A young Marine was sitting on the couch with his four-year-old son and infant daughter watching the Fox News coverage of events in New York City and at the Pentagon on 9/11/2001.  Everything was different.  Yesterday, that Marine had been planning for the future of his family.  He was taking college courses.  He had a couple of years left to serve, and then he was going to take his family home.  Today, there was work to do and the future of his family was uncertain.

The Marine was on alert status.  When it became clear that America was under attack, he was told by his leadership to go home and pack for destinations unknown.  He did just that. It only took an hour, because what do you really need when you don’t know where you are going?

And now he sat.  On the couch, with his two kids and the cordless telephone waiting for the call.  His wife was in the kitchen making spaghetti because it was his favorite thing that she made.  It took all day, as she made it from scratch with no recipe.  It filled the house with the amazing aromas of oregano, tomato and garlic.  It was also her favorite meal to make because it reminded her of home. Family. And today of all days, she needed the distraction. 

A week later that call came.  Then it was canceled.  Two more weeks and another call.  Again, canceled.  Another month, another call, another cancelation.  Then… Thanksgiving dinner… extended family visiting… some turkey…a lot of potatoes and pumpkin pie… the phone rang just as they sat down.  Time to go. Report the next day. 

No issue, bags are still packed.

Goodbye wife, goodbye kids. I don’t know where I am going or when I will be back… 

Turns out, it was later that evening.

And then another call the next week… Goodbye wife, goodbye kids. Same as last time.  This time, the Marine was only gone for two days.

Another week goes by. And then, four days later, a call to report in four hours.  Goodbyes again, this time his wife tells him “I love you, but don’t come back if there is another delay.  The kids are getting confused.”

He understood, every goodbye was getting worse. They didn’t know what was going on, but they were not liking it.

But this time it was different.  Cherry Point, NC to Camp Lejuene, NC to Newark, NJ to Nova Scotia, Canada to Shannon, Ireland to Hann, Germany to Sigonella, Sicily to Masirah, Oman to the USS Kitty Hawk, then finally to the USS Bataan in the North Arabian Gulf.  The trip took more than a week.  Sleeping in airports, on military aircraft, in hangars, a hastily erected tent, the hangar deck on the Kitty Hawk. Then, finally, a rack (bed) on the Bataan.

The destination: Kandahar.

I’m sure you have figured out that the young Marine I am speaking of was me, but it could have been anyone or any one of us.  We were the first conventional forces in Afghanistan and the first US Forces in the south.  Most of us made it back, but not everyone. The story doesn’t end there, but I’m not ready to write those ones.

Twenty-five years later, here I sit having recently retired from military service.  A full career, with six combat deployments and several more trips to hostile areas, that would not have been if not for 9/11 and Afghanistan.  My son… that four year-old on the couch… recently commissioned into the Army.  My infant daughter, currently attending college and intending to serve.  My wife, a Veteran herself, had been called up while I was in Afghanistan, but ultimately not sent.  She is now an Army civilian.