[Congressional Record Volume 140, Number 126 (Monday, September 12, 1994)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Page E]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Printing Office [www.gpo.gov]
[Congressional Record: September 12, 1994]
From the Congressional Record Online via GPO Access [wais.access.gpo.gov]
MEDAL OF HONOR WINNER GARY GORDON AND THE VIRTUE OF RESPONSIBILITY
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HON. ROBERT K. DORNAN
of california
in the house of representatives
Monday, September 12, 1994
Mr. DORNAN. Mr. Speaker, I urge my colleagues and fellow citizens of
this country to carefully consider the words of Carmen Gordon in the
following letter to her children about the importance of
responsibility. The letter was written after her husband, M. Sgt. Gary
Gordon, was killed in combat in Somalia. For his heroic actions on the
field of battle, Gary Gordon was awarded this Nation's highest tribute,
the Congressional Medal of Honor. Gary and Carmen are true examples of
why the United States is the greatest Nation on the face of the earth.
[From the U.S. News & World Report, Aug. 1, 1994]
Responsibility
In 1993, Master Sgt. Gary Gordon was killed trying to
rescue a fellow soldier in Mogadishu, Somalia. His widow,
Carmen, and their two children, Ian, 6, and Brittany, 3, live
in Southern Pines, N.C.
My dearest Ian and Brittany,
I hope that in the final moments of your father's life, his
last thoughs were not of us. As he lay dying, I wanted him to
think only of the mission to which he pledged himself. As you
grow older, if I can show you the love and responsibility he
felt for his family, you will understand my feelings. I did
not want him to think of me, or of you, because I did not
want his heart to break.
Children were meant to have someone responsible for them.
No father ever took that more seriously than your dad.
Responsibility was a natural part of him, an easy path to
follow. Each day after work his truck pulled into our
driveway. I watched the two of you run to him, feet pounding
across the painted boards of our porch, yelling, ``Daddy!''
Every day, I saw his face when he saw you. You were the
center of his life.
Ian, when you turned 1 year old, your father was beside
himself with excitement, baking you a cake in the shape of a
train. On your last birthday, Brittany, he sent you a
handmade birthday card from Somalia. But your father had two
families. One was us, and the other was his comrades. He was
true to both.
He loved his job. Quite and serious adventure filled some
part of him I could never fully know. After his death, one of
his comrades told me that on a foreign mission, your dad led
his men across a snow-covered ridge that began to collapse.
Racing across a yawning crevasse to safety, he grinned wildly
and yelled, ``Wasn't that great?''
You will hear many times about how your father died. You
will read what the president of the United States said when
he awarded the Medal of Honor: ``Gary Gordon * * * died in
the most courageous and selfless way any human being can
act.'' But you may still ask why. You may ask how he could
have been devoted to two families so equally, dying for one
but leaving the other.
For your father, there were no hard choices in life. Once
he committed to something, the way was clear. He chose to be
a husband and father, and never wavered in those roles. He
chose the military, and ``I shall not fail those with whom I
serve'' became his simple religion. When his other family
needed him, he did not hesitate, as he would not have
hesitated for us. It may not have been the best thing for us,
but it was the right thing for your dad.
There are times now when that image of him coming home
comes back to me. I see him scoop you up, Ian, and see you.
Brittany, bury your head in this chest. I dread the day when
you stop talking and asking about him, when he seems so long
ago. So now, I must take responsibility for keeping his life
entwined with yours. It is a responsibility I never wanted.
But I know what your father would say. ``Nothing you can do
about it. Carmen. Just keep going.'' Those times when the
crying came, as I stood at the kitchen counter, were never
long enough. You came in the front door, Brittany, saying,
``Mommy, you sad? You miss Daddy?'' You reminded me I had to
keep going.
The ceremonies honoring your dad were hard. When they put
his photo in the Hall of Heroes at the Pentagon, I thought,
can this be all that is left, a picture? Then General
Sullivan read from the letter General Sherman wrote to
General Grant after the Civil War, words so tender that we
all broke down. ``Throughout the war, you were always in my
mind. I always knew, If I were in trouble and you were still
alive you would come to my assistance.''
One night before either of you were born, your dad and I
had a funny little talk about dying. I teased that I would
not know where to bury him. Very quietly, he said. ``Up home.
In my uniform.'' Your dad never liked to war a uniform. And
``Up home.'' Maine, was so far away from us.
Only after he was laid to rest in a tiny flag-filled
graveyard in Lincoln, Maine, did I understand. His parents,
burying their only son, could come tomorrow and the day after
that. You and I would not have to pass his grave on the way
to the grocery store, to Little League games, to ballet
recitals. Our lives would go on. And to the men he loved and
died for, the uniform was a silent salute, a final repeat of
his vows. Once again, he had taken care of all of us.
On a spring afternoon, a soldier from your dad's unit
brought me the things from his military locker. At the bottom
of a cardboard box, beneath his boots. I found a letter.
Written on a small, ruled tablet, it was his voice, quiet but
confident in the words he wanted us to have if something
should happen to him. I'll save it for you, but so much of
him is already inside you both. Let it grow with you. Choose
your own responsibilities in life but always, always follow
your heart. Your dad will be watching over you, just as he
always did.
Love,
Mom.
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