Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: WEDNESDAY, February 13, 1991 TAG: 9102130616
SECTION: NATL/INTL PAGE: A/1 EDITION: EVENING
SOURCE: Los Angeles Times
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
Whether on colorful stationery or rumpled notebook paper, in the scrawls of teen-agers or the mature hand of men and women, the letters offer telling reflections on the first weeks of combat.
As in earlier correspondence, the pages carry expressions of love for those left behind, of confidence in eventual reunions, of longing for the safety of home. There are still requests for items at once trivial and important - send more cheese spread and a board game. And there are still dashes of humor.
But now there is a deeper urgency than before the hostilities began - both in the way the words are written and the way they are read, over and over again. In letters shared with the Los Angeles Times, a young soldier makes contingency plans for a future that could be marred by injury, a military mother worries about her young children growing up without her and a mother and son contemplate the role of the anti-war movement.
Typical is a letter from Gary Bodenweiser to his mother, Barbara, in Anaheim, Calif. A military policeman stationed somewhere near the Kuwaiti border, this was his first since Jan. 16:
"Mom: Well, it's war, huh! We are listening to the radio. It's now 0330 HRS and Iraqi aircraft just crossed the border. Our Stinger missile platoon has just gone on yellow hold. Basically, that means all our missiles are unboxed and ready to fire. I am well within range of aircraft, and ya, I'm a little worried that I might die. . . . Well, no more time. Take care and remember your son loves you very much. Allison, too. I will get out of here OK, so don't worry, OK?
"Love, Gary."
This time, Barbara Bodenweiser could not feel happy reading her son's words. Along with the letter came a separate sealed envelope. On it were these instructions:
"To be opened only in the event I am incapacitated or on life support!!!"
"It's devastating," Bodenweiser said, holding the sealed blue envelope up to light seeping through a window of her apartment. "Do you think I should open it? It scares me. I don't want to think about him getting killed."
\ In San Diego, Chief Petty Officer Bill Wyatt, 39, knows that kind of fear. His wife, Deborah is a 2nd class petty officer aboard the destroyer tender Acadia, somewhere in the Persian Gulf. While she tends to her duties, he is home with the children - Greg, age 7, Cathy, 4 and Kerri, 2.
It is Deborah Wyatt's first deployment, the first long separation from her children.
Her latest letter told of her duty schedule and discussed the limited war news available aboard ship:
"We take it one day at a time. But the days seem to run into each other out here. We don't hear much about what is happening out there. We know Baghdad has been leveled. Most of their planes are safe at the moment. Last count, seven Americans missing so far. I guess you can fill me in when you write. . . . Nothing said to indicate when this will end. So be patient. I'll write when I got something to say, OK? I'm not good at creating letters. . . .
"Hey sweetie, I sure do love you. I want to come home so bad. I want to be held by you. I want my babies so bad. I miss my big bed. I miss my house. I miss cooking, drinking tea, my civilian clothes. Hell, I miss everything.
"This sucks big time. Well, enough of that. If there is time, please send me my Uno and Scruples games, some Tang and Koolaid, please. . . . "
The Wyatts' oldest child, Greg, seems to be taking it the hardest, crying at night and calling for his mother. Between sobs, the little boy says that he is afraid she will be killed. Bill Wyatt wonders whether the little boy is seeing too much television news - or maybe he is picking up on his own worries?
\ In Los Angeles, a woman knows that her son, an Air Force pilot, has his life on the line day after day. While he flies an F-16, she has attended anti-war rallies, adding her voice to those who see this as an unnecessary war. She requested anonymity, explaining that the last time a newspaper printed her name, she received crank phone calls.
Her son has doubtless felt the rush of adrenaline and fear, but spares his mother such war stories. His words are laconic, almost laid-back. "He's an understated type of person," his mother explains.
" . . . Things have been busy around here as you could imagine. We're all happy that the air war has been going fairly well. We've settled into a routine here in our tent city. Most of our free time is spent either eating, sitting at the club trying to watch CNN or playing dominoes. I'm afraid I'm not yet very tan. I'm still one of the white boys. . . .
"I'll try to write again when I can. Until then, remember no news is good news. Say hi to everyone. And give the cat some scratches from me. I love you."
Her son - 27, married and a father - also thanked her for sending him a U.N. flag. He feels strongly, she explains, that it is not just a war between Iraq and the United States, but Iraq and the world. And, she said, he doesn't mind the anti-war protests.
by CNB