[Congressional Record Volume 142, Number 103 (Friday, July 12, 1996)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Pages E1285-E1286]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




           REMARKS AT THE NAMING CEREMONY FOR THE USNS GORDON

                                 ______
                                 

                          HON. JOHN P. MURTHA

                            of pennsylvania

                    in the house of representatives

                         Friday, July 12, 1996

  Mr. MURTHA. Mr. Speaker, on July 4th I was the speaker at the naming 
of the USNS Gordon.
  The ship was being named for a Congressional Medal of Honor winner 
killed in Somalia. Mrs. Gordon spoke to the audience, and I thought her 
words were so appropriate to the ceremony, and to describing what it 
means to be part of the American military, and to be part of an 
American military family.
  I thought it was very appropriate for Mrs. Gordon's remarks to be 
part of the Congressional Record.

[[Page E1286]]

 Remarks by Mrs. Carmen Gordon at the Naming Ceremony for USNS Gordon 
                              (T-AKR 296)

       Thank you for that kind introduction and the opportunity to 
     be here with you today.
       I'd like to tell you about Gary.
       Just behind a small door in his bedroom closet, my son Ian 
     has stored the treasures dearest to him. The uniforms his 
     father wore, the canteens he drank from, the hammock he slung 
     in so many corners of the world, are there. The boots that 
     took his dad through desert and jungle now lace up around 
     Ian's small ankles. They are all piled neatly together by a 
     little boy's hands and sought out during quiet times.
       My daughter Brittany keeps a photograph of her daddy next 
     to her small white bed, the big 8 by 10 of him smiling 
     straight through to her. It is the first thing she packs when 
     leaving home, and the first thing she unpacks when she 
     arrives anywhere.
       These are comfort to my children. And a source of pride. 
     But most important, Gary's children can see and feel these 
     reminders of their father to keep him close.
       In much the same way, the ship that we christen here 
     today--the USNS Gordon--gives us faith that Gary's spirit 
     will go forward, his ideals and his beliefs honored by those 
     who know of him and the life he so willingly gave.
       The very first time I laid eyes on Gary Gordon was the 
     second month of my thirteenth summer. I was staying with my 
     grandparents in rural Maine. Every week we made a trip into 
     town for supplies. One hot afternoon in front of Newberry's 
     Department store, I saw a boy washing windows. You never 
     forget the first time that you see your first love. I watched 
     him as he worked, calm and purposeful and quiet. Then he 
     looked at me, and I knew this was no ordinary boy. This boy 
     could win my heart.
       When he called my grandparents for permission to take me 
     out, he was turned down flat. She's too young, they told him. 
     And so, in the way that I was to find out was uniquely Gary, 
     he set out to wait three years. Faithful and sparsely 
     emotional letters about his new life in the Army arrived 
     regularly. On the day I turned 16, I sat in my grandparents' 
     living room and watched as his motorcycle pulled into the 
     driveway, my palms sweaty on my freshly ironed dress. A few 
     hours of talk, a quick first kiss in the rec room, and Gary 
     left to be back at his base, miles away. So began our slow 
     dance of love, one that would give us so much in so short a 
     time.
       We had five summers and winters together, the births of a 
     son and daughter setting a rhythm to such sweet time. On 
     Sunday mornings when Ian was still so small, Gary would fill 
     a baby mug with watered down coffee. Folding a section of the 
     newspaper to fit Ian's chubby hands, the two of them would 
     sit together quietly, turning the pages and sipping from 
     their cups. Gary's love for Brittany was just as strong. 
     Every day when he arrived home from work, Brittany would 
     run to meet him, his big hands scooping her up and rubbing 
     her bald head where baby hair had yet to grow. We never 
     knew when these times would be interrupted by a day that 
     brought Gary home with his head shaved, anticipation in 
     his voice and a timetable for leaving.
       I never worried when Gary left on a mission. As I 
     cheerfully kissed him goodbye and waved confidently from our 
     front porch, it never occurred to me to be afraid. Because 
     Gary was never afraid. My safe world was shaken in December 
     of 1989 with the invasion of Panama and the realization that 
     my husband was in the middle of it. Along with other young 
     mothers clutching infants, I sat in a darkened living room 
     and watched television news around the clock, Gary came back, 
     safe. One night when I told him of my fears, he laid a gentle 
     hand on my cheek and said quietly, ``Carmen, don't worry 
     about things we can't change.''
       I know that death often leaves us with the haunting 
     question ``Why?'' I know why Gary died. He died because he 
     was true to his own code for living--trying to help someone 
     else. Fear would have kept Gary from doing what he needed to 
     do, what he wanted to do, what he had prepared all his life 
     to do. There is rare strength in the creed he shared with his 
     comrades: ``I shall not fail those with whom I serve.''
       Gary lies buried only a few miles from where I first saw 
     him on that sunny Maine morning. It is a spare and simple 
     place, open to the weather and bordered by woods that change 
     with the seasons. He is not alone now in that corner of the 
     cemetery. His father Duane, who died suddenly of a heart 
     attack last week, was laid to rest alongside his son, not far 
     from the paper mill where he gave so many years of hard work.
       A gentle, sometimes restless wind bends the flowers and 
     stirs the flags that are always there on Gary's military 
     headstone, below the chiseled words ``Beloved Husband and 
     Father,'' and the coin of his unit pressed into white stone. 
     I hope that some gentle wind will always guide this ship to 
     sea and keep her on a safe and steady course.
       And when that wind strokes the cheeks of my children lying 
     in their beds at night, and Ian and Brittany ask me to tell 
     them what course the USNS Gordon is striking under the stars, 
     I can tell them that she is on the same course their father 
     chose: Headed for distant shores, answering the call of those 
     in need.