, 25, reaching for the glitter glue with his good hand. For both of them, the war receded just a little more.
Lauren's dad is fighting in Anbar Province. The teacher, Melissa Snyder, has a husband there as well.
In fact, more than a third of the 22 children in this class at Camp Lejeune's Johnson Primary School, where Schlaff volunteers, have a parent in Iraq; most of the others have parents who just got back or will go soon.
For all of them, the classroom is a refuge from war.
Schlaff, who lives at the base's Wounded Warrior Barracks, found that working with the kids eased the raw memories of his own tour in Ramadi as he recuperated from his injuries.
"Just a few months ago, I was patrolling Ramadi, and now I'm sitting here cutting out paper butterflies," he said. "It's pretty weird."
Snyder, meanwhile, can lose herself in the kids' needs instead worrying about the risks that her husband, Chief Warrant Officer 2 Gregory Snyder, faces.
Those risks came into sharp focus just after 9 a.m. Feb. 16 when her cell phone rang. She doesn't remember the noise she made before rushing out so the kids wouldn't see their teacher fall apart. Maybe a scream. She does remember her husband telling her about the mortar round that crashed into his Humvee as it rolled through Ramadi, and about his concussion and shrapnel wounds and the other Marines who had been hurt.
She dashed out so quickly that the kids, kindergartners and first-graders, didn't notice. Someone did: The classroom's quiet Marine in camouflage.
Schlaff knew plenty - maybe too much - about combat, explosions and wounds. He calmly checked on the kids as the Spanish teacher returned to her lesson.
Snyder was back within an hour. She needed the classroom, with its innocent bustle, gentle problems and simple solutions. "We all need each other and look forward to coming in every day," Snyder said. "We all have something in common, and we can talk about it, and I think that's why we are all so comfortable here."
On a recent day, as Schlaff helped kids decorate little greenhouses made of construction paper, a boy accidentally kicked over a hardwood block behind the Marine, who wheeled quickly.
He had good cause for being jumpy. Schlaff was with 3rd Battalion, 8th Marines. During their seven months in Ramadi, which ended in October, they lost more troops than any other battalion in Iraq at that point in 2006. The chances of being attacked on any given two-hour patrol were 90 percent.
Schlaff's left arm was shattered when his Humvee crashed - on the same street where Snyder's husband was later wounded - as he rushed an injured Marine to treatment. Improvised bombs hit Humvees he was in seven times. Once he was in a three-story building rammed by a dump truck packed with explosives.
Schlaff was one of 10 Marines who began coming to the school in November from the Wounded Warrior Barracks.
They were only supposed to help for a few hours three days a week, but Schlaff began showing up at Snyder's room every day.
His job is anything that needs doing. He grades tests, runs for supplies, helps kids with projects.
Schlaff even hung the moon for the kids. And the sun and the planets - a giant solar system dangling from the ceiling that he helped them cut out of cardboard. The sun is so big it almost blots out a window.
To a visitor, the classroom could be at nearly any school. But sometimes the kids with a parent in Iraq need to cling more, sometimes they have to cry about it, or use some of their first written words to express how much they miss their mom or dad, Snyder said.
"They're very emotional," she said. "You've got to understand that they need a lot of extra love and until you give it to them, the learning can't really start."
Schlaff helps with that, too. Mr. Robert, the kids yell, then they run and latch onto him. He can't replace the missing dads, but having him a few hours each day helps, Snyder said.
Lauren Fowler said when school is over she will miss Schlaff, but that she's too tough to cry about it.
"I won't," she said, shaking her head. "Won't cry."
Snyder's not so sure.
"She won't even come to me anymore when she needs something," Snyder said. "If her shoe needs tying, or she needs help with her coat, anything, she goes straight to him."
Parents have asked to visit so they can meet the Marine their kids love so much. He made them bags of candy for Valentine's Day and asked for a class picture, and sometimes arrives in the morning before Snyder.
The day her husband was wounded, he was supposed to go on leave at noon, but stayed to make sure everything was fine in the class. The next morning, she found a rose on her desk and a note from Schlaff saying he wished there was more he could do.
He needs to help, Snyder said.
"It's occupying his mind with something happy," she said. "I think he feels needed and wanted, and that he's making a difference. And he is."
Snyder and the kids depend on Schlaff so much that when she heard he might get pulled out for other duty this spring, she wrote to his gunnery sergeant, explaining how important he had become, and how they needed him.
The gunny was so impressed that he read the e-mail during morning formation at the Wounded Warrior Barracks. Schlaff missed the kudos: He had left for the school.
Now he thinks he'll get to stay until the school year ends. Then he'll probably have to take on some other duty until his enlistment is up in November.
That will be painful, he said, calling his stint with the class a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Snyder and some of the parents think it shouldn't be. They have urged Schlaff to become a teacher.
"It's your calling," Snyder said.
Schlaff isn't so sure. He doesn't think he can be hard enough on kids when they need discipline.
He wants to go to college, but has some bills to pay first. So he's pondering maybe his only high-paying option: a job as a private security contractor.
In Iraq.
Ellie
Youngsters cling to wounded Marine
JAY PRICE
NEWS AND OBSERVER OF RALEIGH
The uniformed Marine wedged into the tiny chair and the 5-year-old girl were allies, holding Iraq at bay with unlikely weapons - construction paper and rubber stamps of flowers and beetles. For one more art project, one more school day, they succeeded.
