A World of Silent Sacrifice

Last week, my sister and her family were interviewed by a reporter with Memphis's paper, The Commercial Appeal. Below is the text for the article that was in today's paper.

The mother and father are sitting side by side on their living room couch. And they are not saying a word, because they are hanging on every word.

President Bush is on their television speaking to the nation, but speaking directly to Frank and Denise Baker, too.

A few feet from where they sit, pictures of their 21-year-old son, Brandon, a lance corporal in the Marines, stand at attention.

Here's the snapshot of him and two buddies in their fatigues, looking laid-back and cool.

Here's the framed portrait of Brandon in his dress blues, looking ready and able.

And over there, hanging on the wall, is a portrait from a more innocent time -- his senior year at Germantown High School.

"When Brandon left home, he was a boy," says his mother, like so many mothers have said of their sons. "When he came back from boot camp, he was a man."

Now, the man is going to war. Today, Brandon is scheduled to leave Camp Lejeune in North Carolina for Iraq.

It's all part of the "troop surge." The president says he's going to increase the troops by about 21,000. Even if this new strategy is effective, the president knows too well there will be many more casualties.

And so as he speaks to the nation, he thanks the families that already have made a "quiet sacrifice" -- some for a season and some for an eternity.

Not knowing what kind of sacrifice theirs will be, Frank and Denise sit quietly. The president speaks boldly of the mission ahead: "We can and we will prevail."

Frank and Denise support the president. But they also need to believe in a positive outcome. Frank turns to his wife of 27 years and whispers: "We must prevail."

The president warns that the year ahead in Iraq will be "bloody and violent." They are words that linger because soon Brandon -- their precious one among the 21,000 -- will be in the middle of it.

It's enough to give a father pause, time to reflect on another young man he knew.

"When I was 21, I was throwing the Frisbee in Daytona Beach," he says, laughter filling the quiet space, "wondering where we were gonna have beers that night."

The men and women who enlisted in the military also volunteered to end their innocence, to sacrifice everything from the frivolity of Frisbee on the beach to the relative safety of pursuing the American dream at home.

Germantown's Andrew Kliman, former Eagle Scout, is now a sergeant in the Army who has survived a tour of duty in Iraq and is in Germany.

"I feel safer with him in Germany," says his mother, Amy Kliman. "But he's still in the Army. Anything can change."

Kristin Hofer, former tomboy and White Station High soccer player, is now a Marine and will go to Iraq next month.

"She wanted to make a difference," says her mother, Penny Aviotti. "She's a patriot."

So is Brandon Baker.

"This goes back to 9/11, when he saw the twin towers," his father says.

To when he was 15 and was so struck by what he saw, that he dialed up the local Marine recruiting station.

Justin Morris' joining of the Army has continued a family tradition. His father and grandfather were in the military.

"We go back to the Civil War," says his mother, Nunda Morris, who lives in Southaven. "To a Confederate general named Benjamin McCulloch. My grandmother was a McCulloch. He's heard the stories all his life."

Now Justin's little brother, 10-year-old Morgan, is hearing the stories, and hearing his brother's voice on the phone from Iraq where Justin is out on daily patrols.

"He asks how I'm doing in school," Morgan says. "Since my dad's usually at work, he tells me to take care of my mom.

"I really do miss him, but I think he's doing the right thing."

Penny Aviotti believes that becoming a Marine was the right thing for her daughter.

"I'm so proud of her," Aviotti says, "of what she's become."

It's the where -- Iraq -- that troubles this mother.

"For me, the war is about my child -- not the number of troops we're sending in," she says. "I am so sad personally and politically. My trepidation is to be caught in the middle, to see my child caught in the middle."

She pauses, finds her patriot's perspective: "She can't feel that way. It's so dangerous not to have confidence."

One and all, the parents support their children and the troops. They talk to each other, to families that have been immersed in the Iraq experience much longer than they have, and they watch and listen to the news, and then come to their own conclusions -- about the politics, about the media, about the character of the commander and chief.

"I don't believe President Bush is just arbitrarily sending people to be shot to death," says Nunda Morris.

And Denise Baker says she no longer trusts the broadcast networks to tell her what's really going on in Iraq.

"America's the greatest place on Earth, even with all of its flaws," says her husband, Frank.
"It's like this comedian I heard: 'Twenty million illegal immigrants can't be wrong.'"

