We often place our camps within the walls of an Afghan camp to add a layer of protection…in concept. In 2007, I had deployed to Spann for six weeks. An unexpected treat of this duty was getting to run the roughly three-mile perimeter road of Shaheen. The weather in Mazar was pleasant, the air was clean, and the perimeter was perfectly flat, on soft gravel. In short, excellent running conditions, if one so desires. One loop was a typical warm-up or cool-down run; two loops was a regular running day; and on a three-loop day, with the greatest of intentions to complete the run, I would invariably begin evaluating the educational benefits of “walking it in” from just past the last turn, which featured a boneyard of old Russian ground combat vehicles on a road conveniently parallel to the perimeter.
Here lazy runners could break into a trot as they tried to distinguish old Soviet T-55s from T-62s while, more important, sparing their knees about a mile’s worth of additional high-impact exercise. Running outside was not an easy option in Kabul, so being able to enjoy an outside jog while in Mazar was a welcome change. I did some form of running no fewer than three times a week, and I felt perfectly safe doing so.
Nearly two years later, Frankie and his teammates shared this mindset. A few months into their deployment, during a Friday run, Frank and his running partner in a foursome had dropped about fifty yards behind the lead pair. As the lead pair rounded that final bend, an Afghan soldier came down off a watchtower and shot at the lead group, mortally wounding one of Frank’s teammates. Knowing that their friends were wounded, Frank’s partner made a break for the clinic, which was perhaps a quarter mile away, while our beloved Frank stood with decision.
You see, he was at that last turn on the perimeter road, alongside the boneyard of tanks and APCs that would have offered ample protection from the bullets that would soon fly his way. At fifty yards and a moving target, he probably would have reached cover in the boneyard. But the proposition Frank faced that day, as life unraveled before him, was Do I try to save my friends, or do I save myself? He did not know that one friend was already succumbing to wounds.
It is a peculiar condition in humans, common even in the worst of pessimists, that when confronted with the prospect that one of our best friends has suffered a fatal accident, even one we have witnessed, we believe they are still alive. Some may explain this behavior as part of denial, but there is more to it. Our best friends are not mere mortals. They are our role models. They are our superheroes. Mere car accidents, or bullets, or IEDs cannot end them. Their superpowers will carry them a little longer.
In short, Frank charged the gunman that day believing he would save his slightly wounded friends. As he approached the gunman, Frank yelled out, running toward him but zigzagging as the gunman attempted to get Frank in his sights. Two of Frank’s teammates survived injuries and live today because of his bravery.
Frank is buried at Arlington. I visited his grave site a few Memorial Days ago with two good friends. One of them, a graduate of the academy, had just walked us over to the markers of a few of her classmates. It was a mini reunion of sorts for her school, but also a solemn reminder of the lives we have given in these conflicts. Folks were remembering Doug, Travis, and many others. And then we walked over to Frank’s marker, a less-visited tomb, maybe a hundred yards away.
Along the way, I was sharing the account of Frank’s bravery that I shared above. As we neared his marker, I noticed three young ladies whom I had never met, yet each was distinctively familiar. They looked back at the approaching group like sentinels standing a solemn watch, guarding especially hallowed ground. Indeed, they were.
Still a little shocked, I said “Hello, Brooke” to Frank’s wife, who turned to his sister as if to say, Who is this?
Frank’s mother then turned to me and, having no need to introduce herself, politely did so anyway. She admitted that she had overheard the story I had been sharing about her son. “Did you know him?” she asked, with a pause as if to indicate that, while she could not place me from all the years past, the pictures, the emails, and the visits, surely I must have known him from the detail of the story?
I replied with a resounding “No!,” without offering explanation, knowing that there is always an incredible pride that falls over parents when they come into the company of complete strangers who speak so highly of their child’s great deeds in life.
She smiled.
Roslyn “Roz” Schulte was from Saint Louis, Missouri. She was an officer in the Air Force and graduated from the Air Force Academy. She was residing in Hawaii at the time of her deployment. She was killed in action on May 20, 2009.
Shawn Pine was from San Antonio, Texas. He was a retired Army officer. He died of wounds on May 20, 2009.
Mohsin Naqvi was from Newburgh, New York. He was an Army officer. He was KIA on September 17, 2008.
Johnny Spann, a.k.a. Mike, was from Marion County, Alabama. He was a Marine Corps officer. He was residing in Northern Virginia at the time of his deployment. He was KIA on November 25, 2001.
Francis Toner was from Rhode Island. He was a Navy officer and graduated from the Merchant Marine Academy. He was residing in Hawaii at the time of his deployment. He was KIA on March 27, 2009.
From Manama with love,
Shivan
GINNY LUTHER
Ginny Luther’s son, Lieutenant Robert “Bart” Fletcher, served in the Army. His MOS was Cavalry. He was a tank commander based out of Fort Hood, in Texas.
