By Suzanne Rice

It was a dreary summer morning in July. I was out early for my daily walk before it got too hot to be outside. I headed to the city hall/library complex to walk and to return a CD to the library. As I approached, I first saw some caution tape near the city flagpole. What is happening here on a random Saturday morning in July? It isn’t Fourth of July or Flag Day, Memorial Day or Veterans’ Day. What is it that they are commemorating on July 27?  As I got closer, I noticed that the men had VFW hats on their heads. Still couldn’t figure out what they might be remembering.

    I went about getting my steps in for the day while thinking it was none of my business what they were doing there early on a Saturday morning. I couldn’t help myself; I had to find out, so I walked a little closer and got there just as their ceremony was finishing. I noticed someone I knew. He is a deacon at our church. I walked up to him and asked what they were doing. With a bright smile of pride on his face he said, “Today is the seventy-first anniversary of the end of the Korea War.”

They were all veterans of the Korean War, and they were there to remember their fallen friends and commemorate their service to our country. They didn’t have to know each other from their days in Korea, but they were brothers in patriotism for their country.

      I hadn’t finished my walk so I left his side wishing that I had asked sooner because I would have liked to join in their memorial to their fallen friends and their service. I spent the rest of my walk thinking of my own time in Korea and my connection to these wonderful veterans, most of them in their mid-90’s. Having lived in Korea for almost a year while my husband was assigned to the Second Infantry Division 1973-74, twenty years after the end of the Korean War, I had a special place in my heart for them. Had I known about their ceremony, I might have shared with them what Korea was like 20 years after their service there. Too bad.

     I was three years old when the Korean War started and wasn’t aware of what was going on across the world. It did come into focus when I got to first grade. One of my classmates had intimate knowledge of the Korean War. Her father was a veteran fighter pilot from World War II. In fact, her parents met in France when her mother was an Army nurse there. In Korea, he was flying a B-26B Invader with the 13^th Bomber Squadron, 3^rd Bomber Group over North Korea. He was killed on a night intruder mission and presumed dead on February 28,1954, having been shot down on August 10, 1952. Can you imagine the pain for that little family in a small Midwestern farm town as they waited for news? My friend was only six years old and her younger sister just three when news of their father was official. It was a sadness their friends helped his family carry for many years.

      The presence of the men at the flagpole also reminded me of before I got on the plane to fly unauthorized to Korea in June 1973. Before I left my hometown (same Midwestern town), one of the teachers at the high school where I was teaching while Bill was in Korea came up to me and said he had heard I was leaving for Korea at the end of the school year. He said he was a veteran of the Korean War and told me a little about his wartime experiences. He showed me a couple of black and white photos of his war-time experience – several of them near the Deoksugung Palace. They showed the devastation of war, just what he had encountered. He asked me to go to the Deoksugung Palace while I was in Korea so that I could tell him about it when I returned; he described it as on the outskirts of the capital, Seoul. Those were my only instructions.

           

By the time I got there in 1973, the Palace was in the middle of Seoul, a bustling, modern capital. Like many who served in the Korean War, he had not spoken much about his service, but he was proud of answering the call of his country.

     I had a unique year in Korea (other stories may be found here on thedayforward). It was nothing like the years of the Korean War, but also nothing like I had experienced at home in the U.S. or in Germany. It was still, twenty years after the War, a more primitive place with dirt roads, open-air markets and only a little Western influence. Kimchi was made in each home in large clay vats kept on the roof to “marinate” in the sun for months before it was ready to eat. Kimchee along with rice were staples of the Korean diet and each family had their own recipe. There was no central heating; instead, most houses used large charcoal blocks for heating the floor (ondol heating). No indoor plumbing. There were few personal automobiles; no soldiers had a personal vehicle. To get anywhere, we had to hail a “kimchee cab” or get on the bus. Yet, Korea was not at war and American soldiers were still there at the DMZ as well as scattered on posts all throughout the country to keep the peace. These were successors-brothers of the men near the flagpole on that July morning.

