Purple Hearts & Wounded Spirits Page 2

  It was at such a time that a sudden wave of shock and disbelief rolled over our nation. An event so personally tragic that it took your breath away, yet at the same time was felt by the entire nation creating a common bond of pain, anger and even fear. Similar to the attack on Pearl Harbor, our nation was united with that sense of kinship that only comes from shared tragedy.

  As much as Pearl Harbor was a premeditated act of betrayal by another nation, the Kennedy assassination was a heinous criminal act, perpetrated by a twisted individual who sought to impose his political agenda on the United States. The heart wrenching emotions of loss and betrayal were eventually followed by righteous indignation and outright anger after these events. The terrorist attack of 9/11 caused the horrific combination of emotions that were felt after Pearl Harbor and the assassination of JFK. The effort to make any sense of that event and to deal with its immediate ramifications, while striving to maintain any real sense of normalcy for my family, would become the ultimate goal of my journey.

  On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was teaching history and English at a small Christian school in northern New England. I had spent the last ten years teaching and coaching in educational ministries during the day, and working as an adjunct instructor at a local college at night. My original intention for getting into the education profession was twofold: I wanted to be on the same schedule as my children, and I really enjoyed history and thought I would be good at teaching it. My plan was to teach at a public high school and do some coaching on the side. Yet God had a better plan for my family and me.

  It was during graduate school that He grabbed my attention and my heart and steered me toward a full-time ministry in education. Anyone who has worked in a Christian ministry knows all too well that making a lot of money is unrealistic, so I needed to work as many side jobs as possible.

  One of my part-time jobs was the Army National Guard (ANG). I was raised in a military family where both of my older brothers and my Father had been in the military. Due to my call to ministry I knew I could not go on active duty, so I decided to serve locally with the ANG. Though I held a master’s degree in education (M.Ed.), pursuing a commission as an officer would not have been conducive to my work and family obligations.

  Many people in the ANG, especially the officers, had difficulty understanding why, with my level of education, I would not pursue a commission as an officer as opposed to a career as a non-commissioned officer (NCO)—a soldier who holds a sergeants rank. I discovered that this was a terrific opportunity to evangelize by sharing what God had done in and through my life in regards to the ministries that I was involved with. The realization that there were circumstances in my life that were bigger than my own desires and aspirations confused some people, but it made perfect sense in my Christian worldview.

  By the time I was told about the 9/11 attack, both planes had already crashed into the World Trade Center and the other two were not far behind. The staff at our school pulled all students out of class and assembled everyone in the cafeteria to watch the news together. Like most Americans, we did not have much information to go on but as soon as I saw the video of both planes hitting the towers there was no doubt in my mind that this was a coordinated attack. The important questions were: by whom and why?

  Although I eventually discovered the answers to those questions, the initial reaction by most of the people around me varied little. They were trying to come to grips with the shock of what had just happened and were realizing that this was not a movie. Real people were leaping to certain death to keep from being burned alive. Once we learned that two other planes had crashed, it was painfully obvious that we were under attack.

  The school staff soon realized that we were not watching the news alone and had a room full of teenagers with us. These students were looking to us for some kind of assurance that everything was going to be alright. We took them back to class and tried to process what had just happened with the best perspective we had. With no idea of where or when the next attack would take place, parents began picking their children up from school, wanting to keep them close; I imagine that scenario was repeated around the country that afternoon.

  Later that evening, the attack was the obvious topic of discussion around the dinner table. For my oldest son, Brandon, who was a senior at a Christian high school, this was an especially painful and powerful event to process because he had just returned from a weekend mission trip to New York City (NYC), specifically doing street evangelism in front of the Twin Towers just two days prior.

  He came home from NYC talking about how scary it was to be standing on the streets of NYC approaching total strangers asking them about their relationship with Jesus Christ. During the three days his class spent there, he estimates that they spoke to over one thousand people. Brandon was pleasantly surprised with the positive response he received from most of the people he spoke with. I commented that it was a definite sign that the Holy Spirit was standing beside him and his friends as they shared the Gospel.

  My son, looking for a positive take on the 9/11 events, wondered if any of the people that he spoke with might have made a decision for Christ, either that weekend or even at the moment prior to their horrific death. We discussed how he will not know the answer to that question until he’s in Heaven, but how glorious that realization would be. Until then we can only pray for peace and comfort for the families of those lost on 9/11 and remember how important evangelism is.

  I was impressed with his response to a terribly painful event, yet I could not get past the feeling of being kicked in the gut. That sick feeling was born out of fear for my own family and of a growing anger toward those who did this horrible thing in the name of their god. I realized that had the planes crashed on Friday or had his class decided to stay through Monday they would likely be crushed under tons of debris from those towers. My son and his friends, all decent kids with futures that promised to make the world spin a little better, would be gone; and for what? What had they ever done to anyone else, not to mention people half-a-world away, that someone would feel truly justified in murdering them?

