Veterans Day
Devastating.
The Things They Wrote
A year ago the Op-Ed page marked Veterans Day by publishing
excerpts from letters written home by soldiers who lost
their lives in Iraq. At the time, fewer than 400 Americans
had died in Operation Iraqi Freedom. This year Veterans Day
takes place during the battle for the Iraqi city of
Falluja, where at least 11 Americans have been killed this
week. Since the beginning of the war, the number of
American dead in Iraq, according to the Pentagon, stands at
1,149. Thousands more have been wounded.
Below are passages from letters sent this year by men and
women, now dead, to their families in the United States.
Excerpts from letters to his parents from Pfc. Moisés A.
Langhorst of the Marines. Private Langhorst, 19, of Moose
Lake, Minn., was killed in Al Anbar Province on April 6 by
small-arms fire.
March 13
As far as my psychological health, we look out for each
other pretty well on that. ... I've been praying a lot and
I hope you're praying for the Dirty 3rd Platoon, because
there is no doubt that we are in the Valley of the Shadow
of Death.
March 15
After standing in the guard tower for seven-and-a-half
hours this morning, we went on our first platoon-size
patrol from about 1200 to 1700. It was exhausting, but it
went very well. I had to carry the patrol pack with
emergency chow, a poncho and night vision goggles. That's
what really wore me out.
We toured the mosques and visited the troublesome abandoned
train station. The people were friendly, and flocks of
children followed us everywhere.
When I called you asked me if Iraq is what I expected, and
it really is. It looks just like it does on the news. It
hardly feels like a war, though. Compared to the wars of
the past, this is nothing. We're not standing on line in
the open - facing German machine guns like the Marines at
Belleau Wood or trying to wade ashore in chest-deep water
at Tarawa. We're not facing hordes of screaming men at the
frozen Chosun Reservoir in Korea or the clever ambushes of
Vietcong. We deal with potshots and I.E.D.'s. With modern
medicine my chances of dying are slim to none and my
chances of going home unscathed are better than half. Fewer
than 10 men in my company have fired their weapons in the
10 days we've been here.
March 24
While not always pleasant, I know this experience is good
for me. It makes me appreciate every little blessing God
gives me, especially the family, friends and home I left
behind in Moose Lake.
Excerpt from an e-mail message to her cousin on his wedding
day from Sgt. First Class Linda Ann Tarango-Griess of the
Army. Sergeant Tarango-Griess, 33, of Sutton, Neb., was
killed on July 11 in Samarra by an improvised explosive
device.
May 14
So today is your big day? Wow! It seems like just yesterday
that I was making you peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
and Malt-O-Meal. We experienced a lot together as we grew
up and for the life of me, I can't think of a time that you
and I never got along. IS THAT NORMAL?
I never thought I would see the day that you settle down
and get married, but here you are. You couldn't have picked
a more wonderful person than Rachel. She is very sweet,
very giving and most important, she loves you. Be good to
her. I am sorry I can't be there to share in your day, but
here I am in hopes that one day, these people will have the
chance to be as happy as you. Just know that I AM with you
... just close your eyes, place your hands on your heart,
and you will feel me there.
Excerpts from letters to his 2-year-old son and his wife
from Sgt. Christopher Potts of the Army. Sergeant Potts,
38, of Tiverton, R.I., was killed on Oct. 3 in Taji by
small-arms fire.
January
Hi my big guy. How are you? I miss you bad. I miss things
like you calling for me in the morning when you hear me in
the kitchen, or when you come home at the end of the day. I
also miss cooking for you and Mom. But most of all I miss
your big hugs. I enjoy hearing your voice on the phone and
seeing the pictures you draw for me. I'm sorry for not
writing you till now. But the days are very long here, and
we only get about four-and-a-half hours sleep a night. I
got up a little early to write this because I know you need
your own letter too.
March 18
Hi my love. Well, where should I start? First we left
Kuwait after being issued a combat load of ammo - M-16
ammo, grenades, smoke grenades, grenade-launcher ammo and
C-4. I knew that night that this is for real. Some people
paced, some people slept, some of us had to write the
just-in-case letters, some just sat. The letter-writing was
a real hard thing to do, it definitely makes you aware of
the situation and your life. But you'll never have to read
it - unless you want to when I get home. It's weird because
I'm not afraid of what might happen, or the pain of it. I'm
just afraid of not being able to see you again.
The first leg of the trip through the desert was really
bad. There were children of all ages from God knows where
begging for food and water. The dust was blowing all over
them, and some had torn outgrown clothes, and some were
barefoot. I looked over at my driver and we were both
crying after a few miles. I said to him, You know, this is
why I'm here, so that my kids won't ever have to live like
that. Then we just drove in silence for a while.
As we got closer to Baghdad you could see blown-up military
equipment, ours and theirs. People were on the side of the
road selling gasoline out of plastic jugs. There was diesel
and fuel spilled everywhere ... then you'd see some
slaughtered lambs on the side of the road. The meat is
hanging out in the sun and dirt and germ-infested air.
Farther down the road there were people bathing and washing
up. Other people were picking through garbage.
I hope today I can call. I miss you so much that as I write
this part my eyes are running. The TV in the mess hall said
you got snow yesterday. I wish I was there to shovel. I
hope you are being taken care of.
