Lives During Wartime, Vol. 4
National Guard operates in all 50 states and several territories. Most of its approximately , members are part-time reserve soldiers and airmen, so-called weekend warriors, who can be called into active duty by their state or the federal government. Others work for the Guard full-time. Some Guard installations include family housing. Long National Guard Center here. The site is a former leprosy colony, where researchers found an effective treatment for the disfiguring disease in the s. Since the s, the Louisiana Guard has used the site for training, and some people — Guard personnel and their families — live in its trailers and houses, including older structures built when leaded paint was widely used.
Coryn Price, 28 years old, grew up at Gillis Long. Her father, a sergeant, was posted at the base, and she lived there from the age of 14 until moving out earlier this year. She met her husband on post when he was serving as a night-shift supervisor in the military police. They married in , shortly after he volunteered for deployment in Afghanistan, and a week before he shipped out.
The couple has two daughters, Emily, 3, and Lizzie, 4. Sergeant Price, 47, enlisted in the Louisiana Guard in after earlier working in wine sales in California. In Afghanistan, he served with the th Transportation Company, providing truck escorts, often through dangerous territory. Coryn, now finishing a degree in psychology at Louisiana State University, became pregnant with Emily after her husband returned in He only shared his memories of the convoy attack with her years later.
The Prices were thrilled to move into the duplex in May They had been living in one of about 50 trailers on the post, initially meant to house families displaced by Hurricane Katrina in The cramped trailers sit in a row behind a cemetery for former leprosy patients. The household items were analyzed by a lab in Illinois, the paint and other samples in Georgia.
State health inspection records and photographic evidence show otherwise. One picture shows Emily and her older sister dressed in Halloween costumes sewn by their mother. Emily was a butterfly. Others show the girls opening presents on Christmas, in the living room beneath the decorated tree.
Submitted By Charles R. McLeod, Wilmington, Del. For the longest time, all I could do for the month of November was sit, sulk and feel sorry for myself. The things I saw were bad. The things I did were even worse. But the friends I lost truly makes what I did and saw trivial at best. On Nov. I was in the fight of my life as I bounded and fought from house to house, but I was willing to die for those around me to keep them alive.
Now, at 28 years old, forgetting the faces of the fallen is impossible. Now, at 28 years old, I can still hear the radios chattering as they were killed. Learning how to cherish the lives my fellow Marines lived has been a daily challenge, but it is something I have learned to do with time. Through therapy, I have learned to appreciate what they taught me about life, brotherhood and myself. I have learned to live again after their deaths. November for me is a month that forever changed my life.
It is full of days, hours, minutes and seconds that now, I would never want to change.
Emily's Story - the Life of a Military Dependent: Memories of My Mother - Carol Carr - Google книги
Without a doubt, I will cherish those memories no matter how painful until my number is called. Veterans Day is a day where I reflect and recall. I silently remember why I served and I remind myself of the very reason why I no longer sit, sulk and feel sorry for myself. When I left for Iraq in , I knew nothing would ever be the same. I spent a year desperately trying to change a country bent on self-destruction.
I spent my days in the crosshairs of a brutal civil war between sides without mercy. I tried to establish order in the midst of chaos. From afar, I watched helplessly as my marriage crumbled back home. I said goodbye forever to a faith that had sustained me for a lifetime. I never understood why we were there. I probably never will.
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But I was proud to serve my country. Our sacrifices are our legacy. That is something I will always cherish. My father, Raymond G. Spruce, from Milford, Me. Tabitha Brown and the U. He continued to serve in the Navy Reserves for many years; as a little girl, I remember how impressed I was when he dressed up in his Naval uniform to go to those meetings. On the 40th anniversary of Iwo Jima, my father began to talk about his wartime experience to me; that conversation has continued for decades now. This poem encapsulates just a few of his stories.
Submitted by Marcella Spruce, Portsmouth, N. Ralph Zabitz. Growing up he told elaborate stories of his time in North Africa, Italy and Sicily. They were thrown together by chance and attached at the hip.
Together they stole a jeep, made fun of but still ate K-rations, and made a peach pie somewhere in Italy. These stories entertained and fascinated my sister and me over and over again throughout our childhood. I know war is hell, but for Ralph it was probably the best time of his life.
He actually had two! He would always take time to tell a story to anyone who thanked him for his service. Our trip to D. For us, we honored his service and the man he was. For Dad, he was the reason the memorial existed. He smiled the entire weekend. A proud vet, indeed! I regret that he never got back to Italy.
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His service gave him an affinity for all things Italian and love for the country that made a lasting impression on him. On this Veterans Day I salute him and all the other vets that came before and after Dad. Mike Rippe. Sergeant Brown was killed within the first month he joined our platoon. His mistake was opening a gate while a group of villagers watched; they knew what was coming. I heard the muffled explosion, saw his canteen arching 50 feet over my head. Our weapons were leveled on women, babies on laps, trembling old people and children. If an infant had reached for a breast, if someone coughed or moved a sheet of death instantly would have moved over them.
It was a frozen moment in time, one of impending death. No longer Americans, no longer Marines But young, hard eyed killing machines. Honor and duty lay on the ground Like the parts and pieces of Sergeant Brown. A day quite possibly some in Iraq or Afghanistan will not see the end of. They will be survived by combatants who on Veterans Days in the future will not be thinking of rows of white stones, concerts, speeches and flags at half mast but of men and women looking for body parts and the terrified eyes of simple people caught in war and the feeling of fingers resting on triggers.
Submitted by Mike Rippe, Proctor, Mont. William V. My father saved these paintings he did at age 19 aboard the U. Joseph E. Campbell in the Navy.