     Forty years later, our son, also a field artilleryman, was stationed in Korea. Oddly enough, he was assigned to the same battalion in which his father had served those many years before. In the intervening years, 1/15 FA had moved nearer the DMZ at Camp Casey/Hovey. After he got to Korea, I asked him to go visit the family in whose home I had lived in 1973-74. Things had changed even more spectacularly than in the twenty years between the Korean War and my own time there. When I suggested a trip to Ui Jong Bu to visit our friends, he replied, “I’m sure they are not there, anymore.”  In place of the small, family homes surrounding the open-air market (not far from Camp Red Cloud), had grown an 11-story shopping mall. Underneath the mall was a high-speed rail line going from Dongducheon (Camp Casey) to Seoul. (While I was there in the 1970’s, the bus from Ui Jong Bu to Seoul took one hour – from Camp Casey add another hour.)  On their high-speed rail, it took only 15 minutes from Camp Casey to Seoul!

      The world in Korea had changed in those years and was now modern. Thanks go to the men at the flagpole on the dreary morning in July. Their love of our Country and their willingness to sacrifice brought better times for the South Korean people. Remembering and commemorating those they lost in combat was important to them 71 years later. (36,634 brave Americans gave their lives because their country asked them to serve in Korea.) It is often called “The Forgotten War”, but on this cloudy Saturday, it was not forgotten – their service will always live in the hearts of these patriots. God bless them.

Thank a soldier.

Editors note: The Korean War Veterans Memorial is located in Washington, D.C. southeast of the Lincoln Memorial. It is open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It depicts a company of soldiers in the Korean War. It was dedicated in 1995. From my experience living in Korea for almost a year, through a hot summer and a frigid winter, it was a terrible place for a war (Is there a good place?). The summers are oppressively hot and humid (no air conditioning in 1973 or 1953); the winters were terribly cold. When Bill was pay officer, he had to drive in an open jeep from 4P1 (a forward operating base near the DMZ where a battery would be at all times to counter any invasion from the North) to Camp Stanley (about 20 miles) to get cash to pay his soldiers. It was 35 degrees below zero for that trip – he was almost frozen when he got to Ui Jong Bu – then, he had to drive back! At the Memorial, you will see the soldiers in all their gear. They needed every layer to survive the frigid weather. Go see the Memorial next time you are in D.C. https://www.nps.gov/kowa/kowahome.htm

To read part 1, go here first.

November 12, 2016 Near Atlanta, GA

      A friend’s husband was going to be out of town, and she asked me to spend the weekend with her. We had been friends for several decades and it was a chance for us to have some quality time together. I was delighted to have the opportunity.  I was at her house when I woke up on Saturday, 12 November 2016. Our son, Christopher, had been stationed at Bagram Air Force Base but was leaving Afghanistan with his unit on that day after his second tour to that war zone. The whole family was delighted that he would soon be back at Ft. Carson. It would be several days before he would land in the US after leaving Afghanistan.

     When I woke up, I reached for my phone to check the time (oh, too early!). It was 4 a.m. in Atlanta. Since it was so early, I took a look at the newsfeed on my phone. Oh, my gosh! Oh, no! The title of the first article was “Terrorist Attack at Bagram Air Force Base”. What? How could that be? Bagram was thought of as the safest post in the war zone. I was horrified, worried and immediately fully awake. What do I do next? It was too early to wake up my friend to tell her. Instead, full of worry, I got up, dressed, repacked my overnight bag and got ready for the day, still pondering what I ought to do.

      Having been around the military for several decades by this time as an Army wife and later, an Army mom, I knew that when there was some sort of tragedy in the military, all personal communication would stop and only a military spokesman would be giving out information. The theory was that the next of kin of those injured or killed would need to be contacted before the full story would go out to the public. That also gave the military time to investigate the situation. This also kept rumors from flying around. It might take a day or so to contact the next of kin. Oh…that is me.

     At six o’clock, I decided that I needed to get home as fast as possible. How could any Army representative get in touch with me if I wasn’t home? I woke up my friend and told her the situation. She was shocked, horrified and concerned. Our church has overnight Adoration on Fridays and into Saturday morning; since it was the six a.m. hour, I decided I would have time for a few minutes of prayer before anyone would come to my house to tell me the fate of our son. I was a little shaky, but since my friend lives close to church, it didn’t take me long to drive over where I found another friend there praying. I asked her to keep Christopher in her prayers. She knew him from a child and was happy to be in prayer for him, but shocked and concerned about his fate.