When Bart turns sixteen, he decides he wants to go to Portugal as an American foreign exchange student. He thinks being fluent in a foreign language will help him get into West Point. Getting in will be a challenge. But Bart is a kid who thrives on big challenges—especially personal challenges.
Challenging is the word I’d use to describe Bart. His father and I separated after Bart was born, and I became a single parent of two children—Bart and his older brother, Nick. It was completely overwhelming. During the day, I worked at a psychiatric facility with very young children who were suffering from emotional disabilities, and I returned home each evening to a child who acted like a tyrant. He was defiant and disruptive and had major temper tantrums.
He was also very precocious—and very bright. At eighteen months, he was talking at the level of a four-year-old. People couldn’t believe the stuff that came out of his mouth. He was enthralled with guns at a very early age. He would make one out of his toast and pretend to shoot me—and I was mortified, partly because I’m scared to death of guns. My dad took his life with a gun when I was fourteen.
I thought Bart would outgrow it, but his infatuation grew stronger. He kept asking me for a real gun, and I kept telling him no, and he kept having temper tantrums. His control issues were major—with me but also with babysitters and nursery school teachers. It was just difficult. He was a kid I couldn’t take out in any public forum because of his insistence that the world go his way. One day when he was two, I was holding a wooden spoon and threatening to punish him when he turned around and pulled down his pants.
“Come on,” he egged me on. “Spank me, Mommy.”
Right then I had an epiphany: I have got to do something different. At that moment, I realized the negative impact I was having on him—that my responses were dictating his responses, having a huge impact on him. He was two. I was thirty-one! What if I chose to respond differently?
I was the one who had to change. Not him.
That moment started me on my own journey of shifting myself first. That meant to quit taking it personally and begin to see Bart’s behavior as a call for help. I created a peaceful parenting business to help not only Bart but myself—and Bart became my first client. His defiant characteristics were actually the characteristics of leadership, and my job was to encourage him. At a very early age it became clear that he wanted to join the military. “I want to serve my country,” he told me several times. “I want to support people’s freedom.”
And now here we are.
And I don’t want him to go.
“Bart,” I say, “you can’t go to Portugal and do the whole West Point thing. If you go to Portugal, do you realize what you’ll be faced with when you come back? You’ll have to make up your junior year and do your senior year and apply to West Point.”
He stares at me, incredulous.
“You know what, Mom? My agenda for my life is not your agenda. You either are going to support me in this or you’re going to fight me in this. Which way do you want to go?”
My jaw drops. He’s sixteen. He’s sixteen and such a wise soul. He was always that kind of kid.
“I want to support you,” I say.
“Okay. Good.”
“If you really want this,” I tell him, “then you have to create it.”
When Bart was six, I married a man who had two children of his own. We have a loving, caring family, and Bart and I have a very, very deep relationship. When he returns home to Florida, fluent in Portuguese, we have a deep discussion about everything he learned overseas. He also tells me a lot of stuff I don’t want to know—like how, when he arrived, the family that was supposed to sponsor him suddenly dropped him. They found him another family, but it wasn’t an ideal situation. The neighborhood was rough, and the parents were working ridiculous hours and weren’t around to supervise their children and Bart, which forced him to negotiate this unknown, dog-eat-dog environment on his own.
Bart has to make up for all the academia he wasn’t able to enjoy over in Portugal. He does that while also jumping through all the hoops and doing all the things he needs to do in order to even apply to West Point.
“You know,” he tells me, “I’m a man now.”
“Tell me why you think you are.”
“The thing I realized when I was over there was that I’m the one who’s responsible for me. Nobody is responsible for me, and I’m totally responsible for every choice I make.”
“Yes,” I say, “you are.”
“Now that I’m a man, I’ve fallen in love with Katie.”
I’m not surprised. They met when they were fifteen and have been going out, or whatever the kids call it now, for a while.
“I would like to have sex with Katie,” he says. “I want to have it here, at the house, so I want your permission.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, you know, I’m a man now, so…”
“That’s great that you’re a man now,” I say. “I’m so glad you are. I appreciate you asking and the answer is no. I’m sure you’ll figure something out, but it ain’t going to be in my house.”
Bart gets accepted at West Point with a caveat. His math score was a bit low, which isn’t a surprise since math isn’t his greatest suit, so in order to attend he has to take a summer course and do some other work for the math program.
“I’m not going,” he says.
“What? Why?”
“I don’t want to waste that time catching up. I’ll be a whole semester behind.”
Which isn’t true. The truth is, he wants to stay with Katie. The truth is, I don’t want him to go to West Point, either.
I’m holding the acceptance letter. I’m reading the part that says “Do not accept this based on what your parents say to you. This has to come from you totally” when I say, “You’re giving up the opportunity of a lifetime. If you don’t take it, I think you’re making a big mistake.”
“Mom—”
“I know they told you not to listen to your parents. But I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to come back when you’re twenty-seven and say, ‘Mom, why didn’t you…?’ I’m going to say I did. I did tell you.”
He chooses not to go.
