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thedrifter
07-31-03, 07:13 AM
Return of the Warriors


The Return of Warriors Feature by Bruce W. Green July 16, 2003 " ... I
would have you day by day fix your eyes upon the greatness of [America],
until you become filled with the love of her; and when you are impressed by
the spectacle of her glory, reflect that this empire has been acquired by
men who knew their duty and had the courage to do it, who in the hour of
conflict had the fear of dishonor always present to them, and who, if ever
they failed in an enterprise, would not allow their virtues to be lost to
their country, but freely gave their lives to her as the fairest offering
which they could present at her feast." (Pericles' Funeral Oration,
describing the young warriors of Athens, recorded by Thucydides, History,
Book 2, Chapter 6) (AgapePress) -

It was 6 a.m. when we stepped on the fog-shrouded East Coast beach.
Humidity hung in the air like a damp blanket and waves of brown water
crashed on the beach. Almost immediately I heard the first massive
hovercraft far off the coast and then saw it come through the fog like a
Viking Warship, an instrument of conquest -- graceful yet fearsome. It was
riveting, and the awesome power of the American military machine took my
breath away. We were there to meet victorious United States Marines
returning from war to American soil. Most of America was still asleep. My
youngest son's task force had fought its way across the desert, liberating
four of Iraq's largest cities: Nasiriyah, Amarah, Diwaniyah and Kut, and 16
smaller cities having populations larger than 10,000; they secured the
bridges along "ambush alley" in Nasiriyah intact, defeated the Iraqi 11th
Infantry Division, defeated remnants of the Iraqi 51st Mechanized Infantry
Division, and defeated Saddam's contemptible Fedayeen and Al Quds in
Nasiriyah. They controlled an area of 50,000 square kilometers, captured
more than 1,000 prisoners of war, destroyed approximately 30 paramilitary
and military targets, destroyed more than 200,000 pounds of enemy unexploded
ordnance, and, last but not least, rescued survivors of the Army's 507th
Maintenance Company.

My son's company went for one stretch of 42 days without a shower, napped
briefly when they could, saw death and destruction everywhere, and seldom
had a moment without tension until they returned to their ship to be
transported home. Even then, his company was held off coast on combat
readiness aboard ship during the president's stay in the Middle East and
then diverted to Africa to evacuate, if necessary, the American Embassy in
Monrovia, which was surrounded by rebel forces. My son's name is Caleb, and
he is named after a faithful and pious man still vigorous enough to identify
himself as a warrior at 85 years of age. Finally, Caleb was to arrive home.

Caleb Green on the eve of war, near the border of Iraq I did not send my son
to war. His mother did. Fathers don't send their sons to fight wars. It
is intrinsic in the nature of a male to fight and contend. We are born to
it. It is in our blood. Before any boy can speak, he reaches for a toy
sword or gun. Fathers don't send their sons to fight, they just watch them
go. What could be more contrary to a mother's nature, however, than
standing unmoved and unmoving while her son marches off to war? Every
aspect of a mother's being is outraged at the thought of her son in harm's
way and her heart cries out, "No, not my son!" That's why a mother must
conquer her instincts, muster courage from somewhere, and send her son to
war. She cannot just watch him go. So, my wife donated our son to his
country, and I, true to form, watched him go. But for us, that decision was
made not when the Marines ordered our son to Iraq. It was made when we
concurred in his decision to serve his country in the Corps. As he says, "I
did not choose the Marines, they chose me." They were looking for a few good
men. Our son did not join the United States Marine Corps, however, to
acquire money for an education, or extra funds to purchase the car of his
dreams. He joined to serve his country. We all knew what that meant.

On homecoming morning, the noise of the hovercrafts reverberated across the
open water, growing louder and louder as they skimmed over the waves toward
shore. We knew they would not land where we stood, but we simply could not
tear ourselves away from the stunning image to rush closer. They raced into
a dock one after another a thousand meters down the beach from us. It was a
spectacle that continued like clockwork until nearly noon. Fortunately, our
son was in the first wave off the ship. The Marines disembarked at a
distance and then roared down the road toward us in full battle array. Wave
after wave of battle-scarred Humvees, troop carriers, and LAVs (light
armored vehicles) came down the road toward the corner where a group of
parents, families, and friends waited with signs and American flags. I have
never seen such young faces look so old. Most looked as if they were 15
years old, and all looked exhausted -- and then there was our son,
acknowledged later by his regimental commander as, perhaps, the youngest
Marine to go to war.

