Saddam Hussein had invaded Kuwait with his henchmen, compiling the fourth largest army in the world. The atrocities and inhumane acts committed toward Kuwait prompted support from around the globe. War was declared. The world called it Operation Desert Storm and volunteer soldiers were called to serve their countries. Within a few short months, soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines arrived in the Middle East to defend Saudi Arabia, liberate Kuwait and embarrass the biggest bully of the post cold war era. I was one of those soldiers.

The responsibilities brought to bear were immense. There was so much at stake. Politically, there was America’s leadership of the free world. Economically, one tenth of the world’s oil resources. Morally, the
protection of human life. But silently, there was a rebirth of America’s spirit. The veterans of Operation Desert Storm went to heal their nation from a ghost that had haunted them for two decades; the poltergeist of Vietnam.

Before shipping out, each night I found myself surrounded by family and friends. There was no solitude, though, not one moment of privacy. Everybody needed some time with me. They all hoped for the best, but each one anticipated the worst. Every second seemed precious, but as most felt it could be the last moments spent with me, it was anything but enjoyable. Still, my mask of strength was held firmly in place.

On the night before I was to report to duty, my family threw a party. Almost as if it had been rehearsed, there were apologies for disagreements long forgotten. There were wishes of luck and promises of daily prayers. I repressed every emotion that churned inside of me, but the mood of the room darkened even more and everybody started telling me, "Good-bye." Everyone but my Mom. It was the very reason they had all come: some to clear their consciences, others to relieve their doubts and worries—most just to grieve. I was smothered by hugs and kisses, as they each said their good-byes. It was unbelievable. They were mourning the death of a man they truly loved, a man who was still breathing and with each breath, trying to console them. Sitting in the middle of my own wake, my thoughts spiraled downward. Everything was there but the casket. I looked to my brothers for support, but they were grieving themselves and were now sedated from alcohol. And then my Mom approached me and took me in her arms. "Keep the faith," she whispered. This also upset me, but little did I know, those three simple words would echo in my head for months to follow. It would become a welcome and comforting echo.

As a shield was replaced by an angry storm, Saddam Hussein threatened America with the mother of all battles. In turn, President George Bush drew a line in the sand. That line was quickly wrapped around Iraq and used to choke the life out of thousands.

Though Hussein swore it would take us months to cross the breach from Saudi Arabia to Iraq, it took only hours. We moved fast, crushing the first of three Iraqi lines of defense. As if they weren't even there, we rolled
right over them. It was clear: While Hussein chose to sit out the air campaign, the Iraqi people bore the brunt for their ruthless dictator and like all victims of war; they paid with gallons of their own blood. It was
literally hell on earth.

History was made. In triumph, Kuwait was liberated, while Hussein was humiliated before the whole world. An unconditional withdrawal was ordered. Politically, the sadistic demon was slain. In reality, unlike thousands of his own people, he still lived.

Although Iraq surrendered, the fighting for many of us was far from over. While America’s technology continued to erase the poltergeist of Vietnam, many of us were invaded with their own ghost of torment. Amidst the daily chaos, we experienced the frailties of our own mortality and unlike CNN’s sanitized version of the desert clash, the realization that there is no glory in war. Then, as a lasting memento, most of us were brutally introduced to “The Mystery Illness.”

Just before nodding off one night, I picked up a letter sent from my Mom and opened it. Her words, which had brought such happiness in Saudi Arabia, now brought sorrow and pain. I couldn’t think about home. In fact, it felt like I hadn’t been there, or seen my family in years. It seemed a whole different lifetime. From then on, I decided I wouldn’t read any more from home. The letters I would send out would all be written in one day, and then assigned fictitious dates. There was nothing good to report and I needed the distance. Every few days, I mailed one out. My family didn’t have to know. It was best that only I knew the truth.

But that cancerous secret quickly ate me alive.

Many full moons had come and gone, while things changed, but only for the worse. There was more death; the death of sinless children. The war had been over for weeks, but as I’d been forced to learn, land mines refused to surrender. My comrades and I tried desperately to save each child, but it was always the same story. The choppers either arrived two minutes too late, or the wounds were just so extensive that the flying medics were never called. It was a losing battle every time.