      Then, I rushed home where I tried to get my mind off the situation in Afghanistan, though I did check the news, but found nothing; it was all I could think of – why wasn’t there news? Where was Christopher? What had happened? Was there any additional news?  Flip on the television, again. No additional info just the Alert that there was a terrorist attack at Bagram. How can I keep my mind occupied? Should I call other family members – or will they just worry like me? I tried to keep the worry to myself, when I realized I needed to get people praying for the victims. I called Christopher’s sisters in MD and then, went back to my personal worrying.

      At about noon, out of the blue, came a call from one of my husband’s West Point classmates. I don’t believe he had ever called me before and I don’t remember now what he had planned to talk about, but in the midst of whatever it was, he asked about Christopher. “Thank you for asking…you’ll never believe what is going on.” He hadn’t heard about the attack. He reassured me that he would keep Christopher, his men and the soldiers/airmen at Bagram AFB in his prayers. I believe God inspired his call to me to reassure me.

     I was well aware that I would not hear from Christopher for some time, if ever again. What I didn’t know was where he might be. Would he still leave Afghanistan? Was he injured? Was he alive? It was hard to think of those things, but I needed to be prepared. I had to think how I would handle each of those possibilities. Among all those thoughts, I kept looking out the window to see if I would see the dreaded Army vehicle on my street.

      It was a very long Saturday – no matter that it started at 4 a.m. It was the uncertainty of the situation. Should I pack a bag to get to Ramstein, Germany where badly injured soldiers would be taken? There wasn’t much information from news outlets. All I could do was wonder and try to figure out how I would handle the situations that might confront me and my daughters. All I knew for sure was that I needed to stay home until more information came my way, so that is what I did. Eventually, since the day had gone by without any personal news, I had to give up and try to sleep. It was hard to put the difficult thoughts to bed even when I was in bed myself.

      Sunday morning came and there still was no communication from Christopher or anyone. Eventually, I learned from the media what had happened. At 5:30 a.m. that Saturday morning in Afghanistan, a group of more than 100 soldiers and American contractors had gathered for a Veterans’ Day run. At about 5:38 a.m., a man approached the group and detonated a suicide vest killing two soldiers and two contractors, injuring 16 Americans and 1 Polish national. How in the world did a terrorist get into Bagram? Later investigation revealed that the terrorist had worked for an American contractor and had been making a suicide vest for some time. What a terrible tragedy. At this point, however, I still had no idea whether Christopher and his soldiers might have been a part of the group celebrating Veterans’ Day 2016.

      I tried to compose myself that morning, still trying to figure out what I ought to be doing besides continuing to pray. Should I leave home to go to Sunday Church or must I stay home? Later, that morning, the phone rang. “Mom? I’m OK. We’re in Kuwait. I can’t talk now, but I’ll tell you more when I get back home.” He told me later what a strange, chaotic day it was as his unit tried to understand what had happened and what they ought to do. At the sound of the blast, those assigned to Bagram Airfield immediately donned their full battle gear not knowing what terrorist activity had caused the blast across the flight line. In the transient quarters, the remaining members of Task Force Red Warrior realized they had no battle gear – no means of personal protection. In the hubbub of trying to figure out what was going on, they discovered their only immediate defense – one soldier still had his firearm; their unit’s defense was, oddly enough, the chaplain’s assistant.

     Now, I could breathe again, but immediately, my mind went to the other mothers and families who didn’t get the good news I received. My prayers went out to them; I had suffered right along with them, but their news was devastating. Gold Star families suffer each day with the loss of their brave service members.