We saw him coming with the first wave of his company from a distance, and he
saw us as well. We were almost standing in the road and he had a broad
smile on his face -- even managing an appropriately subdued Marine wave. He
drove by at "battle speed" and wheeled around the corner. We jumped in
vehicles and hurriedly followed over a bridge to a huge open field where the
troops were gathering in a staging area. LAVs parked in neat lines,
helicopter gunships, and CH 46s flew overhead and landed in the open field
for hours. It was a sight to behold. It was one of those rare moments
(perhaps the only moment) that I actually wished I were young again -- to
experience the rush of emotion accompanying a return from victorious battle.

Families parked cars along the road and hurried into the dew-dampened field
to meet the Marines jumping from their vehicles. I could see Caleb coming
from a distance, picking up speed each moment, until we were running to meet
each other in the field. It was a glorious reunion! We were all overcome
with emotion born of months of not knowing whether our embraces in December
would have to suffice until a meeting in glory. I wept the way a father
does
-- poorly -- the short involuntary gasps of breath one takes when composure
is the goal but the heart just won't cooperate. It was the first time our
son's feet touched solid ground in nearly seven weeks, and the first time he
witnessed green vegetation and trees for six months.

Families crawled in and out of the LAVs, had pictures taken on them, met
Marine buddies. It was quite the scene for hours. Caleb introduced us to
the print media reporter embedded with his company throughout the war, and
the last reporter to return from the battlefield. We had the opportunity to
tell him what his reports from the front meant to us and many others waiting
at home. We met several Marine buddies, including a courageous staff
sergeant whom our son admires for his calm demeanor in battle and the fact
that he is "a good Marine," always taking care of his men. He looked like a
warrior -- decked out in camouflage, battle flak jacket, an automatic pistol
strapped to one leg, and a combat knife strapped to the other. I kept my
distance. It was, however, unnecessary. I noticed the fierce warrior was
slowed by a Velcro-like attachment to one of his legs -- an elfish little
girl yet to graduate from kindergarten. He was being followed as well by a
slightly older boy looking up at his father as if he were ten-feet tall. He
appeared to be.

continued...........

thedrifter
07-31-03, 07:14 AM
Our son pointed out at a distance his platoon lieutenant and identified him
in similar fashion to his staff sergeant. He couldn't have been out of his
20s. Caleb holds him in the highest esteem, stating that he won the hearts
of his men when, in the midst of battle, his LAV machine gun jammed and,
instead of dropping into the safety of the gun turret, he grabbed an M-16 (a
rifle) and stood up in front of everyone, exposed to enemy fire, to return
fire and encourage his men.

Caleb Green with his parents, before entering the U.S. Marines Where do
these young men come from? They looked so normal -- and young -- for the
most part. I closed my eyes a number of times throughout the meeting in the
field, eager to keep these images embedded in my mind forever, and hoping
never to see these young men wearing baggy pants and FUBU sweatshirts and
listening to rap music. Were it not so terrible, I would think all young
men must go to war at least once, thus giving them at least the prospect of
overcoming the growing decadence of American culture.

As long as I live, when I want to remember what is representative of the
best in America, I will summon to mind the images I saw in the field that
day. An indomitable and magnificent force marshaled from the youth of
America, garlanded in martial splendor, transported half way across the
world, shedding its own blood and that of the enemy, and then coming home.