  Over the next few months anger began to burrow deep into my heart, to the point that I was consumed with it and the fear that I could not protect my family from another attack. The more I thought about it the more vengeful I became. As a father I felt terribly burdened to defend my family somehow. I needed to stop these people from trying to hurt my family ever again.

  Over the next couple years I continued teaching and eventually became an administrator at that same Christian school. My son graduated high school and went on to college while my younger children continued with life like not much had changed. My wife Raquel, however, knew that things had changed with me and for us. We watched and cheered as President George W. Bush sent bombers and troops into Afghanistan to topple the Taliban-led government and deny Al Qaeda a safe haven from which to base their terror operations.

  The ANG had stepped up its combat training and prep for our possible deployment and Raquel was suddenly introduced to the reality of what an eventual deployment would mean to her and the children.

  In January 2003, while I was breaking the ice off from the hayloft door of our garage, I lost my footing and fell from the second floor. I landed feet first and rolled to the ground, a challenge in and of itself since the driveway was frozen solid in the sub-zero temperature. I lay there for a moment in tremendous pain realizing that I had really screwed up this time. I did not try to stand but crawled from the garage to the front door of our house. By the time I reached the door I was beginning to pass out from the pain and hypothermia.

  I managed to knock on the door and my six year old daughter Bekah answered; she looked at me on the ground, assumed I was playing a game, and said, “Oh, Daddy,” and closed the door in my face. Just as I was sure I would die on my own front steps Raquel opened the door, she had asked Bekah who was at the door and Bekah said, “Daddy, he’s on the ground, silly Daddy.” I told Raquel what had
happened and suggested she take me to the emergency room in our car; of course she knew better and called for an ambulance. Later the x-rays would show that I had broken both of my legs just above the ankle, but the doctor stated that I was lucky I did not injure my back, which is common during such falls.

  I tell this story for a few reasons. First to share what a crazy life I led at times, and second, to show that my Bekah is precious and a character to say the least. More importantly this was January of 2003; I did not know that in less than one year I would be deployed to Iraq with legs that were not completely healed. I could not attend any more ANG drills that year and focused on teaching from a wheelchair and eventually crutches. I developed a new appreciation for Raquel that year; with two broken legs life gets complicated for even the simple things like getting dressed and going to the bathroom. I was forced to accept more help than I felt comfortable with, being a generally independent and stubborn person.

  The year passed—as quickly as most—and before I knew it we were hanging Christmas decorations. I was walking without crutches by then, with only a removable leg cast for my right leg. Due to the location of the breaks it would be a long time before I would be able to walk far without experiencing a significant amount of pain. Sitting at the kitchen table I received a call from a sergeant (SGT) from the ANG. This was not a big deal as they called periodically to check on my progress.

  I could tell by the tone of his voice that something was different; he advised me that our unit was being activated to deploy to the Middle East. “To do what?” I asked since we were an artillery unit and I knew we were not dragging our Howitzers (heavy cannons) all the way to Iraq.

  “To be combat MPs,” he replied.

  “What’s the difference between a regular MP and a combat MP?” I asked.

  “We get to shoot back,” he said in grave seriousness.

  The SGT advised me that they realized that I was in no condition to deploy but that I needed to respond to the “call up” until I was medically excused from active service.

  “If I did deploy with the unit, how long would we be gone?” I asked him.

  “Approximately eighteen months,” he replied.

  “Eighteen months!” I said.

  I thanked him and told him that I would be at the armory as advised. I hung up the phone and turned to see Raquel standing there fighting back the tears.

  “Eighteen months! That’s a year and half without you here!” she said.

  During our eleven years of marriage we had not been separated for more than a few days; the thought of being a world away for more than a year was daunting to say the least.

  “But they said I don’t have to go,” I told her, trying to ease her fears.

  “Who are you kidding? Nothing could keep you here,” she said as she turned and walked into the bedroom closing the door behind her.

  I sat alone in the kitchen feeling completely lost. What should I do? What could I do? There were so many contradicting forces pulling at me, not to mention the internal voices motivated by my anger over 9/11. I held a deep sense of patriotism as well as an obligation to honor my oath to answer the call of my country. Yet I had a legitimate medical reason to not go. I could still help by staying back and supporting the effort from home. I was torn.

  I realized that I had been considering how the attack on 9/11 had impacted me, hoping to get the chance to take the fight to the enemy and in some small way defend my family.

  Yet after seeing the look in my wife’s eyes, I was suddenly brought back to the world of here and now where my wife would be home alone and look after everything herself. She would be paying the bills, taking care of four children and selling our house that was still on the market. I realized that while many families went through deployments—my own mother was often alone when my dad was out to sea—it’s different when it’s your wife and your children. The guilt was overwhelming and well deserved; I knew what I had to do.

  Chapter Two

  First Tour: Answering the Call

  I REPORTED IN AT THE ARMORY on a very cold and snowy December morning. My ANG command had already stated that they did not expect me to deploy with them due to the fact that I had broken both of my legs in an accident at home less than a year prior. Yet I was nervous, not knowing what to expect from a process with which I had no prior experience. I was anxious about my impending decision as to whether I would volunteer to deploy or not.

