The American Cemetery

Sometimes what we don't plan for ends up being what we needed to see, something memorable and heart-stopping.

We planned for some sightseeing on our first day in England--going to Cambridge to see King's College Chapel and to explore a little bit of that city, then on to Ely (pronounced EElee) to visit the cathedral there. But along the way we passed a cemetery that I didn't know existed, one that sent a shiver through my bones and tears to my eyes. It was the resting place of the American soldiers who lost their lives in World War II while stationed in England.

Imagine rows and rows of white crosses in he midst of quiet green fields and trees; imagine each cross with a name, except for those (and there were many) with no name and only an inscription to the unknown soldier sleeping below. Imagine a cool, gray day with a few drops of rain and a light mist hovering just above the trees. Imagine our quiet voices and our sad hearts as we read the names, walked among the graves, and thought about that grim and terrible time in our world's history. But for the grace of God, my father, my uncles, my husband's uncles could also have been beneath that soft green grass.

The British government maintains the site and is currently doing restoration work to the chapel and visitors center. (I took the photo at left through the glass door so it's a little crooked). It will, I think, be stunning when complete. As it is, the cemetery shows the love and gratitude of the British people by the care that is so evident in the neat lawns, shrubs, gardens and reflecting pool.

A granite wall lists alphabetically the names of all the soldiers buried on the site. We found several from West Virginia, bringing the war even closer to home. Such a place makes one proud of their country, and mournful too--such loss of life, and all because of a mad man. So many young men, and probably a few women were there too, who would never live out their lives, see their children grow up, see their countries flourishing because they were there to fight when needed.

I will never understand war; I will never understand the urges that drive men to seek dominion over others at all costs. But I do understand bravery and sacrifice, and I was humbled in its presence.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Poppy for a Veteran

The sign in front of John's Lube lists soldiers' names,
those who are soon returning home.
And every day I drive past I wonder
if I will ever see the name of my son
posted in celebration.



Today I checked the sign and here is what I saw:






my son, listed first, with the others all returning soon.


Nothing fancy, this sign.

But to the families of soldiers, a blessed sight.




In the garden at my home, the poppies seem to know
it's time to bloom.

Message from the Front

The phone rings and I answer to silence.
Then his voice.
Hello Mom.

His voice is the same. Too young
to be in charge of so much, and so many
men with hard boots and hard eyes.

I ask,
How are you? even though
I know what the answer will be.

Fine, I’m fine.
He evades, like I’m asking
a question to which he doesn’t know
the answer.

He speaks
of the mission, of his men
and the good food.
How are the kids?
Have you seen them?

The kids, the touchstone,
the constant that can be
talked about, laughed about,
discussed and delighted
in, a story with happy chapters.
Endless details —
who needs clothes or haircut,
how much gas money; the prom
is coming and church camp.
His voice caresses each name
like smooth stones carried
in his heart for luck.

I can’t wait to get home, he says.
When? I ask.
I remember the last deployment
and the return date that shifted
as quickly as the dunes of sand.
Soon, maybe four months. Maybe five. Soon.

It is time to end our call.
My goodbye is cheerful, his the same.
I love you we say at the same time,
I love you.

The line goes quiet. He is gone.
I hold the phone close to my face
a few moments longer then slowly,
slowly
I too am gone.

One Man's Statement: John Rost

I'd passed Rost Road many times on my journeys across Rte 50 in Wood County. Each time my foot would ease on the gas and my eyes would stray to the hillside on the left.

Crosses. Hundreds of them, all white, lined neatly up and down the hillside. Such a sight in the rural eastern part of Wood County is uexpected, to say the least.

Yesterday I was in a hurry as usual, but I had my camera with me and decided to stop a minute to stop and take a picture or two. I pulled into the road and as I did I saw a four-wheeler in front of me. I wanted to get a better view of the crosses, so I followed the small vehicle up the road. Too late, I realized that the road deadended at this man's house, and he was off the four-wheeler and looking at me.

I pulled up to him, stopped the car and got out. "Those your crosses?" I asked. "They are," he replied. "That's quite a statement you're making with them," I offered. "It is," he said. "The number is actually wrong today. There are four more."

I nodded. "My son is serving there now."

"Well, he's doing what he's been told to do. He's a good soldier. I wa in World War II. I did what I was told too. I believed in that war, but not this one."

I was surprised. The man in front of me looked to be a healthy 65 years old or maybe a little older. But to have served in WWII he had to be at least, what? 79?

I introduced myself, and asked permission to take a few photos. He introduced himself, too. "Rost. Just like the road. My great-grandfather owned this land. He came here by flatboat down the Ohio River from Pittsburgh. My grandfather built this house, and my mother was born here." The house is a Victorian beauty, well cared for. Mr. Rost led me across the yard to a good spot to photograph the crosses. We stood a moment looking at them, and I felt a strong admiration for this man who decided to make his opinion known in such a public way.

Mr. Rost laughed when I asked to take his photo in front of his home. "We're both aging pretty well," he said. He looked at the house. "Any house needs cared for, even new ones. This one takes some care. I can't leave it."

