Freedom's Price

by Marci Seither

        Sand blew across the parking lot. It seemed we had found the edge of the world, but for our oldest son, Nathan and the other Marines stationed there, the colorless landscape of 29 Palms was home. Each company, dressed in desert camouflaged, lined up for roll call. Their gear was packed. Within a few hours they would be leaving for  Afghanistan. Their recent training had been as intense as the blazing sun they would soon be facing on foreign soil.

       Those of us who made the trip to see our loved ones gathered on the hot pavement.

       An older well wisher wore a white baseball cap with “Korean Veteran” embroidered on the front. The faded tattoo on his forearm was so blurred it was hard to tell exactly what the original design had been. A weathered hand wiped away the tear that had escaped against his will. He remembered the taste, the sight and sounds of war, and wished he was young enough to go with his grandson and the men he now saluted.

       A young woman rested her hand on the side of her rounded stomach.  Her husband won’t be home for the delivery. Other young wives had been down this long good-bye road before,  it was never easy.

      Our children watched as their older brother stood at attention waiting for his name to be barked out during the final roll call. John, my husband, understood the routine. He was one of the “Semper Fi” and had deployed, but never into battle.  This was all new for me.  My stomach hurt, I couldn’t breathe. My mind was filled with things I wanted to say but the only words that managed to tumble out were “I love you.” It would be a long eight months.

      “These are the faces of war that the media often misses, not just those who serve, but the families that stay home and wait, watch and worry,” I thought.

      Each Marine responded to his name.  There was a somber reality that many of us felt, but no one dared utter. Not all those who answered the roll call will be coming home alive.

      I hope it’s not my son, I fervently wished. I knew that the mom on either side of me was wishing the same thing. You don’t want it to be anyone’s son, or grandson, nephew, brother or husband. But the reality is that freedom has a price.

     That price was realized when John clicked onto the internet. The news was numbing.  Four soldiers of the 2/7 Marines had been killed and the names had not been released.

      Anxiety mixed with fear every time the phone rang. Forty eight hours later we received an e-mail from Nathan. He was fine. By the end of that week, a total of seven  Marines from 2/7  were killed. Our hearts broke for those who had lost their son’s.           

      Having a child in the military is not easy, but I know that Mothers have worried for their sons at war from the very beginning of our country. If it weren’t for the sacrifice of others, we would not be waving flags of red white and blue, watching fireworks, or lining up along parade routes.

      The real celebration for our family will be when Nathan and those in the 2/7 are back in the USA.  When the bus full of exhausted Marines, anxious for a familiar embrace and the promise of a home cooked meal pulls into the depot, we will be there - at the edge of the world on soil that is still free.

Nathan and the 2/7 Maines arrived back at 29 Palms in Oct. of 2008.