And I'd be less than truthful if I didn't say there's some comfort going over with your dad.
"Wish You Were Here"
Kendall Phelps will never forget the morning two years ago when a picture popped up on his computer in his Silver Lake, Kansas, high school classroom. There stood Chris, his oldest son, in desert camouflage in front of a bombed-out building in Baghdad. He was holding a sign written on the back of a discarded MRE carton: "DAD, WISH YOU WERE HERE. SEMPER FI!"
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Kendall, a retired Marine, rushed across the street to the elementary school where his wife, Sherma, teaches fourth grade. She had already received the same photo via e-mail and, in a spasm of giddy relief, was printing out copies to post at the church and all over town. Chris had not been heard from since just after the start of Operation Iraqi Freedom a month earlier. Kendall's elation that his son was all right momentarily erased his disappointment over not being in Baghdad himself. "Kendall is a Marine and a dad," explains Sherma. "He could not stand it that he was not over there with Chris, fighting side by side, protecting his son."
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This past winter, against all odds, Master Gunnery Sgt. Kendall Phelps, 58, and Maj. Christopher Phelps, 35, deployed to Iraq together for a seven-month tour in the newly formed 5th Civil Affairs Group based in Fallujah. Ever since the five Sullivan brothers from Waterloo, Iowa, tragically died when their cruiser was sunk in World War II, the U.S. military has been reluctant to deploy immediate family members in the same company. No one can remember a Marine father and son serving together.
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The mission of the 5th Civil Affairs Group is to facilitate the reconstruction of Al Anbar province, an area riddled with suicide bombers and insurgents. Chris, a team leader, is working with the Iraqi police, firefighters and contractors on rebuilding the infrastructure. His dad will use his 30 years of teaching experience to help establish new schools. They both know it won't be easy. "It will be hot and nerve-racking and people are going to die," says Chris. "My buddies say civil affairs is the most dangerous job in the Marine Corps right now. But I also think it's going to be gratifying to get that grid system up and water pumping." He pauses; then he adds, "And I'd be less than truthful if I didn't say there's some comfort going over with your dad."
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Last January, yellow ribbons sprouted outside Chris and Kendall Phelps's Kansas houses -- some 70 miles apart -- after the two Phelps men loaded their gear into Chris's Oldsmobile '88 and drove across the country to Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. Kendall, the senior enlisted member of the 200-Marine unit, settled into the routine of predawn wake-ups, long chow lines and field-training in freezing weather as if he'd never left. Neighbors back in Silver Lake thought he was a little nuts -- father of five (three sons, two daughters) and grandfather of six -- voluntarily giving up the comforts of home. "When I asked him why," says Chris, "he said, 'I want to make a difference. I'm a Marine.' For me, there were no more questions. I understood. As a Marine, you feel your time is never over."
From Reader's Digest
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