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involvement on CURB:
A new definition of philanthropy
Innocence lost

Rural EMTs: Not your everyday reality show

A matter of trust
Editorial: Get out and explore
 
also on CURB:
You may not be infected, but you're surely affected
Bridging the gap: The American Indian Student Development Program
Young Professionals of Milwaukee

 

(innocence lost, cont.)

College students, myself included, complain about a hangover following a long night out drinking. But forget Jager-bombs; Carlye was dealing with real bombs. The event is always in the back of her mind. “I couldn’t do anything,” she says. “I couldn't go on missions for two months. I had one anxiety attack, but not when I was thinking about it. It happened when I was sleeping,” Yet, Carlye adds, “I never thought, ‘Oh my god, I almost died.’ I got hit, everybody does.”

It may be a little easier for people in the service to shrug off close calls like that: they are trained to follow orders and accept risk as part of the deal. For their family and friends, though, the fact everybody has close calls is never easy to accept. Coping with that knowledge is all mind games, hoping and praying, counting the days between conversations. Remembering how many service men and women the U.S. has lost since we have entered Iraq makes me think about the seriousness of combat. My friend was lucky; others have not had that luxury. It has been even harder to contemplate the possibility of tragedy since my own little brother enlisted in the Navy in December 2002. I have often kidded him that he picked a hell of a time to join active duty. In February 2004, Brady’s ship, the U.S.S. WASP, left dock from Norfolk, Virginia, for a six-month mission in Pakistan. The war had officially hit home.

Brady, an aviation ordinanceman, did not face the highest threat level. Still, when his ship entered the Persian Gulf through the Straight of Hormuz, Brady and other crewmembers had to man the guns, in case Iran launched an attack.

Waiting for whomever or whatever the Marines drove out of Afghanistan, Brady verified serial numbers on 500 illegal AK-47s confiscated at sea and turned the weapons over to the gunner chief, one-by-one. While I was collecting clips for my résumé and verifying serial numbers on Dell computers at my campus job, my little brother was handling assault rifles. As I listen to him talk now about his time at sea, I can’t help thinking that college is a very small place.

“We met a Yemen boat in the middle of the ocean and handed [the AK-47s] over to the army,” Brady says. “It was kind of cool; there were coast guard boats circling and helicopters overhead.”

My brother, Laura and Carlye sacrificed the life I’ve been living. All three could have and probably should have been enjoying their college years. Brady would have been in his sophomore year of college right now, close to all of friends from home. But instead he’s back in Virginia, eager to finish his required service.

“You leave for so long and it’s the same thing every day,” Brady says. “You leave everything and then you don’t leave the ship for around six months. You come back and pick up where you left off. It felt like nothing changed.”


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hussein billboard image
An old billboard featuring Sadamm Hussein, since blow out, sits along the roadside. Photo courtesy of Laura Schultz