  It had already been a long day by the time we “formed up” for roll call. I had transferred to this Armory just prior to my accident. I accepted a promotion to Staff Sergeant (SSG) but in doing so I had to change Armories, which meant a three hour drive one way, one weekend per month. I barely knew any of the other soldiers because of this, which added to my anxiety. I found myself wishing I had remained with my former unit, thinking that at least if I deployed I would be going with guys I had known and trained with for years. Hindsight is usually clearer and looking back I am certain that I was exactly where the Lord wanted me to be.

  During first formation, we were given a basic rundown of the mobilization process, both short and long term. The other soldiers were assigned to their respective squads and positions and I was told to report to the First Sergeant. It was at that point that I knew that I needed to deploy. I had enlisted with every intention of “answering the call” of my country if it came to that. I believed that I needed to go with the soldiers of my unit, to stand with them regardless of my physical pain or the outcome of our deployment. Even though I was still dealing with the emotions of anger and revenge brought on by the 9/11 attacks, at that moment my mind was clear and my decision was right.

  The First Sergeant began to explain what my position and duties would be while the unit was deployed. I stopped him and stated that after much prayer and consideration I wanted to volunteer to go with our unit to Iraq. He hesitated for a moment and then with a curious smile asked me if I was physically up to the possible demands of combat in Iraq. The word “combat” stunned me. Until then all I heard were terms like “deployment” or “tour of duty.” The realization of what that term meant hit me square in the chest. The same enemy that had murdered our friends here would be in Iraq in great numbers and well-armed.

  “Absolutely,” I replied. “I’m ready and I cannot imagine watching my brothers leave for war while I stayed behind.”

  The First Sergeant was pleased with my answer and stated that he would move to have my orders amended. He appreciated my sense of duty, especially considering the line that had formed outside of his office with soldiers who had a hundred reasons why they could not deploy. Some had legitimate reasons, such as a critically ill spouse, while others were far less noble. Our younger soldiers who had joined strictly for the college benefits were suddenly forced to face the reality that a contract has two sides and they were being held accountable for that. The worst case I heard of was a soldier in my unit who went home and actually beat his wife up knowing that he would be arrested and by law not be allowed to deploy. But the vast majority of soldiers that I served with left their families, jobs and college to honor their oath to defend their country.

  Mobilization: Fort Dix

  After a month of standing in long lines at our state headquarters (HQ), filling out a mountain of paperwork in triplicate, we left for Ft. Dix, NJ. Only the Army would send troops to New Jersey in January to prepare them for combat in the Middle East! The good-byes to my family were heart wrenching; especially hard was the look on Raquel’s face as the bus pulled away. She was making every effort to keep it together and appear brave, not wanting to upset me, yet I could sense that she felt very alone for the first time in our marriage. I felt a crushing weight on my heart and for a moment I just wanted to go home.

  An old Vietnam veteran shared with me the best piece of advice on dealing with this feeling. A “distracted soldier was a dead soldier,” he said, suggesting that I needed to compartmentalize my life so that I was a husband and dad only when I was actually commu
nicating with my family.

  “The moment you say good-bye you are nothing less than SSG Moore. All that matters is the mission at hand and your brothers beside you. Remember that and you will return to your family again one day, God willing! Lose that focus and your family will most certainly see you again, draped with a flag!” I accepted the harsh reality of this new, necessary mind set.

  Upon our arrival to Ft. Dix I was promptly promoted to SSG but since I had been late in joining the deployment I was tasked with a Team Leaders (TL) position instead of a Squad Leader (SL). Mobilization at Ft. Dix was an unnecessarily miserable experience due to a lack of preparation and incompetence on the part of the Permanent Party (PP)—the soldiers who are based at a particular installation—who were in this case tasked with getting all arriving units prepared for Mobilization to a Middle East combat zone. Our own command was weak in certain areas due to the fact that we were all thrown into this mobilization site in less than a month’s time.

  We were housed in old brick barracks that reeked from a combination of a defective sanitation system and mold. Having spent several years in the infantry, I was no stranger to living in uncomfortable surroundings but became aggravated when there was no excuse for it. Most of the NCOs were bunked twelve to a room and shared a common bathroom with fifty other men. Our days were extremely long, monotonous and generally pointless. We were told that we had to “check all the boxes” before we deployed to be sure we were ready. Initially, I found this insulting. We had all passed boot camp and other advanced training along with years of actual experience, yet they treated us like we had just fallen off the bus at basic training. Realistically, all we required was a maximum of two to three weeks of preparation. We needed our paperwork completed, new issue of uniforms and gear, and weapons training. As we discovered, once you arrive in the country the unit you are replacing gives you all the information you will actually need such as where you live, where you work and how to kill the enemy—all of which we learned in less than a week.