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"Been to War. Twice"
Dec. 11th, 2009 07:12 pmSeven months in the Iraqi desert.
One hundred and twenty degree days.
Blowing sand.
Sharing a tent with a bunch of other lonely Marines.
Night shift. Stars overhead are incredible.
I've never seen so many.
I tell the guys everything I know about the stars, the constellations, the space shuttle.
Daytime. Trying to sleep in the tent, in the desert, without any air-conditioning.
Someone knocks my gun over while I sleep. I leap out of bed in a panic, ready to kill.
I try to go back to sleep.
Working twelve hour shifts without any days off.
Incoming!
Running, scared shitless. Taking cover in the underground hangar when the mortars come flying in.
Emails from home, but keeping it all in: the bad days, the days when somebody died. The days we took the mortars.
Working with Iraqis. One talked about his wives. Another was a kid. Thirteen years old.
We joked. We traded hats, coins, smiles.
They were ambushed.
Killed.
Thirteen.
I am eighteen..
Some photos inside my cap -- Stacie and 3 year old Marcus. I look at them and dream of the future.
If I get there.
And then it's finally here!
Home again!
And the one touch I've been dreaming of these seven long months.
(L - R: Grandma of Marine, girlfriend of Marine, Marine, random guy wearing a Swedish soccer jersey, the author.)
My son joined the US Marines when he was seventeen years old. At 2 am, the Monday morning after high school graduation, he was on his way to boot camp. One year later he was in Iraq. Ultimately he served two tours of duty there. Now when I do the motherly job of reminding him to take a jacket, he responds, "Mom. Been to war, Twice." No other comment is needed. I know that he can handle whatever comes his way. Even frigid Southern California evenings outdoors.
One hundred and twenty degree days.
Blowing sand.
Sharing a tent with a bunch of other lonely Marines.
Night shift. Stars overhead are incredible.
I've never seen so many.
I tell the guys everything I know about the stars, the constellations, the space shuttle.
Daytime. Trying to sleep in the tent, in the desert, without any air-conditioning.
Someone knocks my gun over while I sleep. I leap out of bed in a panic, ready to kill.
I try to go back to sleep.
Working twelve hour shifts without any days off.
Incoming!
Running, scared shitless. Taking cover in the underground hangar when the mortars come flying in.
Emails from home, but keeping it all in: the bad days, the days when somebody died. The days we took the mortars.
Working with Iraqis. One talked about his wives. Another was a kid. Thirteen years old.
We joked. We traded hats, coins, smiles.
They were ambushed.
Killed.
Thirteen.
I am eighteen..
Some photos inside my cap -- Stacie and 3 year old Marcus. I look at them and dream of the future.
If I get there.
And then it's finally here!
Home again!
And the one touch I've been dreaming of these seven long months.
(L - R: Grandma of Marine, girlfriend of Marine, Marine, random guy wearing a Swedish soccer jersey, the author.)
My son joined the US Marines when he was seventeen years old. At 2 am, the Monday morning after high school graduation, he was on his way to boot camp. One year later he was in Iraq. Ultimately he served two tours of duty there. Now when I do the motherly job of reminding him to take a jacket, he responds, "Mom. Been to war, Twice." No other comment is needed. I know that he can handle whatever comes his way. Even frigid Southern California evenings outdoors.
