Love and War

BARNWELL — Early in 2007, news reports revealed how small towns have been disproportionately affected by the Iraq war. Small towns are where you find a lot of veterans. Small towns tend to be tightly knit, their social fabric providing inhabitants a degree of support not found in big cities. In small towns, everybody knows everybody else.

Barnwell is one such small town. Three of its young men have died in Iraq. A number of others are active-duty members of the military, deployed to U.S. bases and war theaters around the world. Many more in Barnwell are veterans of past wars: Vietnam, World War II, Korea. A new veterans park is steps from downtown. It is likely that the people you meet are vets. Or know vets. Or have enlisted children.

Linda and Bill Myrick, who live in the country just outside Barnwell, have spent the past 14 months on pins and needles. Their son, William, was a first lieutenant in the Army stationed in Baghdad and Fallujah, the commander of convoys that traveled the infamous arteries especially prone to roadside bomb attacks.

To spend time with the Myricks is to understand that not everyone in America's small towns is a flag-waving, pro-war patriot. The people of Barnwell, even those who consider themselves loyal Bush supporters, worry, worry a lot, worry that this war took a bad turn somewhere.

In Barnwell, it is clear that this war — any war — is experienced profoundly by people far from the action.

And even as this particular family pursues its daily routines, there is the conflict percolating within, occasionally bubbling up to subsume minds and hearts.

I. Coming home

For a couple of days, Linda Myrick couldn't think straight. She couldn't speak well or write down her feelings. She was racked with worry.

Her son was finally coming home after 409 days in Iraq, many of which he had spent in the line of fire.

It might have been a moment of relief, but Linda Myrick was obsessed about those perverse chance events when, just as someone is free of danger, disaster strikes.

First Lt. William Myrick IV was done. Part of the 25th Infantry and finished with a tour that had been extended twice, William left Iraq on Nov. 23. When her son arrived in Kuwait, Linda Myrick allowed herself to think again. He was out. Away from the improvised explosive devices. Free of the sniper fire. Safe from suicide bombers.

William was scheduled to arrive in South Carolina on Friday, in time for Christmas and his sister's birthday.

In his own way, Bill Myrick harbored an intense anxiety, too. But while his wife could let it go once she knew William was out of Iraq, Bill was still meandering through a cloud of disbelief and concern. If William were anywhere else in the world and got in trouble, Bill knew he could drop everything and rush to help his son. But soldiering in a war zone is different. "It's like they're on another planet," the father said.

Out of Iraq wasn't good enough. Nor Kuwait, where William was initially shipped, nor Alaska where he landed in mid-December on his circuitous way back to Barnwell.

"I'm waiting for the day he walks in the door," Bill said. "That's when I'll probably lose it."

II. The dynamo and softy

The Myricks are like a lot of families. Love and support for one another are unconditional, but conflict frequently erupts, especially over politics and the war.

Bill is a 54-year-old medical equipment salesman and a Republican who likes John McCain, but is starting to think McCain's time has come and gone. A South Carolina native and Southern Baptist, Bill loves the outdoors, hates paying taxes, worries about threats to national security, adores and respects his wife, speaks regularly with his stepdaughter, Rebecca Gallagher, and gushes over his son, William.

Linda, 64, hails from Maine. A Yankee Irish-Catholic Democrat transplanted to South Carolina, and an ardent Hillary Clinton supporter, she is often at odds with her husband, and many others. But hers is a forceful personality, and her political activism has often produced results that have helped the community. Little by little, her neighbors have come to admire her.

She's tough; he's a softy, Rebecca said. "My mother's an enigma, Bill is just an exposed heart."

The Myricks wed on Valentine's Day in 1980. It was her second marriage. The first brought Linda to South Carolina from Maine and produced daughter Rebecca.

Linda was older, ambitious, vocal. She abhorred the greed that threatened to destroy the countryside. She hated what she saw as the lackadaisical Southern attitude that she thought inhibited progress and enlightenment.

"Sitting around seeing people watching life go by just killed her," Rebecca said.

She took a job in neighboring Hampton County as an editor and columnist at the Guardian. Bill sold advertising for the paper. They butted heads.

"If you would sell more ads, we'd have a bigger, better paper!" she told him.

"Ain't you a reporter?" he shot back. "If you wrote something worth reading, we'd sell more newspapers!"