Mr. Rost isn't your usual war protester. He has a gun room, a target range and still hunts. He likes his space from his neighbors. "Neighbors are fine, and I like mine. I just don't want to see them unless I want to."

As usual, a little conversation revealed that we had friends in common. He had retired from the aluminum plant in my county, and knew some of my neighbors. It's always that way in West Virginia. Talk long enough, you'll know someone in common. Talk a little longer and odds are you'll find you're related some way.

A four-acre pond behind the Rost house is obviously a family gathering place. Some family members live on the land, others visit from out-of-state. "Did you build this pond?" I asked. He shook his head."When the state built Rte 50 into a four-lane, they needed a big source of water for all the dust. The state built that pond for me, in exchange for water for road construction." He grinned.This man likes a bargain, and he certainly got one in that deal.

As I was taking my leave, Mr. Rost pointed out his tool workshop. A small water heater was on the porch, obviously a project in progress. "When someone tells me I can't do something," he said, "they've got my attention."

I'm not sure what the project was but I have no doubt that he will work at it umtil he's successful. He's not a man of easy opinions or easy ways. His love of his home, roots in the land, commitment to his family and his values are cut clear and deep. At 81 years old, he still cares for his land and home, takes his dogs out hunting and is a pretty mean shot. He's another one of those West Virginians that form the backbone of our state--proud mountaineers who can take care of themselves, and stand up for what they believe in.

It took more than a minute to take my photo yesterday, but I came away with a lot more than a picture.

One More Goodbye

They leave tomorrow, after two months of training and preparation. Goodbye, soldiers, and Godspeed to you all. May you all return safely to your families and homes.

One More Goodbye

With sadness too deep for the tears
that dam in my throat
I stand strong,
nerves frayed but smooth on the surface
like threads pulled so taut the broken edges do not show--

I cannot cry, I cannot rail and scream
because to do so would cause distress
for the one who must leave for a war
that seems to have no end, no purpose, no final goal
of victory against an enemy I cannot even name--

and yet my son must go
while I wave and smile
and break apart inside

Pictures: Deployment of the 111th Engineers in WV

Granddaughter Hannah gettin' it done with Katelyn

Derek, me and Haley (playing the fool!)

waiting...

Support group (daughter Haley, girlfriend Tiffany), also waiting...

Finally on their way. That's Derek on the right, back turned...

and then they were gone. Safe journeys, soldiers.

Fare Thee Well 111th Engineers! Off to Iraq

We saw our son Derek off today for his third deployment to the Persian Gulf. (He is with the Army National Guard, 111th Engineers out of Eleanor, WV in case you want to google it.)

They will go to Fort McCoy in Minnesota for a monthbefore they fly over. At this point it looks likehe'll be stationed at Tukrit, Iraq in Brigade HQ. He was promoted the day before he left to master sergeant. His son Jared got to pin his stripes on during the ceremony, and WV's governor Joe Manchin was there too. We have a picture of very Republican Derek with the Democratic governor--I'll have to frame that!

Today was tough, but there was a real send-off--bands, lots of people and flags and a strong show of support. Even though 99% of the people there oppose this war, the troops were given every bit of support they could have wanted.

Derek's kids did very well today. He should be proudof the way they behaved--no tears and bawling. They were straight up and waving flags until he was out of sight and hearing. Then they let loose, but that's to be expected. What good little troopers.

I tried to remember how many times I've seen Derekoff, but I really can't recall. I will be very glad when he finally retires from the military. But I'm proud of him.

The Beginnings of Goodbye

Tonight the process started. Dinner outside at his house, a small bonfire and marshmallows, working out the little details (who will fix the barn roof? who will finish putting in the new windows? Nathaniel said he'd mow around the pond), hugging the kids, talking.

We'll have a few more times to be together before Sunday. We all have other commitments: I have workshops t do at a writers conference, his girlfriend has to work, the kids have the last day of school, and he will be gone to do whatever it is his unit (the ANG 111th Engineers out of Eleanor, WV) has to do before flying away. But there will be spaces for being together, even for a few minutes.

The time will pass too quickly, there will be things left unsaid and things forgotten. And then the goodbyes will be finished, and it will be very, very quiet.

Day Two: Making Plans

A night's sleep always helps. This morning, I assessed what Derek told me last night--a promotion and a job at brigade headquarters in Iraq. It could be worse. He'll go over as an E-8 or Master Sergeant (I think, not understanding rank very well). That means, I believe, an administrative position which I am sure he'll hate.

Next step: he went for physical and so forth today. He hasn't told his four children yet--he'll do that tomorrow. As a divorced Dad, it's difficult to figure out when is the best time. He's been fortunate in that he has his children at least once a week, but of course that makes goodbyes all the harder.

And then the next step: figuring out who will care for his home, his dog, his vehicles, his bills. Most of the it my husband and I will do, but he has several acres that will need mowing. Can we do that in addition to our own pretty extensive mowing? And the dog--will our dogs allow him to stay? They're very territorial. Should the electricity and gas be turned off? What to do with his trucks and van?

