MWSA PCA Finalist 7 -- The Choice We Make -- Marlyce Stockinger

Inspiration Image -- “Father and Son” photo by Pat Avery

My son is young
A life barely begun
Tender years without his dad
Makes me wonder…….will he turn out bad?

Me, my heart is torn
I’m proud to be American born
I want to serve my country..help to make it free
must it be at the expense of my family?

Ohhhhhh the pain of the choices we make
War or taking my son to the lake
What if I don’t come back
Will he understand and cut me some slack?

I know what I must do
To my country I must be true

Ohhhhhh the pain of the choice I made
Please god…..don’t let his memory of me fade!

taps

MP3 Available at www.militarywriters.com/MarlyceStockinger-TheChoiceWeMake.mp3

To vote for Marlyce Stockinger:
Send email to MWSAPCA7@gmail.com OR vote at one of the polling sites listed on page 9!

MWSAPCA Finalist 5 - The Rush of Butterflies -- Bonnie Bartel Latino

Inspiration Image — Untitled sketch by Bob Larkin

Chief Warrant Officer2 Jerry Pruet loved America and the U.S. Army as if they were his blood relatives. Alone in his parked UH-1H “Huey” helicopter, he was a long way from the comfort and safety of family or country. He peered through the windscreen. Fog clouded his view as the sound of a northbound F-105 “Thud” reverberated overhead. Not far away, somewhere in this godforsaken Quang Tri River Valley, six exhausted Rangers had been on the run all night. Radio reports painted a bleak picture. The North Vietnamese Army surrounded their long-range reconnaissance patrol.
Scanning the airfield perimeter for his launch signal, he saw no one. He pulled a snapshot of his wife from his flight suit. His mouth curved into a grin. Yen brought more than the ‘peace’ her name implied. As fair of spirit as of face and form, she had proven as faithful as dawn. To thrive, he needed Yen, just as his helicopter needed JP-4 to soar.
# # #
The somber tones of Walter Cronkite reporting the daily body count from Vietnam filled Yen Pruet’s Honolulu apartment. She constantly rotated the gold band around her finger. When she and Jerry left her homeland, she never dreamed he would volunteer to go back. Chills raced along her arms raising tiny bumps. Hawaiian friends called the unexpected sensations chicken skin. The description fit perfectly. From the day she and Jerry met in Soc Trang, they shared a sixth sense connection. It had never felt stronger.
# # #
“Mr. Pruet,” an operations sergeant said from outside the Huey. “The major says the Rangers are taking a heckuva lot of fire. We’ve got to get ’em outta’ there ASAP. Cobras aren’t available, and fixed-wings don’t have visibility in the zone.”
His jaw tightened as he cranked the engine.
Co-pilot and crew climbed aboard strapping on their bulletproof “chicken plates.”
“The Rangers are northwest of the Rock Pile about a hundred meters up Razor Back Ridge,” the ops sergeant said, handing Pruet the mission brief card with pick-up coordinates.
He took the card and, per regulations, handed Yen’s photo to the ops sergeant. “Hang on to this for me, will you?”
His co-pilot laughed. “I should have known you’d have that. You always do.”
Nodding, he pulled on his green Nomex gloves. “OK, troops, we all know what our odds are. But those Rangers are depending on us.”
At lift off, the crew’s voices roared as one like jungle thunder.
Within minutes the Huey drew enemy fire.
“We’re taking AK-47 and 37mm fire around the clock,” the door gunner yelled.
“They’re throwing everything they’ve got at us,” the co-pilot said above the chaos.
Pruet’s eyes narrowed in concentration. Flying into a fog shrouded hollow, he approached the pick-up zone. Amidst firepower as thick as the fog, he transitioned to hover. Eternity stretched every second. He prayed the Rangers were nearby. A thunderous explosion slammed the cabin. His head banged violently against the door post. The sharp smell of hydraulic fluid filled the cockpit.
“Rotor head took a direct hit,” the crew chief shouted. “Got an engine fire!”
Vibration and smoke obscured the instrument panel. Sweat soaked the insides of Pruet’s gloves. Warm liquid stung his eyes. Sweat or blood? Either way, just another distraction. The machine tucked and spun. He had run out of ideas, rotor turns, and luck. Control slipped away. He and his crew were trapped beneath the churning blades of a fuel-loaded Huey.
“Get a grip, guys! We’re going down!”
Intensity gave way to stop-action movement. One by one, his senses shut down. The strain on his arms eased. Chaos dissolved into white silence. Instrument lights faded into a soft green glow like eyes. Yen’s eyes.
Mentally, he reached out for his wife as one of the helicopter’s blades sheared its tail. The blade flew through the fog like the wrath of Goliath's great sword! The main rotor blade flexed down, slicing the cockpit like a scythe. His scream vanished in the engulfing fireball.
# # #
Yen Pruet’s body jerked in a force of disturbance. Then, a sensation like a swarm of butterflies spiraling through her body brought instant peace. She and Jerry floated on a gossamer ripple in time. The rush of butterflies intensified . . . then vanished through every pore.
She wouldn’t need an Army chaplain to tell her Jerry had been killed in action.
She already knew.
To vote for Bonnie Bartel Latino:
Send email to MWSAPCA5@gmail.com OR vote on this blog!