"Can you help me with my name part?" said Lauren Fowler.
Sure, said Lance Cpl. Robert Schlaff, 25, reaching for the glitter glue with his good hand. For both of them, the war receded just a little more.
Lauren's dad is fighting in Anbar Province. The teacher, Melissa Snyder, has a husband there as well.
In fact, more than a third of the 22 children in this class at Camp Lejeune's Johnson Primary School, where Schlaff volunteers, have a parent in Iraq; most of the others have parents who just got back or will go soon.
For all of them, the classroom is a refuge from war.
Schlaff, who lives at the base's Wounded Warrior Barracks, found that working with the kids eased the raw memories of his own tour in Ramadi as he recuperated from his injuries.
"Just a few months ago, I was patrolling Ramadi, and now I'm sitting here cutting out paper butterflies," he said. "It's pretty weird."
Snyder, meanwhile, can lose herself in the kids' needs instead worrying about the risks that her husband, Chief Warrant Officer 2 Gregory Snyder, faces.
Those risks came into sharp focus just after 9 a.m. Feb. 16 when her cell phone rang. She doesn't remember the noise she made before rushing out so the kids wouldn't see their teacher fall apart. Maybe a scream. She does remember her husband telling her about the mortar round that crashed into his Humvee as it rolled through Ramadi, and about his concussion and shrapnel wounds and the other Marines who had been hurt.
She dashed out so quickly that the kids, kindergartners and first-graders, didn't notice. Someone did: The classroom's quiet Marine in camouflage.
Schlaff knew plenty - maybe too much - about combat, explosions and wounds. He calmly checked on the kids as the Spanish teacher returned to her lesson.
Snyder was back within an hour. She needed the classroom, with its innocent bustle, gentle problems and simple solutions. "We all need each other and look forward to coming in every day," Snyder said. "We all have something in common, and we can talk about it, and I think that's why we are all so comfortable here."
On a recent day, as Schlaff helped kids decorate little greenhouses made of construction paper, a boy accidentally kicked over a hardwood block behind the Marine, who wheeled quickly.
He had good cause for being jumpy. Schlaff was with 3rd Battalion, 8th Marines. During their seven months in Ramadi, which ended in October, they lost more troops than any other battalion in Iraq at that point in 2006. The chances of being attacked on any given two-hour patrol were 90 percent.
Schlaff's left arm was shattered when his Humvee crashed - on the same street where Snyder's husband was later wounded - as he rushed an injured Marine to treatment. Improvised bombs hit Humvees he was in seven times. Once he was in a three-story building rammed by a dump truck packed with explosives.
Schlaff was one of 10 Marines who began coming to the school in November from the Wounded Warrior Barracks.
They were only supposed to help for a few hours three days a week, but Schlaff began showing up at Snyder's room every day.
His job is anything that needs doing. He grades tests, runs for supplies, helps kids with projects.
Schlaff even hung the moon for the kids. And the sun and the planets - a giant solar system dangling from the ceiling that he helped them cut out of cardboard. The sun is so big it almost blots out a window.
To a visitor, the classroom could be at nearly any school. But sometimes the kids with a parent in Iraq need to cling more, sometimes they have to cry about it, or use some of their first written words to express how much they miss their mom or dad, Snyder said.
"They're very emotional," she said. "You've got to understand that they need a lot of extra love and until you give it to them, the learning can't really start."
Schlaff helps with that, too. Mr. Robert, the kids yell, then they run and latch onto him. He can't replace the missing dads, but having him a few hours each day helps, Snyder said.
Lauren Fowler said when school is over she will miss Schlaff, but that she's too tough to cry about it.
"I won't," she said, shaking her head. "Won't cry."
Snyder's not so sure.
"She won't even come to me anymore when she needs something," Snyder said. "If her shoe needs tying, or she needs help with her coat, anything, she goes straight to him."
Parents have asked to visit so they can meet the Marine their kids love so much. He made them bags of candy for Valentine's Day and asked for a class picture, and sometimes arrives in the morning before Snyder.
The day her husband was wounded, he was supposed to go on leave at noon, but stayed to make sure everything was fine in the class. The next morning, she found a rose on her desk and a note from Schlaff saying he wished there was more he could do.
He needs to help, Snyder said.
"It's occupying his mind with something happy," she said. "I think he feels needed and wanted, and that he's making a difference. And he is."
Snyder and the kids depend on Schlaff so much that when she heard he might get pulled out for other duty this spring, she wrote to his gunnery sergeant, explaining how important he had become, and how they needed him.
The gunny was so impressed that he read the e-mail during morning formation at the Wounded Warrior Barracks. Schlaff missed the kudos: He had left for the school.
Now he thinks he'll get to stay until the school year ends. Then he'll probably have to take on some other duty until his enlistment is up in November.
That will be painful, he said, calling his stint with the class a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Snyder and some of the parents think it shouldn't be. They have urged Schlaff to become a teacher.
"It's your calling," Snyder said.
Schlaff isn't so sure. He doesn't think he can be hard enough on kids when they need discipline.
He wants to go to college, but has some bills to pay first. So he's pondering maybe his only high-paying option: a job as a private security contractor.
In Iraq.
Ellie