Homecoming for injured Marines

By Andrea Schneider

Sometimes the war and its effect seem very far away from Cape Girardeau. For my family it has come a lot closer.

My husband is a Marine reservist who was activated in January. He is stationed at Camp Pendleton. Last week marked our first time together as a family when we went to visit him. I wanted to share something with your readers that hasn't been widely reported. It may be a little long, but it was a powerful moment for me.

The kids and I are back from visiting Glenn in Camp Pendleton. When he was activated in January, I knew we would miss him, but until you are going through it you don't realize how much. If I had any doubts as to whether he is doing valuable work, they were laid to rest last weekend.

Everyone breathes a sigh of relief when I tell them that he is not going to be in Iraq in the foreseeable future. He is safe but not immune. There is little glory in the rear, but the ripples of the power and emotion of the battlefield are there. He attends the funerals of his fellow Marines killed in action and delivers their eulogies when no words can capture what he feels.

It is Good Friday. Glenn is called in to work to meet incoming wounded Marines. The kids are disappointed that our day with him is shot. They want time with their dad. I remind them that Dad's job is important and our sacrifices are small compared to others.

After driving to Miramar, Glenn returns with about 20 wounded Marines to the Navy hospital at Camp Pendleton that evening. He invites us to be part of the small welcoming party for them.

At the hospital there are a few people milling about the lobby. Some are wives who have formed a "Welcome Home" committee. They have balloons, banners and flowers. One of them tells me that these guys won't get the big party for their return with the band and the speeches. They trickle in from military hospitals nearer the front, a few at a time. They deserve some hoopla too, some recognition.

Some families wait for their Marine to come through the double doors. Each Marine must be checked and evaluated by the medical staff. As each Marine emerges, he is applauded by the small group gathered in the lobby. There are lots of happy smiles.

Some Marines don't have their families there. It costs more money than they have to fly. Glenn checks his list. Each Marine's name, his unit and the nature of his injuries are listed: A tall, very young Marine with a bullet to his neck. A smiling Hispanic Marine on crutches. A couple of them are wheeled out on gurneys, their legs swathed in bandages. A shorter one with dark hair, smiles, his cheek distended from a shrapnel wound. Another one's face is swollen and his lips stitched from more shrapnel.

A large, grizzled gunnery sergeant gets a long, emotional hug from his equally large son.

A Navy corpsman is swathed in hugs and kisses from his pretty wife and daughter. Physically he looks all right. "Battle fatigue," Glenn murmurs. "The corpsmen see the most of the worst, and it gets to 'em."

Across the room I see a Marine. He looks clean, pressed, fit in his civilian clothes. His right forearm is missing, the end of it wrapped in a black bandage. The color of mourning. He speaks quietly to a family whose son who had two fingers blown off by a rocket-propelled grenade. He looks confident, assured, capable. Glenn tells me he arrived two weeks ago. Because of a miscommunication, a snafu, no one from his unit was here to meet him. Now he comes to the hospital to meet each group of wounded, to welcome them home. Here is a man who has already given so much and still finds ways to give.

Semper Fidelis.

Always Faithful.

I am reminded that it is Good Friday. A day of sacrifice.

Glenn sends the Marines to different places. Some will stay in the hospital. Some will go their barracks. Others go home with their families. He issues orders to the duty Marines, to his driver, thanks them. With the lobby empty, we walk out into the darkness as a family.

It is Easter Sunday. We are in church. The minister speaks of the power of resurrection, of the power of love, of the promise of new life.

I know that power.

I have seen it in that little hospital waiting room.

Andrea Schneider is a Cape Girardeau resident.