Wednesday, November 10, 2004
The boy I carried in my arms and spooned ice cream with at midnight is now the man lined up to battle the bombers, murderers and beheaders. Our women soldiers are also in harm's way. But the burden of an assault is for infantrymen, armor and artillery: combat arms soldiers. Grunts at the front.
On eve of battle, I see my son sleeping. His picture moved on The Associated Press and a few days ago was the "Marine Corps Times Picture of the Day." A huddle of Marines, exhausted after a night mission. And my son's angle of repose so similar to his sleepy lull on the way home from a camping trip in the Sierras.
He is all of them, to me, and all of them are our sons. They have put it all on the line for us. Like the men on D-Day, June 6, 1944. Like the men on Iwo Jima and those other Pacific atolls.
The editor, Dennis Anderson, reflects on the editorial decisions of the mainstream media, mirroring my thoughts last night as I watched Larry King twist hankies over the dismissal of juror number 7:
When I was watching Scott Peterson's pursuit amid preparations for deployment as an embedded journalist, my son was in high school attending the prom. A little more than a year later, in his first adult decision, he is in the gathering storm.
Every time I see the seemingly endless saga of the accused wife killer, all I can think is, "You mean this thing was going on before Baghdad fell?" The Peterson drama drones on, and in that time, a boy has grown to manhood and now stares at the dragon's teeth across the blasted, battle-scarred heath.
Meanwhile, if Mr. Anderson wants the latest and best analysis of the situation on the ground in Fallujah, he should read Wretchard this morning. He is fascinating, as always, but today's post is particularly rich for the tactically-inclined.
From DeGaulle, about to board. See you soon.