While that is objectively what happened, it is not the way my son perceived
his task and role. Upon his return, he told us that the most often asked
question by the Marines in combat, of the members of the media, was, "What
are the people back home saying about us?" The Marines were initially
concerned they might be the recipients of a "Vietnam reception" back home.
When he told me that, I was ashamed of the American imagery it brought to
mind. When we first briefly spoke to our son by satellite telephone, after
the major combat was over, he was amazed that we knew the names of battles
and locations of troops. He and his fellow Marines had no idea Americans
knew anything about what was actually going on in Iraq. I am still amazed
that American teenagers went to war in the Middle East desert and performed
so admirably with virtually no idea that Americans at home even cared.
Not given to brooding angst, Caleb seems none the worse for emotional wear,
despite having fought a war. Warriors do not think as civilians do. While
they are often afraid, they do not have the luxury of wringing their hands,
getting in touch with their emotions, or laboring over the anguish of mortal
combat. That's for postmodern people back home to do -- people with more
time and less stress, and Hollywood stars, of course. And warriors do not,
once back home, whine to their loved ones, "Tell me that I am a good man --
that I have lived a good life." The warrior thinks about discipline,
training, presence of mind not to panic, not to yield to despair; and he
hopes above all, when the time comes, to perform the ordinary under
extraordinary conditions. And then he moves on.

Talks with my son have revealed little bravado and no recitation of the
"pleasures of war." A few themes have emerged -- the satisfactions of shared
hardships, of triumph over adversity, of camaraderie, and love of one's
comrade-in-arms. Oh yes, and the joy in having extra cash as a result of
accumulating combat pay with no way to spend it.

After the homecoming meeting in the field, the Marines convoyed to battalion
headquarters, washed saltwater off the LAVs, and turned in rifles, sidearms,
and other equipment. About mid-afternoon they marched (for effect) to where
families and friends were anxiously waiting under oak trees, while the
Marine Corps Hymn blared from speakers. It was fascinating to watch the
other Marines around the base within hearing distance. They stopped and
snapped to attention, regardless of what they were doing when the hymn
began. The crowd of waiting parents initially surged toward the Marines,
only to respectfully freeze unprompted until the Marine Hymn ended. The
awe-inspiring power of symbols swirled in my head like discotheque lights in
a small room. Historical symbols of honor, discipline, esprit de corps, and
military power assembled for a just cause can spontaneously engender intense
emotions in the stiffest breast, stop traffic, and silence an anxious crowd.
These are spellbinding effects in individuals jaded by an American culture
devoted to pleasure-seeking excess and avoidance of personal responsibility.

How on earth do the Marines do it? They often start with the raw, cynical,
MTV-educated youth of America and, regardless of what remains of those young
people individually, collectively they are transformed into what the human
spirit longs to be -- virtuous. Pericles was right when he spoke of young
warriors: "For even those who come short in other ways may justly plead the
valor with which they have fought for their country; they have blotted out
the evil with the good, and have benefited the state more by their public
services than they have injured her by their private actions." There was
something significant to be learned on that homecoming beach and in that
dew-damp field when warriors returned home, but most of America slept
through it.

Bruce W. Green is dean of the Liberty University School of Law in
Lynchburg, Virginia. Prior to his position as dean, he practiced
constitutional law with the American Family Association's Center for Law &
Policy in Tupelo, Mississippi. His son Caleb left for the Marine Corps 17
days after he graduated from high school and six days after his 18th
birthday. He was still 18 when the actual war in Iraq ended. Caleb Green
is assigned to Charlie Company, 2nd Light Armored Recon Battalion, 2nd
Marine Expiditionary Brigade. (c) 2003 AgapePress all rights reserved.


Sempers,

Roger
:marine:

MillRatUSMC
07-31-03, 03:18 PM
http://www.liberty.edu/Media/images/[4040]Bruce_Pic_background_1.jpg
Proud father of Caleb Green USMC
Assigned to Charlie Company,
2nd Light Armored Recon Battalion,
2nd Marine Expiditionary Brigade

Exceprts from this post;

I would have you day by day fix your eyes upon the greatness of [America], until you become filled with the love of her; and when you are impressed by the spectacle of her glory, reflect that this empire has been acquired by men who knew their duty and had the courage to do it, who in the hour of conflict had the fear of dishonor always present to them, and who, if ever they failed in an enterprise, would not allow their virtues to be lost to their country, but freely gave their lives to her as the fairest offering which they could present at her feast."
(Pericles' Funeral Oration, describing the young warriors of Athens, recorded by Thucydides, History, Book 2, Chapter 6)

Every aspect of a mother's being is outraged at the thought of her son in harm's way and her heart cries out, "No, not my son!" That's why a mother must conquer her instincts, muster courage from somewhere, and send her son to war. She cannot just watch him go. So, my wife donated our son to his country, and I, true to form, watched him go.

