Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Six Years Later...What Have We Gained?
After days of trying to post from my documents and not being able, I am deciding to just compose from scratch. So... here it goes.
August was a difficult time in 2005. Lima Co. Marines from Columbus, Ohio suffered many losses. On this day, August 3rd, 14 Marines from one platoon were killed when their Amtrac hit an i.e.d. This followed the killing of two Marines a few days before followed by the killing of 6 snipers the day before. It was hard to keep up. Their was so much grief and worry from families we didn't know where to put our anger. That was then. Here we are six years later. We still have grief, worry and anger. Grief is hard to overcome. You wonder what those young men would be doing today if they still had a choice. How do the families and all those left behind cope?
And we still worry. Those who survived carry the wounds of war every day. They carry guilt and wonder why they survived. They don't see themselves as heroes. They see those who "gave all" as heroes. And they carry the memories of war in their souls. Many never sleep a restful night.
And we still have anger. Anger at the justification for having gone to war in the first place. Was it the last resort? Was it worth the lives of these young men? Really? What have we gained?
August was a difficult time in 2005. Lima Co. Marines from Columbus, Ohio suffered many losses. On this day, August 3rd, 14 Marines from one platoon were killed when their Amtrac hit an i.e.d. This followed the killing of two Marines a few days before followed by the killing of 6 snipers the day before. It was hard to keep up. Their was so much grief and worry from families we didn't know where to put our anger. That was then. Here we are six years later. We still have grief, worry and anger. Grief is hard to overcome. You wonder what those young men would be doing today if they still had a choice. How do the families and all those left behind cope?
And we still worry. Those who survived carry the wounds of war every day. They carry guilt and wonder why they survived. They don't see themselves as heroes. They see those who "gave all" as heroes. And they carry the memories of war in their souls. Many never sleep a restful night.
And we still have anger. Anger at the justification for having gone to war in the first place. Was it the last resort? Was it worth the lives of these young men? Really? What have we gained?
Saturday, July 2, 2011
How Does It Feel?
The following reading is taken from my book, Skin in the Game: Journey of a Mother and Her Marine Son. I was reading my book today as I prepare for a presentation I am doing Sunday. With the holiday coming up and all the talk of patriotism, I am compelled to remember the men and women and the families still involved in wars. I recently read an article about troop morale written by Michael Prysner, an Iraq war veteran. He says, “The Associated Press reports that soldiers and Marines in Afghanistan are suffering the highest rates of psychological problems since 2005. Similarly, troop morale is down the drain.” “The reason for this is no mystery, he says, “ A military report found that up to 80 percent of troops have witnessed a friend being killed or wounded in combat.” Michael goes on to say that human beings are capable of enduring great hardship, “when there is a feeling of purpose.”
I too was questioning our purpose in Iraq all the while my 19 year old son was there in some of the fiercest combat of the war in 2005. Our unit lost 28 men kia. After going to many funerals and being asked the question “How does it feel?” I wrote my response.
“We are so visible wearing our Lima Company shirts at each of the viewings and funerals, the press spots us and want to get an interview. “How does it feel” they will ask with pens in hand and cameras rolling, “to be here and see this with your own son still there?” They are quick with questions and seem to be in a hurry. I answer quickly with my emotions on my sleeve. “It hurts,” I respond. Then I say how I admire the families. A few more quick questions and answers and they are off to another story. I think about this later. My heart says, “You really don’t want to know how I feel. You don’t have time to listen. You probably can’t print it. Because most of the time I want to scream in sheer madness.”
One day, after several funerals and viewings, and questions from the press, I journal my response to the question, “How does it feel?”
How does it feel?
You have asked me several times, “How does it feel?” How does it feel to be here with these families? How does it feel to see the young being buried? How does it feel while your son is still there?
Let me tell you about the many nights I wake up at 3:00am as though I am on night watch in Iraq. My thoughts immediately go to my son Mike. He is in Al Anbar Province, an area in Iraq we were told was quiet and “they won’t see much action.” Let me tell you how I panic and want to scream out in utter fear for my son, longing to see him and to know what he is doing and to know that he is safe. How I have been told that it is a crap shoot… he may be in the next amtrac that gets hit by an IED or the next attack on patrol. How I don’t feel that there is anywhere there that is safe. So every moment is the next crap shoot. How devastating it has been to bury these Marines who were killed in action. How threatened and vulnerable we feel as our son is still there and knowing that his fate could be sealed. Let me tell you how many times I have seen him in a flag draped coffin like the ones that cover his friends. How many times I have received the folded flag with arms that could hardly rise up as I weep a silent deep weeping that has no sound in my numbed presence but allows tears to bleed from my heart.
