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In August of 1990, a
disturbing headline of the daily Boston Herald
read: IRAQ INVADES KUWAIT! I knew then that my life would be changed
forever.
Saddam Hussein had invaded Kuwait with
his henchmen, compiling the
fourth largest army in the world. The atrocities and inhumane acts
committed toward Kuwait prompted support from around the globe. War was
declared. The world called it Operation Desert Storm and volunteer
soldiers
were called to serve their countries. Within a few short months,
soldiers,
sailors, airmen and marines arrived in the Middle East to defend Saudi
Arabia, liberate Kuwait and embarrass the biggest bully of the post cold
war era. I was one of those soldiers.
The responsibilities brought to bear were
immense. There was so much
at stake. Politically, there was America’s leadership of the free
world.
Economically, one tenth of the world’s oil resources. Morally, the
protection of human life. But silently, there was a rebirth of
America’s
spirit. The veterans of Operation Desert Storm went to heal their nation
from a ghost that had haunted them for two decades; the poltergeist of
Vietnam.
Before shipping out, each night I found
myself surrounded by family
and friends. There was no solitude, though, not one moment of
privacy.
Everybody needed some time with me. They all hoped for the best, but
each
one anticipated the worst. Every second seemed precious, but as most
felt
it could be the last moments spent with me, it was anything but
enjoyable.
Still, my mask of strength was held firmly in place.
On the night before I was to report to
duty, my family threw a party.
Almost as if it had been rehearsed, there were apologies for
disagreements
long forgotten. There were wishes of luck and promises of daily prayers.
I
repressed every emotion that churned inside of me, but the mood of the
room
darkened even more and everybody started telling me,
"Good-bye." Everyone
but my Mom. It was the very reason they had all come: some to clear
their
consciences, others to relieve their doubts and worries -- most just to
grieve. I was smothered by hugs and kisses, as they each said their
good-byes. It was unbelievable. They were mourning the death of a man
they
truly loved, a man who was still breathing and with each breath, trying
to
console them. Sitting in the middle of my own wake, my thoughts spiraled
downward. Everything was there but the casket. I looked to my brothers
for
support, but they were grieving themselves and were now sedated from
alcohol. And then my Mom approached me and took me in her arms.
"Keep the
faith," she whispered. This also upset me, but little did I know,
those
three simple words would echo in my head for months to follow. It would
become a welcome and comforting echo.
As a shield was replaced by an angry
storm, Saddam Hussein threatened
America with the mother of all battles. In turn, President George Bush
drew
a line in the sand. That line was quickly wrapped around Iraq and used
to
choke the life out of thousands.
Though Hussein swore it would take us
months to cross the breach from
Saudi Arabia to Iraq, it took only hours. We moved fast, crushing the
first
of three Iraqi lines of defense. As if they weren't even there, we
rolled
right over them. It was clear: While Hussein chose to sit out the air
campaign, the Iraqi people bore the brunt for their ruthless dictator
and
like all victims of war; they paid with gallons of their own blood. It
was
literally hell on earth.
History was made. In triumph, Kuwait was
liberated, while Hussein was
humiliated before the whole world. An unconditional withdrawal was
ordered.
Politically, the sadistic demon was slain. In reality, unlike thousands
of
his own people, he still lived.
Although Iraq surrendered, the fighting
for many of us was far from
over. While America’s technology continued to erase the poltergeist of
Vietnam, many of us were invaded with their own ghost of torment. Amidst
the daily chaos, we experienced the frailties of our own mortality and
unlike CNN’s sanitized version of the desert clash, the realization
that
there is no glory in war. Then, as a lasting memento, most of us were
brutally introduced to “The Mystery Illness.”
Just before nodding off one night, I
picked up a letter sent from my
Mom and opened it. Her words, which had brought such happiness in Saudi
Arabia, now brought sorrow and pain. I couldn’t think about home. In
fact,
it felt like I hadn’t been there, or seen my family in years. It
seemed a
whole different lifetime. From then on, I decided I wouldn’t read any
more
from home. The letters I would send out would all be written in one day,
and then assigned fictitious dates. There was nothing good to report and
I
needed the distance. Every few days, I mailed one out. My family
didn’t
have to know. It was best that only I knew the truth.
But that cancerous secret quickly ate me
alive.