But for us, that decision was made not when the Marines ordered our son to Iraq. It was made when we concurred in his decision to serve his country in the Corps. As he says, "I did not choose the Marines, they chose me." They were looking for a few good men. Our son did not join the United States Marine Corps, however, to acquire money for an education, or extra funds to purchase the car of his dreams. He joined to serve his country. We all knew what that meant.

As long as I live, when I want to remember what is representative of the best in America, I will summon to mind the images I saw in the field that day. An indomitable and magnificent force marshaled from the youth of America, garlanded in martial splendor, transported half way across the world, shedding its own blood and that of the enemy, and then coming home.

How on earth do the Marines do it? They often start with the raw, cynical, MTV-educated youth of America and, regardless of what remains of those young people individually, collectively they are transformed into what the human spirit longs to be -- virtuous. Pericles was right when he spoke of young warriors:
"For even those who come short in other ways may justly plead the valor with which they have fought for their country; they have blotted out the evil with the good, and have benefited the state more by their public services than they have injured her by their private actions." There was something significant to be learned on that homecoming beach and in that dew-damp field when warriors returned home,

"But most of America slept through it"

Semper Fidelis to Bruce W. Green proud father of Caleb Green
Ricardo

marinemom
07-31-03, 05:56 PM
"Every aspect of a mother's being is outraged at the thought of her son in harm's way and her heart cries out, "No, not my son!" That's why a mother must conquer her instincts, muster courage from somewhere, and send her son to war. She cannot just watch him go. "


How true that is - and we mothers do try. Some of us rememebr sending our sons' fathers to war. And now we wait for another generation of Marines to come home safely.

Caleb Green, you have an amazing father. And Bruce Green, cherish your son for his honor, courage and commitment.

firstsgtmike
07-31-03, 08:19 PM
WHEN GOD CREATED FATHERS

By Erma Bombeck

When the good Lord was creating fathers, He started
with a tall frame.

And a female angel nearby said, "What kind of father is
that? If you're going to make children so close to the
ground, why have you put fathers up so high? He
won't be able to shoot marbles without kneeling, tuck
a child in bed without bending, or even kiss a child
without a lot of stooping."

And God smiled and said, "Yes, but if I make him child
size, who would children have to look up to?"

And when God made a father's hands, they were large
and sinewy.

And the angel shook her head sadly and said, "Do You
know what You're doing? Large hands are clumsy. They
can't manage diaper pins, small buttons, rubber bands
on pony tails or even remove splinters caused by
baseball bats."

God smiled and said, "I know, but they're large enough
to hold everything a small boy empties from his pockets at
the end of a day, yet small enough to cup a child's face."

Then God molded long, slim legs and broad shoulders.

The angel nearly had a heart attack. "Boy, this is
end of the week, all right," she clucked. "Do You realize
You just made a father without a lap? How is he going to
pull a child close to him without the kid falling between
his legs?"

God smiled and said, "A mother needs a lap. A father
needs strong shoulders to pull a sled, balance a boy on a
bicycle or hold a sleepy head on the way home from the circus."

God was in the middle of creating two of the largest
feet anyone had ever seen when the angel could contain
herself no longer. "That's not fair. Do You honestly think
those large boats are going to dig out of bed early in the
morning when the baby cries? Or walk through a small birthday
party without crushing at least three of the guests?"

And God smiled and said, "They'll work. You'll see.
They'll support a small child who wants to "ride a
horse to Banbury Cross" or scare off mice at the summer
cabin, or display shoes that will be a challenge to fill."

God worked throughout the night, giving the father few
words, but a firm authoritative voice; eyes that see
everything, but remain calm and tolerant.

Finally, almost as an afterthought, He added tears.
Then He turned to the angel and said, "Now are you satisfied
that he can love as much as a mother?"

And the angel shutteth up!


__________________
Mike Farrell
Cagayan de Oro
Philippines