When we boarded our coach, I found it to be full of military men, mostly sailors. We settled into our seat, and the baby immediately fell asleep. Our journey began, and as we went along, I enjoyed the sight of the beautiful Allegheny Mountains.
When Michael awoke, the sailor sitting next to me asked if he could hold my baby. He held him for a while, and then, when he became more comfortable, he relaxed and even began to speak to the child.
As we journeyed on, the sailor in the seat behind us asked if he could also hold the baby. He was passed over the seat and into the sailor’s hands. Across the aisle, another military man asked if he could hold the baby, and so it began.
I was not fearful of the child being passed from one to the other. I could only think that these young men were going to war and there was no certainty as to whether they would return. If that small infant gave them some pleasure, surely they should have it.
They began to pass the baby up and down the coach. They marveled at his tiny hands and fingers, at how he seemed to enjoy the attention with his little smile and content demeanor.
When I seemed to have lost contact with the baby, I walked to the back of the coach and found Michael sound asleep in the arms of a sailor. He asked me to leave the child. “Please don’t take him,” he said. “Let him sleep, and I’ll bring him to you when he awakens.” He explained that he had left his little son when he boarded the train in Cincinnati.
As we arrived in the Norfolk station, I just knew that Michael, that tiny child, had given those sailors something special: a reason to serve their country, something to fight for and a determination to return home for better days.
Mary D. Jackson
Hi Daddy
The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.
Harriet Beecher Stowe
October 29, 2003
Hi Daddy,
Sorry I haven’t written to you in a while. A lot of things have been going on. I miss you so much. How have you been? Is heaven everything it says it is? I know it’s probably that and more. I can’t wait ’till I can come join you again. I miss you so much—just being here for me to hold your hand and you calling me “princess.” But one day we can do this again.
But it will be even better because Jesus will be with us. I keep going in your office to see all your things and your awards that you have gotten over the years. You accomplished so much. I am proud you were my daddy; I would not have chosen anyone else. I like to go into your closet, too and just touch and smell all your clothes . . . it gives me so many memories that I miss so much. Sitting at this table I see your writing on a little piece of paper telling me and mom what e-mail and address in Iraq to write to you . . . CSM JAMES D. BLANKENBECLER, 1–44 ADA. I love to just look at your handwriting so much. I have your military ring on right now. It’s kind of big for my little finger, but it makes me feel you’re holding my hand when I have it on. . . .
It’s been on since we found out the news. I have your driver’s license with me, too, so I can just look at you whenever I want. You have a little smile this time. When we went to get them done in El Paso I asked you to just smile this time . . . and you did it just for me. I also was looking at your car keys and that little brown leather pouch you always had on your key chain. It made me cry a lot when I picked it up. Everything reminds me of you so much. When we pass by Chili’s I remember you sitting across from me eating your favorite salad. You always told the waiter to take off the little white crunchy things . . . because you hated them. And when we drive by billboards that say “An Army of One,” it makes me remember you in your military uniform. How you always made a crunching sound when you walked, and how you shined your big boots every night before you went to bed. I miss seeing that all the time. Little things that I took for granted when you were here seem priceless now. One thing that I regret is when you wanted to open my car door for me, but I always got it myself. I wish I would have let you do it. And when you wanted to hold my hand, I sometimes would pull away because I didn’t want people to see me holding my daddy’s hand . . . I feel so ashamed that I cared what people thought of me walking down the parking lot holding your hand. But now I would give anything just to feel the warmth of your hand holding mine.
I can’t believe this has happened to my daddy . . . the best daddy in the whole world. It feels so unreal, like you’re still in Iraq. You were only there for 17 days. Why did they have to kill you? Why couldn’t they know how loved you are here? Why couldn’t they know? You have so many friends that love you with all their hearts and you affected each and every person you have met in your lifetime. Why couldn’t they know? When I get shots at the hospital I won’t have my daddy’s thumb to hold tight. Why couldn’t they know I loved for you to call me “princess”? Why couldn’t they know if they killed you I would not have a daddy to walk me down the aisle when I get married? Why couldn’t they know all this? Why? I know that you are gone now, but it only means that I have another angel watching over me for the rest of my life. That’s the only way I can think of this being good. There is no other way I can think of it.
All the kids at my school know about your death. They even had a moment of silence for you at our football game. A lot of my teachers came over to try to comfort me and mom. They all ask if they can get us anything, but the only thing anyone can do is give me my daddy back . . . and I don’t think anyone can do that. You always told me and mom you never wanted to die in a stupid way like a car accident or something like that. And you really didn’t die in a stupid way . . . you died in the most honorable way a man like you could—protecting me, mom, Joseph, Amanda and the rest of the United States.
In the Bible it says everyone is put on this earth for a purpose, and once they accomplished this you can return to Jesus. I did not know at first what you did so soon to come home to God. But I thought about it—you have done everything. You have been the best husband, father, son and soldier in the world. And everyone knows this.
One of my teachers called me from El Paso and told me that when her dad died, he always told her, “when you walk outside the first star you see is me.”
