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The Weekly Shriek -- Soldiers and Sailors
23-Apr-2007
Written by: Joyce Faulkner
When they come back...
They asked me to speak to veterans about writing. At the appointed time, I sat in the front row. Soldiers and Sailors Memorial Hall in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania isn’t huge – but it seems to be. The podium sat on a stage backed by an enormous wall inscribed with the Gettysburg Address.
The chaplain of a National Guard unit headed for Iraq gave the opening prayer. He told us it was bad form to wish a chaplain "good luck" so we wished him "Godspeed" instead. A younger chaplain with a sadder face had just returned from Iraq. He talked about being in a war zone for eighteen months. He talked about yesterday’s joy and tomorrow’s adjustments. In the name of other soldiers, he asked for our patience – and understanding. After he left the stage, he reached out to me. “Thank you for what you are doing, Joyce,” he said as he grasped my hand. Me? I swallowed and searched for the right words. Somehow, "thank you" didn’t seem enough so, in the end, I wished him "Godspeed" too.
Another man, not much more than a boy, spoke next. He talked about coming home – and about wounds that forced him to retire. He gripped the podium as he described the transition – from a military world of enforced black and white to a civilian one of blurry gradations. After the riotous homecoming parties – after the welcoming hugs and approving back claps, everyone returned to their busy everyday lives – and he faced a sudden vacuum. “Who am I now?” he wondered after years of being sure. In the Army, his choices were limited. What to wear, where to go, how to act -- were mandated. Now, the endless array of options freezes him like Lot’s wife – his old life is gone and the new one hasn’t yet begun. I smiled at him but he focused on his toes as he left the stage.
One more soldier stepped forward. His limp was slight – his face scarred. An elasticized glove covered his left hand. Behind me, the families of other veterans sucked in air through clenched teeth. I was close enough to see pain behind his eyes – and I shivered. He told us about driving down the road – moving supplies. He talked about eying the garbage that littered the throughway. Was there a bomb in that paper bag? Were those children playing ball just kids – or were they pawns in someone else’s war? He remembered coming around a curve and seeing a parked police car suddenly come alive and head toward him. A suicide bomber intent on ramming his vehicle! He describes the crash and the heat on his face as the fireball engulfed the Hummer. He knew he had to save himself. We watched in our mind’s eyes as he struggled to get out of the burning truck – and as he lay in the dust waiting for his comrades to rescue him. We cheered him on in our hearts when he talked about the damage – and his determined recovery. A smiling Vietnam veteran met him as he left the stage with an offer of a gym membership to help the young soldier regain his strength. The older man wasn’t the only one that wanted to help.
When it was my turn, I climbed the steps to the stage – and looked out into a sea of expectant faces. I licked my lips. “We must save them,” I said. “We must save them by writing about them.” At first the audience was quiet. Then I felt it -- a chorus of beating hearts thumping out the same message -- “Yessssssssssss.”
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