“The Marine who carried both Private Bird and Sergeant Blackhawk to safety, along with the last of the refugees, was also seriously wounded.” Duvalier hit a button and a shot of Charlie’s blood and smoke covered face came up from where he was getting up in the road to pick up his buddy, and then he hit a button and Charlie’s dress picture came up. “This is Lance Corporal Charles Robert Buckman of Hereford, Maryland. Lance Corporal Buckman suffered multiple penetrating trauma, including shrapnel, ricochet fragments, and two bullets.”
Nobody heard shit after the word ‘Buckman’ came out of Duvalier’s lips. Just enough people knew that was the name of my son, and everybody began calling out questions, not to the colonel, but to me. We all knew this was going to happen, and when it did, Colonel Duvalier looked over at me and I simply nodded to him. He stepped back and away from the podium and I stepped forward. I held my hands up and signaled for everybody to settle down. It was my turn.
“Thank you, thank you, now, I’ll make a brief statement and then answer some questions.” The room quieted down, and I was able to continue. “Yes, to the question whether Lance Corporal Buckman is my son, yes he is. Like most of you, I watched the video we just saw, an edited version, on the news Monday night, and like you, I couldn’t believe the courage of these fine young men. Marilyn and I only learned that Charlie was involved and was wounded yesterday morning, when the Commandant came to see me to inform us. Charlie’s wounds are serious, but he is expected to fully recover. We were able to speak to him yesterday. Now, one at a time, please.”
Instantly a sea of hands shot into the air. I picked one out at random.
“Mister President, when you saw the footage did you realize that was your son?”
I shook my head. “No, we had no idea. All we saw was a bunch of incredibly brave guys in body armor who looked really dirty and beat up. When I saw that footage, I thought for sure I was going to have to make a phone call to a mother somewhere to give her my condolences!”
Another voice spouted up, “Mister President, when were you informed?”
“The Commandant and a Navy doctor made the notification yesterday morning. We are Charlie’s next of kin.”
There were several more questions along this line, and then I was asked, “Will you be giving your son a medal?”
I sighed. I knew that was coming! “At the time the Commandant informed us that Charlie was wounded, he also informed us that Charlie’s commanding officer had recommended him for a decoration. I am sure that Charlie will not be the only Marine who is decorated. I have nothing to do with the criteria for the awarding of decorations and medals, and will not be involved in that. As both the President and Charlie’s father, I have to admit that if my son is to be decorated, I will be extremely proud to do so.”
At that point Colonel Duvalier came over and took my place at the podium. He gave a brief description of the method the Marines used to determine whether a decoration had been earned and the process involved. The fact of the matter was that nothing he said mattered. There would be people who simply would refuse to believe that Charlie being given a medal wasn’t a political move on my part. If Charlie were to die, they would claim I had sent him to his death to gain sympathy and win re-election.
I got back to the podium and took the bull by the horns. “I am perfectly aware that if my son were to be given a medal, there are plenty of people out there who will think he has gotten it because of who I am, and not what he did. Let me put it a different way, however. If Lance Corporal Buckman did act heroically, should he not be decorated because of who I am? I have to tell you, when Marilyn and the girls and I first saw that footage on Monday night, I thought for sure I was going to be giving somebody an award posthumously. We couldn’t believe that Marine, whoever he was, wasn’t killed saving those people.”
“What was the First Lady’s reaction?”
I had to smile at that. “I think you could say she was rather upset, as I was. That was her first reaction. Her second reaction, after we learned that Charlie would recover, was that she demanded to see him, like yesterday.” I looked over at the Commandant and smiled at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Marine general as nervous as when we told Marilyn the other day. I think he would have preferred charging into cannon fire, and I would have been right behind him!” General Jones laughed at that and nodded. “We compromised. I sent the First Lady on a tour of the Tarawa Amphibious Group. She and a few of your fellow reporters should be there later today. Now, while I am sure she is going to go see Charlie first, she is also planning on meeting with the sailors and Marines of the entire amphibious group, and to thank them and congratulate them all on a job well done.”
There was another hooraw over that! How could I send my wife, when none of the other mothers could go? (We didn’t have time to arrange it. We would be scheduling time to make sure everybody wounded would be able to call home, if they hadn’t already done so.) Why didn’t she take anybody else with her? (We didn’t have time to arrange it. We already answered this. They kept asking anyway.)
Why should the American public pay for this personal use of taxpayer funds? The last question was the easiest to deal with. Jim Miklaszewski of NBC News asked it, so I put him right on the hot seat. “Mik, that’s a fair question. The answer is that the American public won’t be paying for it. I expect to be getting a bill from the Navy, and I’ll have to pay that.”
“You’ll be paying it? It will cost millions to send Mrs. Buckman and a team of reporters to the middle of the ocean!” he exclaimed.
“Probably so. So now I have an assignment for you! At the end of this press conference you will be escorted somewhere here in the Pentagon, and somebody will figure out what this is going to cost. You are then going to report that number, and bring a camera crew over to the White House, where you can film me writing a check. That ought to be good for a few minutes on prime time, right?” I left him standing there open-mouthed and flummoxed. In fact, the Navy was going to have to scramble to figure this out, but it would get him out of my remaining hair.
The ‘Monrovian Rescue’ occupied a lot of news time, right through the weekend. By the next day Greg Kelly began reporting from the Lincoln and the Tarawa about the First Lady’s tour, as well as a variety of stock shots of F-18s flying combat patrols over Monrovia. The patrols began flying as soon as the Lincoln got close enough to launch them with adequate tanker support, and proved highly useful in settling down the locals. By Thursday all the networks had managed to get broadcast teams to Monrovia, and Bismarck Myrick proved an interesting sight, showing up in khakis, a short sleeve shirt, and combat boots, wearing a Viet Nam era flak jacket open in the front (rendering it useless, but it made for good video) and a pistol at his side in a web belt. At one sticky point during the negotiations, he ordered a flight of F-18s to do a low flyover with the afterburners roaring, which busted a bunch of windows and calmed things down again. I always liked Teddy Roosevelt’s comment about speaking softly and carrying a big stick, but it was a good idea to show the stick every once in awhile!