Monday, February 26, 2007- To Boo

Monday, February 26, 2007

My Heroes
Current mood: depressed
There is that little area there that asks who our "heroes" are. I chose two men and my two sons. The two men are my grandfather, and my cousin Andy. My grandfather I chose because he was truly a gentleman who never, ever spoke an unkind word about anyone in his life. At least not that I ever heard. He was a person who truly found something nice to say about even people he couldn't stand. Plus, he was just a good all around person.

My sons I chose because I'm raising them to be good, honest men. I hope. Let's keep our fingers crossed.

The other choice was my cousin Andy. He and are are the same age. I don't write or talk about him a lot because it's hard to. Anyhow, we grew up together. He was the goofiest, funniest person. When we got to high school, he was an habitual liar, had no aim in life and was lots of fun to be with. His lies were generally to get money or to get out of work or get out of trouble. He was devastatingly handsome with kind of a preppy, Great Gatsby self-confidence.

That was part of the charm. He looked like a classic movie star, but when he laughed, he sounded like Goofy from DisneyWorld. Unless he really concentrated, he had a blank stare all the time. He got me drunk for the first time in my life. He would rat me out to keep himself out of trouble anyday...but he also held my hair out of my face the first time I puked after drinking. He defended my honor at frat parties, (even though he was drunk and my honor wasn't really in danger) and I adored him. He would steal money out of my purse, lie to get me out of class in high school, lie to our parents and tell all of them that none of the others had given him lunch money and end up with wads of cash...and yet even when caught, you just shrugged your shoulders because that was just him. I got drunk in Mexico once, and we were in a bar that had seats sunken into the floor (whose dumbassed idea was THAT anyhow? Make giant PITS scattered throughout the darkened room so that drunks can fall into them onto the tables an into people's laps!?!?!?) Anyhow, when I fell into the pit, I landed on some dude's lap. I looked up and it was Boo. I just drunkenly said, "Hey, Boo" and laid my head on his shoulder. He said, "Hey, Durdo". And we said there drunk off our butts for a long time. He never said, "How the hell did you end up in my lap?" or "Where did you come from?" He just acted like I fall out of the sky all the time. That is a person you can count on.
His nickname was Boo Boo. (We all have alternative names thanks to my grandfather.) But we all called him Boo. I never called him Andy. Ever. In high school, I called him Boo. He didn't care. I'd forget and say, "ooo! I'm sorry, I meant Andy.." and he didn't care. So he never became Andy. He just stayed Boo.

He joined the Army when we were about 25. He waited that long, but he finally figured out what he wanted to do after drifting in and out of college. I laughed my ASS off when I found out he'd joined the Army. Yeah, his Dad and our Grandfather were both career Army, but BOO?!?!?! He could dislocate his shoulder on command, he'd broken his nose like 5 times wrecking cars and getting into fights...he was just NOT Army material.

Wrong.

He became a Ranger. He did that for a long, long time. He met a great woman, got married and they had a phenomenal little boy. He got into Special Forces Operation Delta. He was moving up and really doing what he wanted and what he loved. He looked tired all the time, but you don't go where he went in the military unless you're really good at it, and unless you really, really want it. He found his niche, so to speak.

On April 2, 2003, I got a call from my Mom.

Mom: Um, you need to sit down. Boo's been shot.
Me: What? How?
Mom: You know he's in Iraq. He's been shot.
Me: But he's okay, right? They took care of it, right? He's okay.
Mom: They are working on him. They stabilized him and moved him to a forward aid station. And that is GOOD news. They moved him. That's GOOD.
Me: Well. He's okay. He'll be fine. He's in Baghdad, right? He's got medics and hospital stations..he's fine.
Mom: I don't know. I'll call you back as soon as I hear more.
Me: Okay. Call me.

I sat there for less than two minutes. I was absolutely positive that Boo was fine.

Phone rings.

Me: He's okay, right? He's fine.
Mom: He didn't make it. He.....
Me: What? Yes, yes, yes he did...you said they moved him and that was GOOD..you said...they were working on him. He's fine. You said.
Mom: No, honey. He's gone. He never made it to the aid station. He died out there. I don't know anymore....
Me: What? He what? How can that happen? I don't understand. They are wrong. They made a mistake. It isn't him. He's going to call home. Everyone needs to get off the phones so he can call home.
I'm going to hang up. He needs to call home.
Mom: Oh honey, he's not..
Me: I'm hanging up...

I hung up. He never called. I watched CNN all night. I kept thinking if they didn't announce his death, it wasn't real. This was at the beginning of the war when they announced each death as it happened. Well, his didn't get announced. I kept checking the Dept. of Defense website. Nothing. That meant he was alive. No news is good news.
In the early morning hours the next day, his death was on the Dept. of Defense website. But it was vague. It is still vague. Just killed in action. None of the particulars you get with others. I know what happened now. Finally, they told us. But it took them 3 years to tell us.

Why they told us they were "working" on him, I'll never know. Why they said they were moving him, I'll never know. He died on the battlefield as soon as an airstrike was called in. He died saving his small special ops squad. They were overwhelmingly surrounded by Baath party soldiers and Ansar Al Islam fighters. He drove his Humvee through their lines in order to make way for his squad to get out so the helicopter to get in to get them out. He knew when he drove through he would die. Of course, he wasn't in Baghdad. He was in Northern Iraq near the border with Turkey helping the Peshmergas. Very remote, very high in the mountains.
He only asked if the chopper was on it's way. That was all he said when he died in that God forsaken filthy piece of dirt called Iraq.

Then we were lied to about all of it for a long time. He was there fighting for what he believe in, yes. However, he was lied to. He died thinking he was fighting for something that we later found out was a complete and utter lie.

A little over a week later, as we laid him to rest, his wife got the flag off of his casket as a bagpiper played in the distance, and his 17 month old son was given the American flag that was on the antennae of his humvee that he drove into battle. The small flag was handed to the toddler with great solemnenity and respect and then the little boy was saluted. He'll never hear his Daddy laugh like Goofy, he'll never be able to run with his father for miles and miles. His Daddy could run for days and never tire.
He'll never get to sit with his Daddy and watch the Florida Gators play football.

So. That is my hero. He knew he would die. He did it anyway. He saved the others. He was loving. He was maddening. He was funny. He was a real hero. Oh, how I miss him.