Opinion

Ask me about my son’s sacrifice

In the decade since we went to war, America has rediscovered how fortu nate we are to have good men and women willing to put themselves in harm’s way so that we might remain free and safe. Some haven’t lived to make the return trip home — men like my own son, Army Staff Sgt. Robert J. Miller, who was recognized with the Medal of Honor for his actions in a battle in Afghanistan that cost him his life.

The great unspoken fear of families like mine is that the sacrifices of our loved ones will be forgotten once the parades and ceremonies and newspaper accounts fade away.

Military families are often called Blue Star families, after the banner that dates back to World War I — one or more blue stars, each signifying an immediate family member in the military, on a white rectangle inside a red border. For the past two years, my family has proudly displayed a Blue Star banner in our front window and Blue Star decals on our cars, in honor of our second son, who followed his brother into the Army.

Three years ago, we replaced our original Blue Star banner with a Gold Star one, indicating an immediate family member who’d died in the service of this nation. My husband and I also wear Gold Star lapel pins, presented to each of us (as well as to our seven surviving children) at Rob’s funeral.

With some 5,500 soldiers, sailors, Marines and airmen killed in action since 2001, the number of Gold Star families may seem small. To that total, however, America must add the parents, husbands, wives, siblings and children of those who lost loved ones in Vietnam and previous wars.

Wars may recede from the front pages to the history books, but no matter how far back the loss, the ache of a Gold Star family never goes away.

Unfortunately, people seem afraid of the best way to honor our fallen — simply asking the family to share their story. In our case, the knowledge that Rob acted with extraordinary heroism in his final minutes helped tremendously in easing our grief. Yet a misguided sensitivity about our loss seems to leave people afraid to even bring it up.

If only they knew the comfort that a polite inquiry could bring.

We were anxious to tell others how Rob remained at the front of his patrol during a close-range, intense ambush; how he shouted commands in both Pashto and English and called out the direction and distance of enemy fighters to those in the back of the patrol; how he repeatedly charged and took out machine gun nests, drawing the fire of more than 100 insurgents upon himself so his Special Forces teammates and partnered Afghan soldiers could reach safety, and how he continued these actions even after being shot twice in the chest.

As a result of his steadfastness and courage, his unit was able to regroup and hold their own until help arrived, with no further fatalities. Even Rob’s critically wounded commander was safely removed from the scene, eventually making a full recovery. And the battle itself inflicted a serious blow to the local insurgency.

When the call finally came that Rob’s Medal of Honor had been approved, we wanted to share the good news with family and friends. So we were disconcerted to find that so many people reacted with responses such as, “I’m so sorry. This must bring up difficult memories.”

The military would do well to improve its own awareness of and outreach to the families of the fallen. Let me tell you: There is nothing more disheartening than being in a room full of active-duty and retired military personnel who show no sign of recognizing my Gold Star pin, where not one leader comes up and says, “Tell me about your loved one,” or “Thank you for your family’s sacrifice.”

In a world where the ultimate sacrifice can seem pointless, and soldiers are too often reduced to victims, what the families ask for is a military that leads the way in reminding society to celebrate the lives of these fallen troops — and the free and proud choice they made to serve.

When I think of how Rob would most want people to feel about what he did, I recall the words of one of my youngest son’s teachers, an elderly Japanese-American who came to America after the Second World War. Several days after Rob died, she asked my son Ed about what had happened. He gave her the details that we knew at the time. In thickly accented English, this good woman got straight to the point: “So he died an honorable death.”

Rob would have liked that very much. And I know many other Gold Star moms would love to hear the same.