He stays home, goes to a community college, becomes class president, and gets the perfect grades he needs to transfer to the University of Florida. He attends U of F and joins the ROTC. He becomes the top cadet, graduates from college with a 4.0 grade point average. He’s eager to go to war.
Bart was in middle school when 9/11 happened, and even though it scared him, seeing what happened only fueled his desire to join the military. It’s October of 2008 and we’re still at war, and my son cannot wait to get to Iraq.
The hardest part about Bart going off is knowing he’s going to be on the front lines. That has been his drive all along, to be on the front lines, and he’s done everything he can do to become the best he can—paratrooper training, this training and that training, all these extra things to up his skills. Knowing he’s going to be sent to war—it’s indescribable, the inner angst sitting in the back of my brain and core of my gut.
Bart calls me from Fort Hood, in Texas. “It’s time, Mom. I’m going to be deployed.”
Underneath the warrior is a kid who played video games and loved watching the History Channel. A boy who, when he was three, asked for a G.I. Joe outfit and a tea set for Christmas. He loved playing house with all the little girls and loved to interact with them in such a positive way; he had such a positive little energy about him. After he put on his G.I. Joe outfit, the little belt and hat, over his pajamas, he opened the tea set and then sat down and asked to have tea. He didn’t want to open any more of his gifts. In that moment he was so, so happy.
“Mom? You there?”
“Okay,” I say. “When?”
“Next week.”
“Okay. I’m flying you home for a few days.”
Over the next few days, before Bart flies to Florida, I find myself thinking about an incident when he was sixteen.
Teenagers have a funny way of telling you they need to talk. When I returned home from work one night after ten, I saw Bart sitting on the couch, and I could tell he wanted to talk. It was either going to be a quick conversation or a very long one.
When I sat down next to him, he started to cry.
“I don’t know if I’m making the right decision,” he said. “I so badly want to serve and make freedom. But I’m not sure if this is the way to go.”
I knew he was experiencing all kinds of fear about his decision to pursue a life in the military. He knew we were at war—knew there would be a good chance, if he joined, that he would be sent to either Afghanistan or Iraq.
“I want to be a hero,” he said. “But there’s a problem.”
“What?”
“I know I’m not going to live a long life.”
My heart was racing, my throat tight. “What do you mean?”
“I just know I’m not going to be on this planet for a long time.”
I was completely stunned…and yet, from the time he was born, I’d been fighting that same feeling.
As I walk into the house, I realize this is going to be our last time together. It’s very, very surreal.
Bart is in the home office, on the computer. This is it. I have to say something to him.
I run a business teaching parenting classes. Lots of discipline classes. On a shelf I keep a stash of little blue stars, glass trinkets I give to parents dealing with difficult children. The star is a reminder: S is for smile or stop. T is for take a deep breath. A is for and. R is for relax. I take one star and put a hand on Bart’s shoulder.
He turns around. I put the star in his hand and say, “Bart, you are a warrior. You are a hero. There are going to be times when you’re really scared, so I want you to have this star to remind you to breathe. Breathe deeply. For your soldiers and for yourself. If you don’t remember to do that, remember I’ve got your back.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
A few days later, he calls me as he’s about to get onto the plane. He’s going to lead a platoon that just lost their lieutenant.
“I’m scared,” he tells me. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can do this. You’ve got this, Bart. You’ve got it.”
His tour ends in January of 2008. I want to go to Texas, where Bart is based, to be there when he returns to Fort Hood—to receive him and the other soldiers—but I can’t because my mother is on the verge of dying. She has an aggressive cancer, and I’m her maj
or caretaker.
A month later, Bart and his fiancée, Katie, come to Florida to attend a wedding near me and reunite with his family and his grandma. Bart is with me when my mother dies—a good thing, since she was close to him, too. We’re able to help her pass and transition that weekend. Then it turns chaotic, with the funeral services and people coming from all over to pay their respects. There’s no time to talk.
Bart feels he hasn’t done his service to the country because his deployment was cut short. Since he didn’t serve a full tour, he wants to make it up to his officers and the soldiers in his platoon. He does this by giving up his vacation time and picking up their slack, working day and night, weekends—anything and everything so people can get their deployment breaks, vacations, visitations, whatever they need. On top of all that, he’s working to get everyone ready for the next deployment.
Two months later, Bart and Katie return home one weekend for a surprise engagement party. My family is gathered outside, on our patio. I sit next to Bart. It’s the first time we’ve been together like this, without all the chaos.
“Was Iraq everything you wanted it to be?” I ask.
He looks at me for a long moment.
“You don’t want to know,” he says.
I can see there’s a piece of him that’s broken.
“I don’t even know how some of these soldiers survived,” he says. “But the thing is…It’s not hard in Iraq, Mom. It’s hard here. The soldiers here at home are hard to discipline. They don’t respond to it. I’m dealing with domestic violence, stuff like that. I feel like I’m a social worker.” He sighs, his gaze lingering on me when he says, “It’s more dangerous here than it is in Iraq.”
Walk in My Combat Boots Page 29
