by Sandra Lowen

Created on: July 19, 2010

OUR SON - A Military Mother's Testimony

I was against it from the beginning; we all were. We sat around the oval dinner table, three generations of terrified family. At the pointy end sat our son; so beautiful, so tall, his face serene despite our raised voices.

“Why,” we asked, “would you give up going to college and go into the Army? We’re an intellectual family; all doctors and Masters-level people.” We could not countenance that he would want anything different.

Skip—let’s call him Skip—smiled his patient smile. His teeth, the perfect result of almost a year of expensive orthodontic miracle making, glinted white behind his Cupid’s bow lips. “I’ve heard from everyone,” he said,  “And I know how much you love me. But this is a calling for me, just like being a doctor is for you, Grandpa, or being a therapist is for you, Dad, This is what I want.”

We reminded him of the fact that he was our ‘only’ and the last of his line. I wailed about my fear that he would return to us in a flag-draped wooden box. My husband enquired if this was some indirect form of suicide, given the recent departure of a serious girlfriend. He shook his head.

Skippy always wanted to go in the Army. He used to write ‘US Army’ across his backpacks with a Sharpie when he was still a little kid. He wore his hair cut short and leaned toward military-style camo and khaki outfits. He built up his body to eight-pack strength. He spent hours with the old military guys in our family, listening raptly as they traded war stories from Korea and Vietnam. We assumed he would forget about the Army when he got older, and follow his friends off to college.

We were wrong.

Sergeant Somebody showed up at our house when Skip passed his physical, as we knew he would, despite our hope that the doctors would find something—anything—to keep him home. We bought the boots and the sundries from the CVS and packed him off, just as we would have had he chosen college. The day came too quickly that I watched him stride out to the van that would take him to Boot Camp. “Come back carrying your shield or on it,” I bade him.  I watched from our window, clutching his Teddy bear, refusing to shed a tear until it turned the corner.

We got letters from boot camp every week. It was almost as if he was at Camp Talcott and his counselor was making him write home, like in the old days. We

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