Dan_Mills
09-01-03, 08:23 AM
I got the following in an e-mail from USMC_hangout@yahoogtoups.com, But I'm pretty sure they won't mind sharing.
Subject: Marines Semper Fi
16 July 2003 The Return of Warriors by Bruce W. Green
"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 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.
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.
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.
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.
-Cont-
Subject: Marines Semper Fi
16 July 2003 The Return of Warriors by Bruce W. Green
"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 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.
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.
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.
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.
-Cont-