Plucky Letters to US soldiers in Iraq

An email from a new but dear friend convinced me to dig up this not-so-plucky letter and post it here today. I never thought I would do that because, frankly, I'm ashamed of this letter.
(Which is why I will now fall all over myself trying to explain the emotions that caused me to write it in the first place, hoping you- whoever you are- will still love me after you read it.)

Staying behind to tend the homefires when a loved one is called to war is harder than it looks on TV. Sure, you're proud as hell, and the Blue Star banner in your window is a symbol you cherish. You try to be unconditionally supportive and cheerful. But sometimes, especially when you've not heard from your soldier in awhile, your constant worry and fear drive you into the arms of the blue monster formally known as Self-Pity. (some of us call him Bob, but that's only because we're on a first name basis.)

Thing is, you've unconsciously built a mental image of your soldier as Super-Hero. (After all, he's putting his life on the line for his country! He's absolutely NOBLE! He's a bonafide SAINT, for pete's sake!) So you find it's a let-down when he's not able to simultaneously save the world and keep you reassured by writing, emailing, calling and, in general, thinking of you just as constantly as you are thinking of him. On some level, you know this is petty and irrational.

But who cares about rationality when you want a letter or phone call, dammit!

At times like that, the homefire you're burning just makes you sweat.
And the simple fact that most soldiers are not exactly Shakespeare (or even Sean Hannity, for that matter) becomes irrelevant and just plain beside the point.
For the record, this letter worked. Robby wrote me back right away. But I still wish I'd never sent it because his return letter began, "Dear Mom, Thanks for ruining a rare good day."


June 17, 2003


Dear Rob,

Okay, this Operation Desert Scorpion really has me worried. Call ASAP and let me know if you are involved in any way. I keep telling myself there would be no need of heavy artillery in such an operation. You’re probably sitting around listening to the radio or something. Just please call and let me know. Soldiers are getting ambushed and shot, and I am very, very upset. I want to know what you are doing. I want to know if you are okay. I am sick and tired of being all “cheerful” and “entertaining” in my letters and getting nothing back from you. (Not even one of my cameras, which I sent with a return envelope. What part of “please take photos and return the camera” do you not comprehend??) Don’t MAKE me write to the CSM.

Do you have any idea of what it is REALLY like for me?? Probably not, so I’ll tell you. I am scared, I am worried, I am on edge 24/7. YOU know you’re okay, YOU know what you do all day, YOU know what it’s like there, and I KNOW NOTHING. I am in tears at least twice a day just out of pure fear and frustration. It gets harder and harder to write to you. I want to be light and keep you upbeat, but I am not feeling very light or upbeat. Frankly, I am feeling heavy and lowbeat. You need to write or call soon, and send me my damned camera.

Shit. I just heard on the radio that another soldier got shot by a sniper. He won’t be coming home, and the sniper got away. Fuck Iraq. It’s time for you to get the hell out of there and come home. I need to get a grip, it’s not your problem how terrified I am. More later.



Later:

Sunday at the picnic Papa wanted to know why you don’t write. I said “Well, I think he’s just not a writer.” That’s an understatement. Why don’t you write? You were bored enough to want coloring books. We can’t figure it out. Here you are, in the middle of making history, and you’re missing a great opportunity to put it down on paper in real time. There are entire books devoted to letters from soldiers in combat. Charlie T. has EMAIL for goodness sake, and he hardly communicates with his mom. You guys have bad manners. And don’t say “I only do what I was taught.” That’s BS, because I have always demonstrated good manners and good communication skills.

Well, never mind. So you don’t want to go down in history or make lots of money in the publishing world, so what? That’s okay, because I’m thinking my letters to you might be entertaining enough to make into a small book, from which I will keep all the profits. I will get a face lift, and you will get nothing. It may be nothing anybody would want to publish NOW, but wait a few years and nostalgia will kick in. People will ask themselves “What was it really like for mothers to sit around day after day NOT hearing any news from their son in the 101st Airborne? How did our valiant American mothers COPE with the constant worry and dread?”

And I will answer them by publishing my humorous and wildly entertaining letters. I will write a witty preface in which I will explain that I felt it was my duty to remain cheerful and steadfast, even though most of the time it felt like I was writing to a ghost. I will write pithy commentary on how we Army Moms of Gulf War II kept sending our boys funny stories and amusing anecdotes long after we’d given up on ever getting our cameras back. That’s just how wonderful and unselfish we all were back in ’03. Our sons were egocentric snots who didn’t give us the time of day, but we soldiered on with letter after letter after letter. Having little to say, due to the fact that ours was a monologue of unanswered non-correspondence, we nonetheless remained cheerful and entertaining. My working title will be "We Were Mothers Once…And Old."

In the afterward I will tell how, when our sons came home from war, we warned every nice young lady who got anywhere near them to run like hell away from our horrid kid and toward some nice software programmer with a HEART. Because a man who doesn't write or call his mother is unworthy, and it would be immoral to allow him to breed.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.


Mommy loves you, even if you are an egocentric camera-hoarding snot.

Much love,
--Mom