Linda's "Luck of the Irish" column was very popular. In it she spoke her mind and readers responded (not always politely). Bill was a good salesman, a charmer with a sense of humor, a great host.

Their marriage provoked a small scandal. People thought she was corrupting him. They were suspicious of Linda's background and politics. They ostracized her.

Eventually, though, Linda's generosity, open house and commitment to the community became apparent.

She took a job at a local radio station, defending the interests of local residents. When a drunken-driving scandal broke, implicating town officials and jury members who were letting the accused off easy, Linda named names on the air.

The station was sued for slander and she was silenced. Temporarily.

In 2002, when Carolina Metals, a subsidiary of Starmet CMI that processes depleted uranium, was discovered to have dumped toxic waste into evaporation ponds on its site, Linda was a vocal critic. The poisoned water threatened to leach into the groundwater and spilled into a nearby creek when heavy rain filled the ponds. Linda wanted employees of the facility to get medical tests. She wanted to establish a baseline health assessment. But some employees and county officials were not enthusiastic about seeking legal remedy, the Myricks said. They accused Linda of being "anti-jobs."

Soon, the Starmet facility was designated a federal Superfund site, prompting a big cleanup effort spearheaded by the Environmental Protection Agency and costing taxpayers about $25 million.

"Some people in (nearby) Red Oak are still drinking bottled water," Linda said.

Today, Linda serves as chairwoman of the Barnwell County Planning Commission, fighting developers and their allies in government over land acquisition and subdivision. Under Linda's leadership, the commission is instituting new zoning laws in an effort to preserve the rural areas and protect the interests of residents. It's an uphill battle, Linda said, but her persistence and determination are beginning to pay off.

What does big-hearted Bill think of his dynamo wife? Just don't utter the words "Hillary Clinton" and he's got nothing but good things to say.

"She's the consummate mother, very involved. ... She lives through (her children); her kids are a reflection of her worth to the world. ... She is selfless. ... Linda's taught me how to fight."

III. Family politics

Bill graduated from The Citadel in 1975, too late to serve in Vietnam. "Having never served is the one thing I truly regret," he said.

Twenty-five years later, his son wanted to go to The Citadel. Linda and Rebecca begged William to go to Clemson. Bill knew he shouldn't push his son either way; William would have to decide for himself. "Bill was very fair about that," Rebecca said.

One night, William came to his older sister. They sat on the edge of the bed, and he listed the many reasons he had for picking The Citadel. It was difficult for him, Rebecca said. "Mom drives him crazy ... she's a personality you can't deny."

William's big sister told him she would never withhold her opinions, but she also would never withhold her full support.

He was a sophomore when the Twin Towers fell. A month before graduation, he called to inform his parents he had enlisted. "I just can't do nothing, I've got to do something," he told his father.

"As a patriot, I was very proud," Bill said. "As a father, I was scared to death."

Linda hated thinking about the part her son would play in the fight against terrorism. But when she saw him in uniform, marching across The Citadel's grass parade ground, pride and love swelled her heart. Her father, Eugene Murphy, was an enlisted man who served in World War II and Korea, and during the Vietnam War.

She calls the war in Iraq a terrible mistake. She cites what she calls the lies: the concocted evidence, the false link between al-Qaida and Saddam Hussein, the odd goal of "defeating terrorism" as if the tactic were a tangible enemy. She disapproves of President Bush and his agenda.

But her support of the men and women at war has never lagged.

At "The Farm," the Myricks' 200-acre property just south of Barnwell, Bill and Linda sip cocktails by the swimming pool on a Saturday evening in August and talk about their neighbors and friends, their trials and tribulations, their William.

"You just resign yourself to the fact that you might see (your son) once a year for the rest of your life," Linda says.

It's hard for her to accept that William is a military man now. He should be a politician, she says. He should run for the House of Representatives. He's so personable, helpful, caring. "That's why it's so hard to think that he wants to be a soldier — and hurt somebody."

Bill describes how he "compartmentalizes" in order to cope with his son's absence. He focuses on his work, the new medical products being developed, the task of selling them to customers in the region. And he talks about the past, the challenge of raising a precocious son, the joys of a loving relationship with his stepdaughter, Rebecca, the stubborn commitment of his wife.

