What Price Freedom&;#063;

"Get up Son! It's zero dark 30 and you're still in the rack!
Inspection in 30 minutes...chow will follow. Let's hustle!" I knew he
was just kidding so I grunted, smiled and rolled over. My thoughts
drifted back to 10 years earlier when he first started waking me up
"Marine Style" when I was only 8...

"Mommy, is daddy coming home soon?" my little sister asked.

My mother continued to stir the macaroni and cheese and remained
attentive to the latest CNN reporting. She sure does watch a lot of TV
lately.

"Mommy, is daddy going to die?" My sister said, with a smaller
voice.

That caught my mother's attention.

"Oh no, sweetheart, Daddy will be fine."

She realized that the CNN correspondent was speculating as to the
number of potential U.S. causalities in the Gulf War. The school was
having a hard time dealing with all the children's emotions due to the
absent parents. Maybe it was due to reports like that or maybe the fact
that all the fathers on the block were gone off to the war.

"Sweetie, go in your bedroom for awhile and play. Mommy will call you
when it's time for dinner, OK?"

Being the "man of the house," my father told me to be brave. My little
sister's questions tore at my mind, and I had to ask my mother for the
truth.

"Mom, will daddy really come home?"

She froze and then looked at me for a long second. It was as if she
couldn't believe an 8-year-old boy could be asking such a serious
question. It was then that she understood the magnitude and purpose of
my question. As "man of the house," standing with my feet firmly apart
and my eyes glued to hers, I wanted the truth and believed she could
provide it. She burst into tears.

"Oh son, I know he will be back, I just know it!"

She gathered me up in her arms and cried over my shoulder telling me
not to worry. I remember her telling me that a little boy shouldn't
have to be without his father for such a long time and certainly should
not have to worry about whether he will return.

One of the most exciting days of my life was not a visit to Disneyland,
my first beach trip, or a big top circus...it was when those big buses
rolled in delivering my father back to our family. My sister and I
leapt into his arms and didn't let go until we were sure he
was real?that it wasn't just another dream. We kept staring at him. It
was him...my hero, my pal, my dad.

Freedom has a heavy price, and often it is paid with the blood, sweat
and commitment of our nation's finest soldiers. There are other prices
to be paid for freedom. The children of hero's pay with the absence of
their parents, the many bad dreams, and the long wait for their return
home. My dad missed a lot while he was gone, but he told me to write it
all down in my "Captain's Log," here is the last entry I made the night
before he was to come home:

"Dad we still miss you. I'm sorry I can't remember what you look like
anymore. Mom says she will be able to pick you out of the crowd, so I'm
not worried about finding you. It's been so long. I didn't do very well
at being the man of the house, but it's so hard. Please forgive me.
Love, Mark."