The Things They Wrote
A year ago the Op-Ed page marked Veterans Day by publishing
excerpts from letters written home by soldiers who lost
their lives in Iraq. At the time, fewer than 400 Americans
had died in Operation Iraqi Freedom. This year Veterans Day
takes place during the battle for the Iraqi city of
Falluja, where at least 11 Americans have been killed this
week. Since the beginning of the war, the number of
American dead in Iraq, according to the Pentagon, stands at
1,149. Thousands more have been wounded.
Below are passages from letters sent this year by men and
women, now dead, to their families in the United States.
Excerpts from letters to his parents from Pfc. Moisés A.
Langhorst of the Marines. Private Langhorst, 19, of Moose
Lake, Minn., was killed in Al Anbar Province on April 6 by
small-arms fire.
March 13
As far as my psychological health, we look out for each
other pretty well on that. ... I've been praying a lot and
I hope you're praying for the Dirty 3rd Platoon, because
there is no doubt that we are in the Valley of the Shadow
of Death.
March 15
After standing in the guard tower for seven-and-a-half
hours this morning, we went on our first platoon-size
patrol from about 1200 to 1700. It was exhausting, but it
went very well. I had to carry the patrol pack with
emergency chow, a poncho and night vision goggles. That's
what really wore me out.
We toured the mosques and visited the troublesome abandoned
train station. The people were friendly, and flocks of
children followed us everywhere.
When I called you asked me if Iraq is what I expected, and
it really is. It looks just like it does on the news. It
hardly feels like a war, though. Compared to the wars of
the past, this is nothing. We're not standing on line in
the open - facing German machine guns like the Marines at
Belleau Wood or trying to wade ashore in chest-deep water
at Tarawa. We're not facing hordes of screaming men at the
frozen Chosun Reservoir in Korea or the clever ambushes of
Vietcong. We deal with potshots and I.E.D.'s. With modern
medicine my chances of dying are slim to none and my
chances of going home unscathed are better than half. Fewer
than 10 men in my company have fired their weapons in the
10 days we've been here.
March 24
While not always pleasant, I know this experience is good
for me. It makes me appreciate every little blessing God
gives me, especially the family, friends and home I left
behind in Moose Lake.
Excerpt from an e-mail message to her cousin on his wedding
day from Sgt. First Class Linda Ann Tarango-Griess of the
Army. Sergeant Tarango-Griess, 33, of Sutton, Neb., was
killed on July 11 in Samarra by an improvised explosive
device.
May 14
So today is your big day? Wow! It seems like just yesterday
that I was making you peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
and Malt-O-Meal. We experienced a lot together as we grew
up and for the life of me, I can't think of a time that you
and I never got along. IS THAT NORMAL?
I never thought I would see the day that you settle down
and get married, but here you are. You couldn't have picked
a more wonderful person than Rachel. She is very sweet,
very giving and most important, she loves you. Be good to
her. I am sorry I can't be there to share in your day, but
here I am in hopes that one day, these people will have the
chance to be as happy as you. Just know that I AM with you
... just close your eyes, place your hands on your heart,
and you will feel me there.
Excerpts from letters to his 2-year-old son and his wife
from Sgt. Christopher Potts of the Army. Sergeant Potts,
38, of Tiverton, R.I., was killed on Oct. 3 in Taji by
small-arms fire.
January
Hi my big guy. How are you? I miss you bad. I miss things
like you calling for me in the morning when you hear me in
the kitchen, or when you come home at the end of the day. I
also miss cooking for you and Mom. But most of all I miss
your big hugs. I enjoy hearing your voice on the phone and
seeing the pictures you draw for me. I'm sorry for not
writing you till now. But the days are very long here, and
we only get about four-and-a-half hours sleep a night. I
got up a little early to write this because I know you need
your own letter too.
March 18
Hi my love. Well, where should I start? First we left
Kuwait after being issued a combat load of ammo - M-16
ammo, grenades, smoke grenades, grenade-launcher ammo and
C-4. I knew that night that this is for real. Some people
paced, some people slept, some of us had to write the
just-in-case letters, some just sat. The letter-writing was
a real hard thing to do, it definitely makes you aware of
the situation and your life. But you'll never have to read
it - unless you want to when I get home. It's weird because
I'm not afraid of what might happen, or the pain of it. I'm
just afraid of not being able to see you again.
The first leg of the trip through the desert was really
bad. There were children of all ages from God knows where
begging for food and water. The dust was blowing all over
them, and some had torn outgrown clothes, and some were
barefoot. I looked over at my driver and we were both
crying after a few miles. I said to him, You know, this is
why I'm here, so that my kids won't ever have to live like
that. Then we just drove in silence for a while.
As we got closer to Baghdad you could see blown-up military
equipment, ours and theirs. People were on the side of the
road selling gasoline out of plastic jugs. There was diesel
and fuel spilled everywhere ... then you'd see some
slaughtered lambs on the side of the road. The meat is
hanging out in the sun and dirt and germ-infested air.
Farther down the road there were people bathing and washing
up. Other people were picking through garbage.
I hope today I can call. I miss you so much that as I write
this part my eyes are running. The TV in the mess hall said
you got snow yesterday. I wish I was there to shovel. I
hope you are being taken care of.