Three thousand, nine hundred and sixty as of Wednesday.
Twenty-nine thousand and eighty more.
Just take a moment to think about those numbers.
3,960 men and women, many just kids straight out of high school, have died in Iraq. 29,080 others have been wounded. Explosives flay the flesh of an uncounted number of limbs. Grenades leave the injured suffering from emerging shrapnel for the rest of their lives. Stories of horror and heroism exist side by side in the chaos of war.
The United States still finds itself muddled in an unpopular war that slowly grinds away at the ranks of our warriors. Daughters are losing fathers, sons are losing mothers, heroes are losing their bodies and Americans at home are losing perspective.
Now that there are threats of a recession, the war doesn't seem to matter. As the polls race out, Americans apparently want to know what will happen to their retirement plans, their pensions, their stock portfolios. It seems that the mothers and fathers of those still fighting are left holding the burden by themselves. The constant fear of the morning paper, the anxiety when picking up the midday phone call, the creeping of tears as the evening news flashes the latest names, the guilty pleasure when two announced names do not at all resemble your child's, the remorse for having felt such pleasure at another family's pain-all this they have to bear alone.
Imagine this: a troop settles into its Humvee caravan, driving out toward the dusty village. The caravan flies across the desert, the commander sitting in the front passenger seat, radioing orders to his soldiers. His sunglasses never leave his eyes as he rides with a loaded gun clenched in his right hand, the Bible in his left. As they approach the town, the vehicles turn off the road onto their usual path to avoid detection. The commander has planned three to four hours to train the Iraqi personnel. The drive feels steeper today. BOOM! The lead Humvee flies straight up into the air, the right front side tipping a bit higher than the rest. It lands with a metal clang, but the commander can't hear it. As the smoke clears and his vision returns, all he can see is blood and the broken remnants of his right foot.
Capt. David Rozelle, the commander of that caravan, was the first amputee to return to active duty in Iraq.
Sure, we celebrated him with a radio show on NPR. Maybe we noticed the cover of his book while shopping during the holidays. But then we forgot. He might live to rebuild Baghdad or die in RPG fire, but by then America will be watching the next round of Clinton vs. Obama. We'll watch candidates argue over what to do with the "immigrant problem," the dirty little secret hiding behind the impeccably manicured lawn of the Romney residence. Undoubtedly, the illegals just have to go.
During this policy debate, you won't be reminded about Lance Cpl. Jose Gutierrez. He was the first soldier to die in Iraq. He was also an illegal immigrant.
The generations of servicemen, both draftees and volunteers, who fought in the World Wars are celebrated for their valor in defeating true evil. The men and women fighting in our name today have been virtually forgotten. They come home to mold-infested hospitals and little government aid. As if that was not enough, many come home for good, but cannot shake the memories of months spent in hell. The New York Times recently discovered 121 cases of soldiers returning home and being charged with murder in their new civilian lives. Post-traumatic stress disorder is blamed in many cases.
Other soldiers don't even have the opportunity to return to civilian life. A mortar attack hits the base without warning. The soldier rushes for his gear, but he's too late. A single piece of shrapnel was launched into the brain of Sgt. Daniel Tallouzi. He survived, but he is no longer capable of reacting to the environment around him. He will not recover. He is 23 years old.
What do we need in order for all of us to sympathize with the sacrifices of our compatriots? Maybe a draft? If John McCain is right, we'll need enough soldiers to stay the course in Iraq for perhaps another 100 years. Maybe if we start feeling the heat of a draft, we'll take a second look at the latest reports coming from the battlefield.
But that's exactly why there won't be a draft. A draft means angry kids. A draft means college riots and protests and walkouts. A draft means a bunch of sex-crazed young adults sitting on lawns wearing beads and smoking pot. A draft means the end of the war.
War may be justified. Maybe a powerful empire terrorizes the weak, perhaps a rogue state threatens global peace, or perhaps the aggressor nation just needs to release some steam. Who knows?
But we have committed a sin far more grievous than being belligerent. From live, 24/7 newscasts straight from the battle lines, we have devolved into watching the ever-present "Brady Bunch" marathon starring Mike Huckabee and company. We have forgotten.
Today is Valentine's Day. In between the last-second shopping, the candy-swallowing, the card-giving and perhaps the holiday-hating, remember those who have made an unbelievable sacrifice for the country in which we live. When you're with your loved ones, remember those who can't spend that same time with their families as they serve in Iraq.
Go to uso.org. Send a soldier a valentine.
Elad Gross is a Trinity sophomore. His column runs every other Thursday.
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