thedrifter
09-27-07, 03:42 AM
FACES OF THE FALLEN TROOPS
Museum's gallery of war dead a moving sight for loved ones
By MONI BASU
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Published on: 09/27/07
Memories flash through Jeff Brunson's mind like fireworks bursting in the sky, each a vibrant color. Who can know all the thoughts of a father remembering the son he has lost? Who can even voice them with the respect they deserve?
It is Saturday afternoon, and Brunson has come to Atlanta to see for the first time a life-size portrait of his boy at the Museum of Patriotism in Midtown. It was painted by artist Dede Collicot from a photograph that hangs in Jeff's dining room.
Brunson is nervous about seeing Gus like this, almost face to face, more than two years since the young man's death on a rural road in southwestern Baghdad.
Jeff holds his wife's hand as the two walk past the Armed Forces showcases and historical displays, into the gallery of portraits.
The faces of 54 fallen Georgians — soldiers, Marines, sailors and airmen killed in Iraq and Afghanistan — stare back. Many are in uniform; others wear their favorite jeans or hunting jackets. Some smile; others own expressions acquired only in war.
The Brunsons pass World War II veteran Gene Bowen Brown, 80, who is reading the biographies of every fallen man and woman. "They were all so bright. They were our future — gone," he says, hardly able to contain his emotions.
Jeff nods his head in agreement and turns the corner to the aisle where his son's likeness hangs. It's next to a portrait of Sgt. Ronnie Shelley, another Georgia Army National Guard soldier who died in identical fashion just six days after Gus. Massive, makeshift bombs blew up both men's Humvees.
When Jeff sees Gus, he immediately turns away. He cannot look. Museum guide Reginald Bohannon steps forward and gives him a hug, lets him know it's all right.
Jeff composes himself and returns to Gus. He stands before a life-size portrait of a man not yet 30. Father and son — it is easy to see the resemblance.
Spc. Jacques "Gus" Brunson looks regal in his dress green uniform with the red, white and blue of the American flag fluttering behind him. Jeff clasps in his pocketed hand the presidential seal medallion that President Bush gave him earlier this year at Fort Benning.
Under the halogen lights, Gus seems to look at his dad with a piercing gaze, his eyes so clear, so blue.
Jeff's eyes are foggy with tears. It feels as if Gus is alive. But Jeff can't hear him say, "I love you," the way he did before he went off to war.
"I think I should've tore his butt up and made him get in the truck," Jeff says of the late spring day when he saw his son for the last time at Fort Stewart. "I should have put on his uniform and gone instead."
Two months after his departure, Gus was dead. Jeff moved with his wife, Laurie, Gus' stepmother, to a small rented house tucked away from the road in Bogart, near Athens. He gave up on life for a while, sitting long hours by a pond and under tall trees, recovering from triple bypass heart surgery and a loss he still can't fathom.
It is a loss other mothers and fathers have pondered while standing in this hall of portraits. Jeff says it helps to see the fallen honored this way. It helps his own healing to see Gus.
"I think these are all so great."
He pauses.
"But they all need to be alive."
projects.ajc.com/gallery/view/metro/brunson0927/
Ellie
Museum's gallery of war dead a moving sight for loved ones
By MONI BASU
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Published on: 09/27/07
Memories flash through Jeff Brunson's mind like fireworks bursting in the sky, each a vibrant color. Who can know all the thoughts of a father remembering the son he has lost? Who can even voice them with the respect they deserve?
It is Saturday afternoon, and Brunson has come to Atlanta to see for the first time a life-size portrait of his boy at the Museum of Patriotism in Midtown. It was painted by artist Dede Collicot from a photograph that hangs in Jeff's dining room.
Brunson is nervous about seeing Gus like this, almost face to face, more than two years since the young man's death on a rural road in southwestern Baghdad.
Jeff holds his wife's hand as the two walk past the Armed Forces showcases and historical displays, into the gallery of portraits.
The faces of 54 fallen Georgians — soldiers, Marines, sailors and airmen killed in Iraq and Afghanistan — stare back. Many are in uniform; others wear their favorite jeans or hunting jackets. Some smile; others own expressions acquired only in war.
The Brunsons pass World War II veteran Gene Bowen Brown, 80, who is reading the biographies of every fallen man and woman. "They were all so bright. They were our future — gone," he says, hardly able to contain his emotions.
Jeff nods his head in agreement and turns the corner to the aisle where his son's likeness hangs. It's next to a portrait of Sgt. Ronnie Shelley, another Georgia Army National Guard soldier who died in identical fashion just six days after Gus. Massive, makeshift bombs blew up both men's Humvees.
When Jeff sees Gus, he immediately turns away. He cannot look. Museum guide Reginald Bohannon steps forward and gives him a hug, lets him know it's all right.
Jeff composes himself and returns to Gus. He stands before a life-size portrait of a man not yet 30. Father and son — it is easy to see the resemblance.
Spc. Jacques "Gus" Brunson looks regal in his dress green uniform with the red, white and blue of the American flag fluttering behind him. Jeff clasps in his pocketed hand the presidential seal medallion that President Bush gave him earlier this year at Fort Benning.
Under the halogen lights, Gus seems to look at his dad with a piercing gaze, his eyes so clear, so blue.
Jeff's eyes are foggy with tears. It feels as if Gus is alive. But Jeff can't hear him say, "I love you," the way he did before he went off to war.
"I think I should've tore his butt up and made him get in the truck," Jeff says of the late spring day when he saw his son for the last time at Fort Stewart. "I should have put on his uniform and gone instead."
Two months after his departure, Gus was dead. Jeff moved with his wife, Laurie, Gus' stepmother, to a small rented house tucked away from the road in Bogart, near Athens. He gave up on life for a while, sitting long hours by a pond and under tall trees, recovering from triple bypass heart surgery and a loss he still can't fathom.
It is a loss other mothers and fathers have pondered while standing in this hall of portraits. Jeff says it helps to see the fallen honored this way. It helps his own healing to see Gus.
"I think these are all so great."
He pauses.
"But they all need to be alive."
projects.ajc.com/gallery/view/metro/brunson0927/
Ellie