December 2004, and Andrew Kliman was in Mosul, Iraq. His brother Brian was trolling the Internet when he came across news of a major explosion in the cafeteria of the base where Andrew was stationed.

"That was the cafeteria he ate in every day," says Amy Kliman.

Every day but that day, not that Andrew's family knew this right away. For 24 mostly sleepless hours, the family didn't know if Andrew was alive, dead or wounded. Finally, Amy got through to a captain at Fort Lewis in Seattle. He told her all the families of killed and wounded soldiers had been notified.

"In other words, no news was good news," Amy says.

But it isn't always, can't always, be that way. There's an informational time lag. There's even about a five-second delay when having a phone conversation with someone in Iraq.

In other words, no news is mystery -- day after day, hour after hour, minute by minute.

Justin Morris is on daily patrols in Iraq. Not long ago, a solider in a vehicle ahead of his was killed by a roadside bomb.

"In essence," says Nunda Morris, "somebody's trying to kill your child every day. He's over there, so it's like I'm over there. I wish I could go over there for him, not that I'd be of any use."

Amy Kliman knows that helpless feeling. In the year Andrew was in Iraq, she found relief -- comfort would be too strong of a word -- in sending him everything she could imagine. She sent him boxes of undershirts, socks and hand-warmers. She sent books, magazines and movies. She sent a yo-yo, Q-Tips to clean his gun, and a 12-inch artificial Christmas tree. She sent decks of cards, hand-held computer Yahtzee and Texas Pete's hot sauce.

It was too much, yet not nearly enough. Some soldiers never received anything. So Andrew shared, and after a while those other soldiers started anticipating what would come next, always happy to announce, "Kliman got another box!"

"That was how I got through Iraq," Amy says.

Nunda Morris is in the middle of getting through Iraq. Her emotional state mirrors her son's.

"If he calls and is in a good mood, I'm good for a couple of days," she says. "If he's talking through clenched teeth, you get nervous.

"You pray to God constantly. You're sure He's tired of listening. It's like a yoke around your neck, except people can't see it."

Not even Morgan can see it, but then that's a good thing.

"He knows his brother is in danger," the mother says. "He doesn't grasp how much danger."

The Army still believes in R & R. Justin Morris is on the schedule.

"He's coming home in March," Morgan says, anticipating all that he and his big brother will do: watch a little TV, maybe play some baseball, definitely play video games together.

By that time, Kristin Hofer will have been in Iraq about a month. Her mom is still trying to grasp what it will be like.

"I'm the kind of person who wants to know everything," Penny Aviotti says, "the kind of person who pulls out a map."

She's also the kind of person who wants to know what the food her daughter will be eating tastes like. So Aviotti took it upon herself to get those pre-packaged meals the soldiers eat.

"Add water, stir, and it smokes up. It's pretty bad," she says. "But I stink as a cook, so maybe the food won't be a problem."

Baker Company is starting to wonder about the days ahead, too.

"We're getting a little more nervous," Frank says.

Outside their home, a huge red Marine Corps flag flies on one side of their brick steps, and the Stars & Stripes flies on the other side. Already, Denise has hung a small "mother's flag" from the door to signify her Marine is away at war.

President Bush, in thanking families, spoke of "lonely holidays" and "empty chairs at the dinner table." There will be an empty chair come Easter, and on Memorial Day and the Fourth of July, and perhaps for a good while after that.

The Bakers understand. And as simple as it sounds, they will hold onto a slogan from a Marine Corps T-shirt Brandon gave his father for Christmas: "Pray for Peace, Train for War."

They will hang onto those feelings from the ceremony at Brandon's graduation from boot camp in Parris Island, S.C. -- the pride, the joy, the real and deep patriotism.

They wept when the soldiers sang the Marine Hymn – "From the Halls of Montezuma to the Shores of Tripoli . . ."

They were moved by what Frank calls a "defining moment" at the PX, when they and Brandon were walking into the building as an officer was leaving it; Brandon held the door for the officer and saluted.

"Afternoon, Sir."

"At ease," the officer said. "Afternoon, Marine."

Brandon gave his father a poke.

"Dad, did you hear what he called me?"

He did.

It was the first time -- the first time for the son, the first time for the father.

And a long way from throwing the Frisbee at Daytona Beach.

- Don Wade: 529-2358