She told me that it is the same for me and you. I needed to talk to you last night, and I walked outside and looked up . . . and I saw the brightest star in the sky. I knew that was you right away, because you are now the brightest star in heaven.
I love you so much, daddy. Only you and I know this. Words can’t even begin to show how much. But I tried to tell you in this letter, just a portion of my love for you. I will miss you, daddy, with all of my heart. I will always be your little girl and I will never forget that . . .
I love you daddy, I will miss you!!
P.S. I have never been so proud of my last name.
Sunrise—June 27, 1963
Sunset—October 1, 2003
Jessica Blankenbecler
[EDITORS’ NOTE: Jessica Blankenbecler, fourteen, e-mailed this final letter to her father, Command Sgt. Maj. James Blankenbecler, at 1:29 A.M. on Friday, Oct. 3, 2003, two days after he was killed when his convoy was ambushed in Samarra, Iraq. ]
Doubting Thomas
The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen, nor touched . . . but are felt in the heart.
Helen Keller
“Thomas Tucker rarely stands in front of a crowd,” the reporter wrote. This is true. Thomas gets excited around large crowds. When he is overstimulated, he needs an outlet to help calm himself down, like spinning.
My eight-year-old son is autistic. A very polite and loving boy, Thomas is considered “high functioning,” which means that he can interact with others. His speech is significantly below age level, and he goes to speech therapy four times a week, but my husband and I try not to treat Thomas like he is different, and we expect him to do and learn things just like any other child. Because of his autism, he can become very focused on a specific subject, and it isn’t always easy to get his attention.
We live in a sm
all community in Kentucky, near Fort Campbell. Thomas is very well known here. It seems we cannot go anywhere in town without someone saying “hi” to him. Usually, I have to remind him to say, “hi,” back; otherwise, he would just walk right by. He has no idea how popular he is.
My husband had been deployed with the 86th Combat Support Hospital a month earlier for Operation Iraqi Freedom, when the Cadiz Renaissance Society planned a rally to support the troops. They called to see if Thomas would say the Pledge of Allegiance.
I was concerned about whether or not he would be able to maintain his focus in front of a large crowd. But he did know the pledge by heart. And he had been in school for five years. I knew I was probably more frightened than my son, so I told the society that Thomas would be glad to do it.
Decisions like these are usually made in tandem with my husband, but we hadn’t heard from him since his deployment, and I had no idea when we would get to speak to each other. Especially since the rally was to support his father and the rest of the troops, I wanted my son to be able to participate. But what I really wanted, I realized, was for Thomas to tell me what he wanted. Was he interested in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance at the rally? And, could he do it?
Thomas doesn’t understand war or why Poppa is gone. The only thing he seems to understand is that Poppa is at work, although he isn’t sure why we took him to work one day but can’t go and pick him up. Showing my feelings around Thomas is difficult because of his limited comprehension, so my sobbing and sadness are reserved for the times when he is at school or in bed. And determining how Thomas feels is near to impossible. So without input from my son or my husband, I agreed that Thomas would recite the Pledge of Allegiance.
We arrived at the rally a little before 2:00 P.M. It was supposed to be held at the high-school football field, but the April rains forced us inside the local Baptist church, a building that has large and very beautiful stained-glass windows. When we walked in, all Thomas could see was the windows. He began talking about The Hunchback of Notre Dame and was so fixated on the windows that he couldn’t answer any of the reporter’s questions.
I started to worry. Usually, when Thomas is focused on something, it’s very hard to redirect him. Thomas has not been able to participate in the school productions because he wants to make up his own show when he gets to the microphone. Would that happen today?
Our seats were in the front pew of the church, right in front of the stage. There were numerous speakers and presentations, and Thomas enjoyed the music. He seemed to be focusing less on the windows and more on the rally, but I was definitely getting nervous about him being onstage.
The local VFW brought in the colors to post. Then the unthinkable happened. The VFW did not know that Thomas was supposed to say the pledge, and it is usually routine for them to recite it while posting the colors. We followed suit and recited the pledge along with them. When it was over, I was crushed: Thomas thought we were done and it was time to go home. We sat through the rest of the rally, but I’m sure my disappointment was visible to others around me. As the rally concluded, they sent the VFW back in to retire the colors. To our surprise, they asked if Thomas could come up and say the pledge as they took the colors out. This was it!
Thomas and I walked up to the stage. He stepped up to the microphone and spoke confidently and clearly as he recited the Pledge of Allegiance. His words were so precise that I had to take another look to make sure it was really him at the microphone. When he was done, he stepped back and remained still and quiet. I was astounded, and I could feel my eyes beginning to water. My heart swelled with such pride, and I wished my husband had been able to witness this.
My son stood still and quiet as an audience of two hundred people applauded.
I will never doubt Thomas again.
Leah Tucker
My House Is a War Zone
Take your work seriously, but never yourself.
Dame Margot Fonteyn
On any given day, my boys conduct special ops that result in explosions. This is sibling warfare—mostly constitutional skirmishes. I’ve ruled on issues of privacy: “Yes, you do have to knock before barging into your brother’s room to dump cold water on his head.” “No, I don’t care if that ruins the surprise.” Freedom of the press: “You wrote what on your brother’s notebook?” The right to keep and bear arms: “I understand you need all these rolled-up socks for your munitions supply, but you need to wear socks in the winter. Period.”
