Battle Plans

Battle Plans n early June of 1968, the excitement of school let- ting out for the summer fizzled in the shadow of my older brothers Army enlistment during the height of the Vietnam War. I was in the fifth grade and the youngest of five children. It was a grim year on the battlefields. So, on the morning of June 12 when Bobby left for Fort Bragg, North Carolina, teary-eyed good-byes were the featured event.

These were not the usual “You’re going off on your own and we’ll miss you like crazy” sentimental tears, the kind shed for siblings setting out for college dorms, or getting married. These were “Oh my gosh, this is war and you could wind up dead!” kinds of sobs validated by gruesome nightly newsreels and morbid photos spread over the pages of Life magazine. _ As we sobbed and sighed, Mom stood her ground and never shed a tear, at least none that I ever saw.

My mother was no stranger to the fear that war imparts. Mom was a World War II veteran herself; she’d enlisted with the first class of U.S. Marine Corps Women’s Reserves in 1943. “Free a Man to Fight” was the poster slogan that drew her to the recruiting office.

Against her own 23 232 FOR THE LOVE OF GOD mother’s wishes, she followed her heart and enlisted for love of country. In those days, military regulations pre- vented women from battle but she had a front-row seat to the aftermath and tragedy that war inflicted on one family after another.

Even with her background and experience she stood stoic with full faith that Bobby would return home unharmed. Her military training was not the well from which she drew her strength: Mom’s faith was invested in a higher authority. Like any , good Marine she had a battle plan. The rest of us had the reality of Walter Cronkite’s nightly casualty count, which hit far too close to home for us every time we heard about another neighborhood kid who would never return home to dribble a basketball.

That evening as we ate dinner, we did our best to ignore the empty seat at the table. Just the night before my six-foot five-inch clown of a brother had been there, hurling remarks at his four sisters in his usual wisecrack- ing style.

Now in somber silence we toyed with the food on our plates until Mom began clearing the table. Just as we headed out of the kitchen to study for final exams, my mother ordered an “about face.” We turned on our heels and walked back in. With very little fanfare she pulled her old wooden rosary beads out of her apron pocket and promptly announced that we would say the rosary together every night for the dura- tion of Bobby’s boot camp.

We would say the rosary and pray that God would spare my brother from active duty in Vietnam. In return, God would hear and answer our prayers. Of this she had absolutely no doubt. Right then and there I was sure my mother had officially lost her mind.

I knew of no one from our neighborhood who had enlisted and escaped Vietnam—no one. And, excuse me, but did she really think I was going to kneel down on the cold, hard kitchen floor for a half hour every night for the next twelve weeks to say the rosary . ..

Out loud? What if my friends walked by and heard us? It wasn’t cool. Concern for my brother was one thing, but I didn’t see the need to turn into religious fanatics.

But Mom had a plan and it was clear from the look on her face that I had no choice. So the first night of my brother’s enlistment we all knelt together in the kitchen on the cold, hard floor and recited the rosary. Then we did it the next night, and the next, until one day in September when my brother called right after his boot-camp graduation ceremony to tell Mother he had his orders.

He called at dinner- time so we were all close at hand. Mom answered—it was the first time she’d heard his voice since he’d left home—and she beamed. The call didn’t last more than a minute or two. “Yes, yes...

I’ll tell them right away . . . take care of yourself . . . bye-bye.” Click. She hung up the phone and for the first time since my brother left, Mom cried. 234 FOR THE LOVE OF GOD We said the rosary again that night, but this time we said it in thanksgiving.

My brother’s entire platoon was headed for Vietnam—with the exception of two recruits. Bobby and one other private had been selected for spe- cial duty in northern Italy. Bobby spent the duration of his enlistment there. Such was the faith my mother had in the Lord.

She never wavered for one moment when it came to seek- ing a miracle, no matter the odds. She was relentless _ with prayer. Sometimes I think God gave in just so she would change the subject! My mother was a Marine with a battle plan—a plan that usually started with her old wooden rosary beads.