Do you want to hear my scream? Primordial? Hysterical? Unearthly? Or see me collapse into absolute emptiness feeling I will never get up again? I don’t want to get up. I am dead. Do you want to hear how I sometimes feel myself walking but I am not breathing? There is no air and I feel like I am dying and death doesn’t matter. How I have thought, “would my death bring my son home?” How each step I take, each breath seems more than I can handle. How desperately I want my son to live and have hope. He is so young, so idealistic, so confident, so trusting. Let me share with you that sometimes when I awake and my thoughts fill with the possible fate of my dear child my body trembles and I feel like I will throw up everything inside and everything I have ever known. And I am a stranger to the world. And I am alone in this grief.
I can’t think of a reason or a cause good enough for me to willingly give up the life of my son. Not even for “my freedom.” If he has to die for my freedom, I haven’t gained anything. I would rather live with him alive in any circumstances than live free and comfortable while taking his life.
This is how it feels.”
Happy July 4th.
Love peace
Peggy Logue
The following reading is taken from my book, Skin in the Game: Journey of a Mother and Her Marine Son. I was reading my book today as I prepare for a presentation I am doing Sunday. With the holiday coming up and all the talk of patriotism, I am compelled to remember the men and women and the families still involved in wars. I recently read an article about troop morale written by Michael Prysner, an Iraq war veteran. He says, “The Associated Press reports that soldiers and Marines in Afghanistan are suffering the highest rates of psychological problems since 2005. Similarly, troop morale is down the drain.” “The reason for this is no mystery, he says, “ A military report found that up to 80 percent of troops have witnessed a friend being killed or wounded in combat.” Michael goes on to say that human beings are capable of enduring great hardship, “when there is a feeling of purpose.”
I too was questioning our purpose in Iraq all the while my 19 year old son was there in some of the fiercest combat of the war in 2005. Our unit lost 28 men kia. After going to many funerals and being asked the question “How does it feel?” I wrote my response.
“We are so visible wearing our Lima Company shirts at each of the viewings and funerals, the press spots us and want to get an interview. “How does it feel” they will ask with pens in hand and cameras rolling, “to be here and see this with your own son still there?” They are quick with questions and seem to be in a hurry. I answer quickly with my emotions on my sleeve. “It hurts,” I respond. Then I say how I admire the families. A few more quick questions and answers and they are off to another story. I think about this later. My heart says, “You really don’t want to know how I feel. You don’t have time to listen. You probably can’t print it. Because most of the time I want to scream in sheer madness.”
One day, after several funerals and viewings, and questions from the press, I journal my response to the question, “How does it feel?”
How does it feel?
You have asked me several times, “How does it feel?” How does it feel to be here with these families? How does it feel to see the young being buried? How does it feel while your son is still there?
Let me tell you about the many nights I wake up at 3:00am as though I am on night watch in Iraq. My thoughts immediately go to my son Mike. He is in Al Anbar Province, an area in Iraq we were told was quiet and “they won’t see much action.” Let me tell you how I panic and want to scream out in utter fear for my son, longing to see him and to know what he is doing and to know that he is safe. How I have been told that it is a crap shoot… he may be in the next amtrac that gets hit by an IED or the next attack on patrol. How I don’t feel that there is anywhere there that is safe. So every moment is the next crap shoot. How devastating it has been to bury these Marines who were killed in action. How threatened and vulnerable we feel as our son is still there and knowing that his fate could be sealed. Let me tell you how many times I have seen him in a flag draped coffin like the ones that cover his friends. How many times I have received the folded flag with arms that could hardly rise up as I weep a silent deep weeping that has no sound in my numbed presence but allows tears to bleed from my heart.
Do you want to hear my scream? Primordial? Hysterical? Unearthly? Or see me collapse into absolute emptiness feeling I will never get up again? I don’t want to get up. I am dead. Do you want to hear how I sometimes feel myself walking but I am not breathing? There is no air and I feel like I am dying and death doesn’t matter. How I have thought, “would my death bring my son home?” How each step I take, each breath seems more than I can handle. How desperately I want my son to live and have hope. He is so young, so idealistic, so confident, so trusting. Let me share with you that sometimes when I awake and my thoughts fill with the possible fate of my dear child my body trembles and I feel like I will throw up everything inside and everything I have ever known. And I am a stranger to the world. And I am alone in this grief.
I can’t think of a reason or a cause good enough for me to willingly give up the life of my son. Not even for “my freedom.” If he has to die for my freedom, I haven’t gained anything. I would rather live with him alive in any circumstances than live free and comfortable while taking his life.
This is how it feels.”
Happy July 4th.
Love peace
Peggy Logue
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