The bills are easy--I did those last time he was gone. Broken hearts of children who don't understand the war or the call to duty? That one will be much harder to handle. I remember how it was before; they were younger then. What will it be like for Jared, almost 16 and usually living with his Dad, to suddenly not have that outlet?

So we prepare. There is no sense in railing against it. It will be, and that's all there is to it. One thing I do not do is cry in front of my solider sons. Soldiers need the support of their families, and whatever my personal political opinions, my sons will have my support. They will know their mother is proud of them for doing what they have been asked to do by their country.

Even when I disgree at every level with what my country asks of my sons, I will stand by them and behind them.

Call from Germany

Tommy called to give us his news, but when we told him the news from home first--that his brother was going back to Iraq--there was a stunned silence on the line for several seconds.


Then he told us. He might be going too. He's in a new shop and they ship supplies to the troops. They make weekly flights--one week on, one week off. Will he go? He's not sure, but that's the buzz around the shop. He's excited about a new step in his Air Force career. What can I say? He's doing what he wanted to do, and that's more than many people get in life.


So I go back to my mantra--change what I can, accept what I can't, know the difference, and pray.

Moon Blood

red moon,
born of heat and dust
you rise tonight
over a lonely ridge
surrounded by forest
quiet disturbed
only by the dreaded ring
of the telephone

and my silent, inner cries
that you will shed your light again
over my son
in a land of sand and fiery hate
soaked in the color
of dried and wasted blood
and mother's tears

Back to Iraq

It finally came---the call I've been dreading. I knew that with two sons still in the military, the odds were that one of them would be called up during this troop surge.

Derek has been there once, and my memory of that time is dark and stressful. He probably handled it better than I did. A soldier always and all ways.

I am one very unhappy mother tonight. I want to be supportive and calm, a woman of strength. I do my best to portray that, but inside? Ah, inside it is a different story.

How do other mothers do this? You'd think I'd be good at it by now, with so many good-byes to my sons in my background. But it's never easy and each time is the first time all over again.

So here we go--a small space of peace and recovery from my father and mother's deaths, a couple of years to recuperate from Derek's last deployment, and a few months to adjust to our youngest son joining the Air Force and going to Germany, a couple of years for Derek to develop a civilian life.

I should have known it was too good to last.

War: 2 Poems

More bad news today. More people killed, more bombs, no news about the 3 missing soldiers, and Congress still not taking the actions needed to end this stupidity. I understand that we can't just leave, but staying without a real plan and leaving our soldiers there to face hatred and ineptness is not an option. And then we put them on trial for the things they might have done. It's a war--people, civilians, they get killed. That's war, and it's ugly and nasty and if we didn't want people to be killed we should not have started this mess.

I am the mother of soldiers. I am the wife, daughter, granddaughter, great-granddaughter of soldiers, back at least to the American Revolution. Military men (and for all I know, women) have been in the family for generations. That does not mean I have to like it. It does not mean I am comfortable with it.

My stomach is in knots every day, and my heart sinks every time I hear another soldier has died. I cannot bear to think of their families, their mothers. I know that most of the soldiers are there because they believe their leaders, and that they serve because they believe it is the right thing to do. That is why my sons joined. They believed it was their duty to defend their country, to serve with pride. I am proud of their choices even as I twist inside with worry.

Right now, I feel lucky. Two sons still in the military, but at the moment neither one in the Mideast. That makes me feel guilty. Other mother's sons and daughters are there. One of mine has already been there, I remind myself, but it doesn't make my real relief at the current safety of my sons seem less selfish.

The two poems below reflect a little of how I feel. I find it hard to put into words, and I worry that somehow I am being disrespectful of my sons. It's not a good time to be the mother of soldiers.

Storyteller

when the darkness hides his face
it’s then he tells the tales
of opening up the massive graves
of those killed in the first Gulf War

the baby skeletons are the ones
that get to him the most
he tells about fragile bones
voice cracking on the words

that tell of how they found the graves
and how they dug them out
backhoes scooping out the earth
because it takes too long by hand

to dig up four thousand buried bodies
under hot Iraqi sun
we stood there by the bones he says
while people came to search

to find their missing relatives--
uncle, father, brother, son
aunt and mother, daughter, too
all mixed and mingled in the sand

he never tells too much at once
it takes a while to hear it all
a tale no man should have to tell
but all men need to hear

-----------------------------------------

Mother’s Anthem

I am just his mother
I cannot tell him what to do
Now that he’s a grown man
With his own life and will
the duty he has chosen
is one he must fulfill

To defend his country
Right or wrong
keep it safe and keep it strong
I am just his mother
Who can blame me if I cry
Inside each night with fear
At what my son has seen
In his thirty-two years

Someone has to do it,
That is what he says
Someone has to be there
Someone has to fight the fight
why must it be my son, I cry
I am just his mother
And yes, I swell with pride
When I see him standing proud
In his uniform of military might

He is just another soldier
Like the thousands gone before
I am just his mother
And I am tired of war