I’ve experienced germ warfare: coughing at the table on your neighbor’s food, sneezing in your brother’s direction or licking all the cookies and then putting them back. I’ve witnessed psychological warfare, which is all about making someone believe that you’ve used his toothbrush to swab the toilet.
Being that I am Captain Mom in this little battleship, and admittedly ready for anything, I shouldn’t have been a bit surprised when my husband dropped a verbal bombshell into our living room. In ninety-six hours, he’d be in the Middle East war zone. I was hit with a stinging realization: Aww, crap. I’m married to a navy guy. It wasn’t a real secret or anything, I mean the uniform, dismal pay and horrifyingly long hours were kind of a giveaway. It’s just that, during the last year, in the alternate reality that is military family life, I’d come to look upon my future as bordering on idyllic.
In our decade-plus marriage, we’ve survived deployments (man never home), job combined with war college at night (man home long enough to sleep and shower), overseas tour (man moves us to unrecognizable home) and job combined with master’s program (man home for showers, sleeps during class). Clearly, we’ve done harder stuff for longer periods. The thing is, that was a different guy. The guy they’re sending to the Gulf is a man who escaped the Pentagon on 9/11. Since that horrible day, he’s read intelligence reports that gave him nightmares, seen photos that made him want to gouge his eyes out, and endured endless limb checks from a nervous son who can’t forget where Daddy was that day. The guy who ran home that night was a newly minted dad and husband. One compass point away from death, he became a guy who suddenly wanted to live for more than his job.
The guy they’re sending to the desert has spent the last year reading fewer late-night reports and more bedtime stories, less time catching up on e-mail and more time catching fly balls with his sons.
The irony here is that the man loves the sea but hates the sand. He’d rather lick Hampton Boulevard than go to the beach. So, even without the bugs and the bombs, this would be a less-than-ideal situation.
Still, I feel sorriest for our sons. They’ll have to come to me with their math homework, so their grades are headed for the toilet. They’d have better luck stopping a dog on the street and having him bark the answer—I’m just that bad. I’ll have to assume the driving instruction of our eldest, and I know there’s not enough Maalox in the city to help me survive that nerve-racking experience. I’ll have to take over tending the yard, which means my annual “death to all growing things” campaign will have to start early this year. Since my husband is leaving in less than a week, I’ve got a short amount of time to get up to speed on some important issues. I must learn vehicle maintenance, tool identification and the Zen master approach to the breakfast smoothie. Only when we have achieved the proper balance between the banana and the strawberry will the puree be perfect.
Some things just won’t get done. Our eldest son must be driven to crew practice at 5:00 A.M. At 5:00 A.M. I’m sleeping like I’ve been chloroformed. I’m going to have to beg, borrow and bake my way into a good carpool or invest in some smelling salts. I just pray someone else out there is a sucker for brownies.
By the time my husband comes back, I will have written a dozen notes in lip pencil because I can’t find a lead version, convinced the kids that Dawn dishwashing soap is perfectly acceptable bubble bath and tricked them into believing that they have to eat their vegetables because right now, Dad’s eating dirt.
Hopefully, we’ll look back on all this and have a good la
ugh. Because, after that, I’m going to have a really good cry.
Melissa M. Baumann
“I don't think your father will appreciate your version of a mess hall.”
© 2004. Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins.
Baby’s First Words
How hard it must be to miss watching your baby grow up. My husband, a navy pilot, deployed when our daughter Claire was just eight months old. She hadn’t yet crawled, gotten teeth or said her first word, and he had to get used to hearing stories about all her accomplishments.
I know he was afraid that she would forget him when he was gone, so I made it my personal mission to make sure she remembered him. I showed her pictures every day, set Daddy’s face as the screen saver on our computer, even made a doll with Daddy’s face on it. I also put together a video of clips of her with her dad. Claire loved to watch that video and would stare at the screen each time I put it on.
About two months after my husband left, he was able to hook up a videophone to a computer and call us. Claire was sitting in my lap when we began our online messenger chat. Suddenly, my husband’s picture came up on our screen and we heard his voice saying, “Hi!” Claire climbed from my lap, leaned on the desk and reached up to the computer screen. She put both hands where her dad’s face was and said, “Daddy!”
Six thousand miles away, he heard it over the videophone speakers and a huge smile came across his face. Despite the separation from our baby, she hadn’t forgotten him at all. And, thanks to modern technology, he was with us as she spoke her first word.
Sarah Monagle
All in a Day’s Duty
The greatest danger to our future is apathy.
Jane Goodall
One afternoon, my son and I sat quietly in the two seats outside the principal’s office, waiting our turn to meet with him. My son wasn’t in trouble, but my husband and I had concerns that needed to be discussed with the school. The principal, in turn, was waiting for my son’s teacher to arrive for our scheduled meeting and had asked us to have a seat in the foyer.