Many full moons had come and gone, while
things changed, but only for
the worse. There was more death; the death of sinless children. The war
had
been over for weeks, but as I’d been forced to learn, land mines
refused to
surrender. My comrades and I tried desperately to save each child, but
it
was always the same story. The choppers either arrived two minutes too
late, or the wounds were just so extensive that the flying medics were
never called. It was a losing battle every time.
Personally, my body was consumed with
pain. My head constantly
pounded, my digestive system was completely out of whack, though it was
my
mind which carried the greatest burdens. Never realizing that the
chronic
problems could have been caused by America's inoculations, Iraq's Scud
attacks, or the white, chemical residue which covered everything, I was
down, always down and could never seem to pick my spirits back up. I
could
feel the depression engulf me and though I fought it, my body was just
too
tired. Every waking moment was spent in a vice of anxiety, or all-out
panic. Like clockwork, each night my restless sleep was interrupted by
severe panic attacks, or demented, life-like nightmares. I could hear
the
shrills of grown men, smell the smoldering of human flesh and count the
amount of cruel and excruciating deaths which I’d witnessed. Each
time, I’d
awake and try to find the difference between the hellish dreams and my
actual life. The answer was simple. There was no difference. My life was
the nightmare. I was merely replaying the torment during my sleep. After
weeks of the intense suffering, it was time to stop the pain.
The camp was quiet; everyone tucked in
for the night. I looked out
into the black desert and picking up my rifle, removed the banana clip,
leaving one round in the chamber. Feeling very much alone, I walked into
the darkness. Overwhelmed with confusing emotions and boggled thoughts,
the
months of anguish had finally brought despair. My body, my mind, they
had
both taken enough. Looking back at the camp, I decided that I’d
created
enough distance. Collapsing onto the cool sand, I gazed up at a majestic
sky. Searching hard, I could not find the beauty. It was then that my
tortured eyes released a river of tears. Without restraint, I wept hard.
I
cried for my life, knowing that I was just minutes from ending it.
Closing
my eyes, I searched within, but could not find any goodness there
either. I
was on empty. There was nothing left. With no relief in sight, the
present
was unbearable and the future held no hope. I cried harder. There seemed
to
be no other choice and that alone scared me more. As the last tear
turned
to dust, I opened my eyes and looked back into the starry sky.
Then, to my
surprise, I remembered my family.
For the first time in a long time I
pictured my parents, my brothers
and young sisters. I hadn't thought about them. I hadn't considered the
devastating consequences of my selfish contemplation. Suddenly, I could
hear the faint echo of my mother's gentle voice. "Stevie, Keep the
Faith!"
I cried uncontrollably, knowing that I had lost my faith. Ashamed, I now
knelt on the desert floor, no more than a shell of a man. My spirit had
been all but crushed, and then for some unexplained reason hope had
arrived. And it hadn't showed up a moment too soon. I couldn't kill
myself.
I couldn't do that to my family. The love that we shared would not allow
it. Unloading my rifle, I tossed the brass bullet into the black void.
Regaining some composure, I started back toward camp.
As I walked, I realized that my Mom had
saved my life. She would
never know, nor had she been there in person. It was the strength
of her
spirit that had awakened my lost soul. I could feel her comfort. Looking
inward, I thanked her for sticking by me. Then looking upward, I thanked
God. My Mom had given me life, and then without ever realizing it --
she'd
saved it. Her faith had been strong enough for us both.
Reaching camp, I looked back and could
feel my hair stand on end. The
moon had cast the softest, most angelic light, illuminating a perfect
set
of footprints in the sand. Thinking of my Mom, I noticed only one
set,
though in the deepest part of my broken heart, I knew that I had not
traveled alone. My Mom had been right and the truth of it gave me
chills.
With the effortless strength of a child, I believed. I was not alone,
nor
did I ever have to feel alone again. The experience would change my life
forever. Though everything inside of me would spin out of control, or
drift
along in great turmoil for many months after, I had been given another
chance. I silently vowed to make the most of it.
For the rest of that fateful night, I
read two months of unopened
letters. I longed to be with my family. I desperately needed them in my
life. Their words were encouraging, comforting and overflowing with
love.
No matter how much it hurt, I would never cast their words aside again.
As
the sun played peek-a-boo with the sleeping desert, I finished the last
letter. Folding it back up, I smiled. It was a last reminder from
my Mom;
a letter that I should have read weeks earlier. From then on, her advice
would not be taken lightly. "I understand now, Mom,” I whispered,
“I'll
keep the faith."
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