July 29, 2007

(South Carolina) - We received two excellent letters about topical subjects, the other day, from the same person. Both are touching and emotional. Over the next couple of days, we have printed them both. Please read them. It may stimulate your thinking.

I don't know exactly when I became a warrior. I was born after WWII, my brother four years earlier. When he was seven and I was three, he was my squad leader as we stormed enemy encampments or ran from enemy pursuers. He had a BB gun that didn't work. I had a stick. He screamed and yelled. I screamed and yelled. I was a quick study. The only thing I was never able to do was make those boy mouth noises that sounded like real guns. My brother out-grew me, and I changed the rules of engagement. My enemies rode horses, wore armor, and fought with swords and maces. I wore capes and swung from ropes and spoke Elizabethan English. I was one of Robin's Merry Men or Ivanhoe's sidekick. The Sheriff of Nottingham did not get any quarter from me, nor did Prince John. I made myself a longbow and used it. I did not shoot out anybody's eye.

I lived in an Army town, close enough to the post to hear reveille in the early morning and Taps at bedtime. My father took me to parades where military bands played Sousa marches, and spit-and-polished troops called cadence as they marched. My breast swelled with pride as my eyes filled with tears, and I didn't know why.

We place our hands over our hearts when the flag of the United States of America passed by; we stood, hand over heart, and sang the National Anthem any time it was played. We pledged "allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

Korea happened. The young soldiers who had been part of my everyday life--who skated with me at the local rink and told me they had a little sister at home, who called cadence in the early dawn, who put the chain back on my bicycle-those smooth-faced, bright-eyed boys, went off to war. Some never returned. Some returned maimed. All who returned returned old. When they came home, their smiles fled more quickly; they laughed less often. My father said, "War is hell." The young men said nothing about war at all.

Ten years later, Viet Nam became a household word. The soldiers came and went. The flag-draped boxes started coming into Andrews AFB every day. We watched it on the news. I also watched university students, burning flags, burning buildings, burning bras, burning draft cards, burning with anger, and burning with fear.

Then I got angry. I decided that I would rather be a dead hero, or even road-kill, than a living coward. I lost respect for those who pledged allegiance to nothing but themselves. We engaged in bitter arguments at almost every gathering. I quit gathering with cowards who masqueraded as tree-huggers and doves. Peace and free love and flowers and drugs required nothing. War required warriors.

At seventeen, I married a Marine and entered the fringes of the fellowship of warriors. I grew to know the most amazing men and women-men who fought, and their warrior-brides who supported them. I met men who went to Nam the first time because they were ordered to go; the second, or third, or fourth, they requested to go. They thought it was important. I don't know that the warrior mentality can be absorbed in some kind of osmotic process. I only know that, day by day, the warrior in me grew, the mentality that makes one do what has to be done whether he feels like it or not. Gunny said it best, "Hell, girl, somebody's son or husband has to go. Why not me?"

When the soldiers and sailors, airmen and Marines came home, I watched with mounting anger as the tree-huggers and doves spat on and reviled them, and the government ignored them. The vets went back to school, back to civilian jobs, paid taxes into the government dole, and began rebuilding the country they loved.

The boys I knew who went off to Viet Nam, and came home relatively whole, were so different from the boys who stayed out of the military, whether by luck of the draw or political pull. The veterans knew what they wanted, had discipline and purpose, and applied themselves to getting their educations. They partied seldom, worked hard, and grew into fine men. Oh, many of the others grew up well, too, but the contrast was always apparent. When God blessed me with three sons, my heart dictated their training. I never let them forget that they were born at Camp Lejeune Naval Hospital, sons of a Marine. I took them to parades, did housework to Sousa marches, and watched war movies with them. I didn't buy them toy guns. War is not a game for children. They were raised to believe that college came after military service, after they matured a little, after they paid their dues to the country that nurtured them.

All three went into the military-initially, one in the Corps and two in the Army. One was already in college when the Desert Shield began. The other two were called up. The youngest turned 19 as he sat in the sand in Saudi Arabia, while his older brother loaded planes in Twenty-nine Palms. As I write this, the twins are back in the military, and the youngest has applied to go back in. Am I scared? Yes. Do I worry? Yes. Am I proud? You bet! Will I mourn if something goes wrong? Yes, but the dedication and commitment of my warriors will dull the sharp edges of loss.

I believe in warriors. They keep us safe and free. They try to give to others the freedoms we enjoy. It's an all-volunteer fighting force, now, and I am so glad. I would not want a draftee watching my sons' backs. I want warriors, like my sons, fighting alongside them, and caring deeply for my greatest treasures.

I wear no uniform but faith in God and faith in my country. I carry no weapons but prayer, and confidence in the training my sons receive. I fight only battles that come to all, internal battles with fear and anger and not being all I can be. But I have the heart of a warrior, and I am the mother of warriors.

The farewell of a Spartan mother: only come home, my son, bearing your shield, or on it.

Linda Watkins is a South Carolinian, a registered nurse, a writer, and a deep believer in the original intent of the Constitution.