MWSA Finalist 2 -- Six Bronze Men -- Jack L. Wells

Inspiration Image — IWO photo by Richard Lowery

Straining to lift a heavy water pipe and place it and its five by eight flag at noon on a windy mountain top on a remote island. So why should such a statue even exist, let alone inspire?
These young men weren’t special. Just following orders and executing a task assigned as one of the multitude of tasks they would perform that February day. They were a hodge podge of youth from Ohio, New Hampshire, Texas, Pennsylvania or Wisconsin or even a native American from Arizona. One wasn’t even a native born American. His father and he had emigrated from Slovakia and he had only become naturalized 9 years earlier. Most were under 20. None had been to college. One wasn’t even assigned to do the task, he just pitched in when asked because the pipe was heavy and he happened to be close by. They were tired, dirty and looking forward to catching lunch soon. With names like Strenk, Sousley, Bradley, Gagnon, Block or Hayes, they weren’t famous or even in charge: just men doing their jobs in the cold wind.
Some guy with a camera wandered by and took a quick snapshot as the job was being completed. Just one black and white picture of the many he took that day that even he wouldn’t know was special until days later when the film was developed.
And their effort wasn’t even the first flag pole to be raised on the mountain, it was just a replacement for a smaller one placed a couple of hours before. It wasn’t a victory yet; not even close. It was just the beginning of what would take three more excruciating weeks. So their work that day was of small consequence. Not a big deal.
Half of the men lifting the pipe would be dead in a month. The other half would live longer but with emotional problems. One would die in less than 10 years. And two would live 30 or more years. All three would be reluctant to talk about that day or the weeks that followed.
Then why would someone make a statue of these men from that black and white photo and place it in a location of honor?
Because of what they represented: They were the sons, brothers, husbands, and best friends of America. The average guys that had gone off to fight and die for their country against the worst challenge America had faced since the Civil War. And the picture of the six of them became a symbol of sacrifice, determination and victory.
They were five US Marines and one US Navy corpsman atop Mount Suribachi on the Island of Iwo Jima. It was February 23, 1945.
And the bronze statue of them raising that flag stands proudly today by our nation’s capital reminding service men and women and a nation that bravery and heroism is usually just average Joes and Janes doing their jobs under difficult circumstances. It reminds us of the strength of our diverse nation. It reminds us that by working together we can remain free.
Six bronze men. Who would have thought they could mean so much?

To vote for Jack L. Wells:
Send email to MWSAPCA2@gmail.com OR vote on this blog!