We must keep them in our prayers.  

by Suzanne Rice

     Like every American who was alive on September 11, 2001, when the anniversary comes around each year, I remember the horrors of that day felt even from far away in the state of Georgia. It was like any other day when it began. Early, Bill was off to work at Third U.S. Army at Ft. McPherson. Our elder daughter was working at the Archdiocese of Atlanta Office of Refugees and Migration in downtown Atlanta. She rode each day to work with Bill since there was a MARTA stop right at Ft. McPherson; it was easy for her to hop on the train and get to her office each morning from there. Our second daughter was in Irving, Texas, just beginning her Senior year at the University of Dallas (UD). I had gotten our eighth-grade son on the bus for school and the house was quiet. I spent some time answering emails in our office. When I completed that task, I walked into the bedroom, flipped on the television just as the second plane flew into the World Trade Center and heard Jon Scott on FoxNews say, “This must have been deliberate.” It was hard to believe even when I watched it with my own eyes. Even as I listened to the commentary, I was stunned and wondered what to do.

     Within seconds, the phone rang. It was our daughter in Texas. She had turned her radio on and the program that she expected had been preempted. She had tuned in just after 9 (8 a.m. at UD), so she had come at the end of the emergency announcement. “Mom, what is happening? Do you know?” Of course, I was as confused and perplexed as she was. I tried to reassure her, and then, we ended our conversation because she needed to finish getting ready for class.

     When I recovered my sanity, I thought to call Bill to see if he was aware of the situation. Yes, they had put the news on the televisions there and were trying to figure out what was going on and what to do there at the Headquarters of Third U.S. Army, and the Headquarters of Forces Command. He said he would be needed there for the time being. (He had retired from the Army in 1996 but was serving as a contractor there creating the first Mobile Command Post for the Army – https://thedaysforward.com/inventing-the-mobile-command-post-1995-2002/

     After the impact of Flight 77 into the Pentagon at 9:37 a.m. and soon after that the crash in Shanksville, Bill called me and told me that they were getting intelligence about what else might be happening, what other sites might be next. He said he wanted our daughter to get out of downtown Atlanta; it would be evacuated soon. There was speculation that Ft. McPherson, Hartsfield Airport and even the CDC might be other targets.  He told me to call our daughter and drive to the Ft. McPherson MARTA station to pick her up and get her out of there. We would not be allowed into Ft. McPherson, where in normal times we went weekly to the Commissary and PX. Security at Ft. McPherson became immediately stringent and would remain at a heightened level for months into the future.  Not knowing a thing about the attacks, she was stunned when I contacted her, but grabbed her purse, walked to the MARTA station and got on the train. It was as I drove to get her that I heard the radio announcer say that the North Tower had collapsed – it was 10:38 a.m. We got out of there immediately and drove right back

home, driving mostly in silence as we listened to the radio commentary and tried to come to terms with what was happening.

     Like every other American citizen, I was reeling with the events of the morning. When we got home, I began to wonder about our son. Of course, he was in no danger at the Middle School only blocks away from home, but I wondered what they were going to tell the students. If it was shocking to adults around the nation and world, how would the youngsters react? What should I say to him when he came home at the end of the day? Would Bill be home to explain further? I kept tuned in to the news all day trying to make sense of the horrors of the day. It all seemed impossible. When our son got home, he said that his science teacher, in the last class of the day, had let them watch the television news so he was pretty well-informed by the time he got on the bus for home.

     We three spent the rest of the day glued to the news and wondering when Bill could come home. He wasn’t integral to any official Army planning, but he had spent five years as the Third U.S. Army Chief of Plans and then, G-3, so he was there as an extra mind to help evaluate information that was coming in. It was late that night, when there had been no other attacks that day, that he arrived back home again. It was a harrowing day for all Americans even as far away as Georgia. We Will Never Forget.

Epilogue: Having been stationed in the Middle East several times working with military members from Saudi Arabia and Kuwait and having been the Third Army G-3 with their area of operation located from the Horn of Africa throughout the Middle East (except Israel), Bill thought we needed to understand better what had happened to the U.S. He was well aware of the significance of the date of September 11 to Islamists and how connections to particular dates were important to them. What else should we know? Within a day or two, Bill made a list of books for the Rice family to read. We could each choose one of the books to read so that we could talk about what we learned. Here are some of the books he chose for us: Judith Miller’s God Has 99 Names, Bernard Lewis’s Islam and the West, Thomas Friedman’s From Beirut to Jerusalem, Benjamin Barber’s Jihad vs McWorld.