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...........
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...........