With help from the members of First Baptist Church and other residents of Barnwell, Linda has arranged for the delivery of care packages, cards and supplies. She has reached out to other families whose children are deployed overseas. This is what the Myricks have in common — their complete devotion to William and, by extension, everyone in the service.

That devotion is partly fueled by life at The Farm. The Myricks relocated an old four-room farmhouse from Allendale County, where Bill grew up, to this spot, adding an upper floor and the pool. Animals, especially dogs and birds, have always been part of the family, the dogs traipsing in and out, the birds occasionally escaping from their cages.

Years ago, a red-tailed hawk swooped down behind the house and attacked a chicken, tearing the fowl's chest open. Before the feathers could settle on the ground, Linda had grabbed the injured bird, laid it on a nearby Ping-Pong table, stuffed its guts back into its abdomen and sewed the creature up with a standard needle and thread. The bird was shortly laying eggs. It lived two more years.

IV. William in Iraq

"He's an adrenaline junkie, he's always been an adrenaline junkie," Bill Myrick said of his son.

He was a small child, a little frail, a little shy. He would stuff his shoes with napkins to appear taller. But that all changed later. As a teenager, he liked to compete with his buddies. One hot summer day, he and his friends drove home along the roads of Barnwell County with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning off, to see who would pass out first.

Perhaps those early adventures were a way to escape the demands of his mother, to avoid confrontation, Rebecca suggested.

William has never liked conflict, she said. Perhaps adventure with friends was a way for him to become his own person, forge his own values, understand his destiny. And it was a way for a small-town boy to keep busy and entertained.

On a trip to Costa Rica with his sister, he insisted on bungee jumping 300 feet off a rickety bridge. He was excited, she was petrified.

"I felt like I was being sacrificed to the canyon," she said. Her feet were frozen at the edge, her body tingled with fear, but she knew she couldn't chicken out. Once she left the bridge and began her free fall, she felt relieved. It was over. She would live or die.

Then William took his position at the edge.

"I saw his eyes get big," Rebecca said. "He just turned around and made a swan dive." Backward, his arms open, his back arched. He had never done this before.

His mother is full of wonder, worry and admiration. She might not always agree with his choices, but she is tickled by his accomplishments.

"My son is an Eagle Scout," she would boast.

Then, "My son is a cadet at The Citadel."

Then, "My son is a convoy commander in Iraq."

Now after 14 months in Iraq, 1st Lt. William Myrick IV might soon get his captain's bars. And he might soon begin training for Special Forces.

"Unless our son could find a job where he'd jump out of a helicopter, land on a water tower, repel down, blow up something, swim out to sea and be picked up by a submarine, he'd be miserable," Linda wrote in an e-mail.

Proud. Torn. Afraid to think about the possibilities.

"Having your son in Iraq, it's like having your child on death row," she said, "and every day is his execution day, and you're just praying he gets a stay. Every day."

V. Christmas prep

William is home for Christmas. Linda is aflutter, clearing fallen branches from the woods, buying party supplies, erecting banners in town, celebrating with friends and neighbors. Bill is visibly relieved, a little more relaxed, but an air of disbelief encompasses him. He's been working hard on a new medicated bronchial tube that might prevent hospital-borne pneumonia.

The Myricks have driven from The Farm to Costco in West Ashley for a big shopping spree. They load two carts with various meats, a huge bag of rolls, beverages, boxes of goodies, fruit juice and more. Linda carries a list of items scribbled on two tiny scraps of paper: It's merely an "outline," she says.

A little later, over a sandwich at Fleet Landing restaurant in Charleston, Linda and Bill bicker over the war in Iraq and the candidates for president.

He cites Saddam Hussein's massacre of Kurds in the early 1990s and the weapons of mass destruction the dictator had accumulated.

Linda rolls her eyes. There is no connection between the attacks of 9/11 and Iraq, she insists. "Invading Iraq was a terrible mistake, admit it, Bill."

He points out that the war is helping to protect Americans.

She says it isn't, it's only killing troops and innocent civilians. "It was a mistake," she repeats. "Wasn't it a mistake, Bill?"

Afghanistan should have remained the focus, he says, softening a little.

"The invasion of Iraq was a mistake, right?" she persists.

"Yes," he answers, finally, but quickly adds that a quick withdrawal would be dangerous. It would leave the country in chaos.

