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)

   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.

   While that is objectively what happened, it is not the way my son
   perceived his task and role. Upon his return, he told us that the most
   often asked question by the Marines in combat, of the members of the
   media, was, "What are the people back home saying about us?" The
   Marines were initially concerned they might be the recipients of a
   "Vietnam reception" back home. When he told me that, I was ashamed of
   the American imagery it brought to mind. When we first briefly spoke to
   our son by satellite telephone, after the major combat was over, he was
   amazed that we knew the names of battles and locations of troops.  He
   and his fellow Marines had no idea Americans knew anything about what
   was actually going on in Iraq. I am still amazed that American
   teenagers went to war in the Middle East desert and performed so
   admirably with virtually no idea that Americans at home even cared.

   Not given to brooding angst, Caleb seems none the worse for emotional
   wear, despite having fought a war. Warriors do not think as civilians
   do. While they are often afraid, they do not have the luxury of
   wringing their hands, getting in touch with their emotions, or laboring
   over the anguish of mortal combat. That's for postmodern people back
   home to do -- people with more time and less stress, and Hollywood
   stars, of course. And warriors do not, once back home, whine to their
   loved ones, "Tell me that I am a good man -- that I have lived a good
   life." The warrior thinks about discipline, training, presence of mind
   not to panic, not to yield to despair; and he hopes above all, when the
   time comes, to perform the ordinary under extraordinary conditions. And
   then he moves on.

   Talks with my son have revealed little bravado and no recitation of the
   "pleasures of war." A few themes have emerged -- the satisfactions of
   shared hardships, of triumph over adversity, of camaraderie, and love
   of one's comrade-in-arms. Oh yes, and the joy in having extra cash as a
   result of accumulating combat pay with no way to spend it.

   After the homecoming meeting in the field, the Marines convoyed to
   battalion headquarters, washed saltwater off the LAVs, and turned in
   rifles, sidearms, and other equipment. About mid-afternoon they marched
   (for effect) to where families and friends were anxiously waiting under
   oak trees, while the Marine Corps Hymn blared from speakers. It was
   fascinating to watch the other Marines around the base within hearing
   distance. They stopped and snapped to attention, regardless of what
   they were doing when the hymn began. The crowd of waiting parents
   initially surged toward the Marines, only to respectfully freeze
   unprompted until the Marine Hymn ended. The awe-inspiring power of
   symbols swirled in my head like discotheque lights in a small room.
   Historical symbols of honor, discipline, esprit de corps, and military
   power assembled for a just cause can spontaneously engender intense
   emotions in the stiffest breast, stop traffic, and silence an anxious
   crowd. These are spellbinding effects in individuals jaded by an
   American culture devoted to pleasure-seeking excess and avoidance of
   personal responsibility.

   How on earth do the Marines do it? They often start with the raw,
   cynical, MTV-educated youth of America and, regardless of what remains
   of those young people individually, collectively they are transformed
   into what the human spirit longs to be -- virtuous. Pericles was right
   when he spoke of young warriors: "For even those who come short in
   other ways may justly plead the valor with which they have fought for
   their country; they have blotted out the evil with the good, and have
   benefited the state more by their public services than they have
   injured her by their private actions."

   There was something significant to be learned on that homecoming beach
   and in that dew-damp field when warriors returned home, but most of
   America slept through it.

   Bruce W. Green is dean of the Liberty University School of Law
   (law@liberty.edu ) in Lynchburg, Virginia. Prior to his position as
   dean, he practiced constitutional law with the American Family
   Association's Center for Law & Policy in Tupelo, Mississippi. His son
   Caleb left for the Marine Corps 17 days after he graduated from high
   school and six days after his 18th birthday. He was still 18 when the
   actual war in Iraq ended. Caleb Green is assigned to Charlie Company,
   2nd Light Armored Recon Battalion, 2nd Marine Expiditionary Brigade.
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