Personally, my body was consumed with pain. My head constantly pounded, my digestive system was completely out of whack, though it was my mind which carried the greatest burdens. Never realizing that the chronic problems could have been caused by America's inoculations, Iraq's Scud attacks, or the white, chemical residue which covered everything, I was down, always down and could never seem to pick my spirits back up. I could feel the depression engulf me and though I fought it, my body was just too tired. Every waking moment was spent in a vice of anxiety, or all-out panic. Like clockwork, each night my restless sleep was interrupted by severe panic attacks, or demented, life-like nightmares. I could hear the shrills of grown men, smell the smoldering of human flesh and count the amount of cruel and excruciating deaths which I’d witnessed. Each time, I’d awake and try to find the difference between the hellish dreams and my actual life. The answer was simple. There was no difference. My life was the nightmare. I was merely replaying the torment during my sleep. After weeks of the intense suffering, it was time to stop the pain.

The camp was quiet; everyone tucked in for the night. I looked out into the black desert and picking up my rifle, removed the banana clip, leaving one round in the chamber. Feeling very much alone, I walked into the darkness. Overwhelmed with confusing emotions and boggled thoughts, the months of anguish had finally brought despair. My body, my mind, they had both taken enough. Looking back at the camp, I decided that I’d created enough distance. Collapsing onto the cool sand, I gazed up at a majestic sky. Searching hard, I could not find the beauty. It was then that my tortured eyes released a river of tears. Without restraint, I wept hard. I cried for my life, knowing that I was just minutes from ending it. Closing my eyes, I searched within, but could not find any goodness there either. I was on empty. There was nothing left. With no relief in sight, the present was unbearable and the future held no hope. I cried harder. There seemed to be no other choice and that alone scared me more. As the last tear turned to dust, I opened my eyes and looked back into the starry sky. Then, to my surprise, I remembered my family.

For the first time in a long time I pictured my parents, my brothers and young sisters. I hadn't thought about them. I hadn't considered the devastating consequences of my selfish contemplation. Suddenly, I could hear the faint echo of my mother's gentle voice. "Stevie, Keep the Faith!" I cried uncontrollably, knowing that I had lost my faith. Ashamed, I now knelt on the desert floor, no more than a shell of a man. My spirit had been all but crushed, and then for some unexplained reason hope had arrived. And it hadn't showed up a moment too soon. I couldn't kill myself. I couldn't do that to my family. The love that we shared would not allow it. Unloading my rifle, I tossed the brass bullet into the black void. Regaining some composure, I started back toward camp.

As I walked, I realized that my Mom had saved my life. She would never know, nor had she been there in person. It was the strength of her spirit that had awakened my lost soul. I could feel her comfort. Looking inward, I thanked her for sticking by me. Then looking upward, I thanked God. My Mom had given me life, and then without ever realizing it—she'd saved it. Her faith had been strong enough for us both.

Reaching camp, I looked back and could feel my hair stand on end. The moon had cast the softest, most angelic light, illuminating a perfect set of footprints in the sand. Thinking of my Mom, I noticed only one set, though in the deepest part of my broken heart, I knew that I had not traveled alone. My Mom had been right and the truth of it gave me chills. With the effortless strength of a child, I believed. I was not alone, nor did I ever have to feel alone again. The experience would change my life forever. Though everything inside of me would spin out of control, or drift along in great turmoil for many months after, I had been given another chance. I silently vowed to make the most of it.

For the rest of that fateful night, I read two months of unopened letters. I longed to be with my family. I desperately needed them in my life. Their words were encouraging, comforting and overflowing with love. No matter how much it hurt, I would never cast their words aside again. As the sun played peek-a-boo with the sleeping desert, I finished the last letter. Folding it back up, I smiled. It was a last reminder from my Mom; a letter that I should have read weeks earlier. From then on, her advice would not be taken lightly. "I understand now, Mom,” I whispered, “I'll keep the faith."