"Well, I agree with that," Linda says.

But maybe Bill conceded Linda's point begrudgingly, to appease his adamant wife. Maybe he's still not sure. Maybe he's afraid to think about it too much. William could be called up again, for another tour in Iraq.

Or, if he's selected as a member of Special Forces, he might go off to fight terrorism on some other front.

The war is not over for the Myricks.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Myricks correspond by e-mail

Editor's Note: In March 2007, The Post and Courier published a story about Barnwell and its residents. Three of them have been killed in Iraq. Small towns, such as Barnwell, have borne the brunt of the conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Bill and Linda Myrick live near Barnwell. Their son, William, has just finished a 14-month tour of duty in Baghdad and Fallujah, where he served as a convoy commander and then executive officer.

Linda Myrick, a former newspaper columnist and writer, has sent numerous e-mails describing her feelings, relationships and anxieties.

William Myrick generously answered several questions posed during the summer in two long e-mails. Some of this correspondence is published here.

For more, visit www.charleston.net/myrick.

Linda Myrick, November 2007:

On Friday morning about 8:30 I was here by myself and the phone rang. "This is the AT&T international operator. I have a collect call from William, if you accept the charges please press one." I was shaking so bad I had to take my left hand, grip my right hand's index finger, guide it to the key pad and press one. If I'd messed up I would have lost the most important call in my life. I'd have given up the farm to pay for it.

William was in Kuwait. It was all over. ...

For a week I'd imagined what it would be like to get the word and know it was all over. I wonder how I'd react and cry just thinking about it. Would I run outside, throw myself down on the ground, raise my hand to heaven and thank Jesus for protecting him? Would I be able to function or talk? What was it going to be like not living under the gun after 14 months?

After he hung up, there were no tears, no shouting for joy. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir wasn't on the back porch singing the Hallelujah Chorus. There was no huge display of fireworks being shot off in the pasture. The pope didn't walk through the front door and tell me I'd been delivered. None of those things you'd expect when you received such monumental good news. I just sat there and smiled. All I did was smile.

Then I got up, dressed and continued my day.

William Myrick, August 2007:

The heat at the worst part of the day is pretty suffocating. If you go outside the wire, every measure is taken to keep you from becoming a heat casualty. Humvee's have AC, but at 120 degrees it doesn't make much difference. Inside the wire it's not so bad. There are massive generators everywhere and ACs are pretty common. The guys on the outposts have it pretty bad. They normally run off of one or two small generators, which power only mission essential equipment. They rotate out every two weeks or so. ...

Big life lessons ...

1). Barnwell, South Carolina is much more fun than Iraq. 2). Trust what the old guys tell you. 3). As soon as you aren't nervous anymore, there is a problem. 4). You are probably coming back to Iraq.

William Myrick, December 2006:

Hey Y'all,

First, I want to thank everyone for the almost 60 to 70 packages that I have received in the past month. Birthday, Christmas, and you-name-it packages have been pouring in every day. I have to let y'all know that a good bit of your goodies are going to my Soldiers. I just don't have the room for all of it in my can. They love it when I get mail. The next thing I want to say is that I have gotten all of your letters and have just read all of your e-mails. I especially want to thank all of the strangers (who aren't anymore) who went out of their way to write letters and send packages. It means a lot. I read a lot of them to my joes and they are very thankful.

My job is very exciting and stressful. Imagine staying in a boxer's stance (for about 4 hours) with both fists clenched and hard as you can waiting for a punch to come out of nowhere. That is what it feels like running convoys in Iraq. I love what I do, but it sure does take it out of you. Especially when you are in charge of the whole thing. My guys are funny. ... They are sharp ... really sharp. I can't tell y'all how many times an idea from an 18-year-old private has saved my butt. It is truly the biggest honor of my life to lead these Soldiers into combat. Words cannot express how proud of them I am. ...

Last thing ...

My company has been very lucky ... a couple of close calls but no one has been hurt. Some of our other units have not been so lucky. Please take a moment as you are enjoying the holidays to think about the families that aren't as fortunate. Several young men have made the ultimate sacrifice and we owe it to them to be reverent. Be thankful for what you have and enjoy every day. Please have a very Merry Christmas.

Reach Adam Parker at 937-5902 or aparker@ postandcourier.com.

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