Letter to the Unborn Twins of a Fallen Marine

These are the men and women who have been fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan, these past seven years, in the conflict Pentagon lifers call The Long War. They are among the finest people our country has to offer. And your father -- Sgt. William J. Cahir, USMC -- was the best of the best.

I had not spoken to your dad in months, did not even know that your mother was pregnant with twins. Two girls, the doctors predicted, although I suppose we will know for certain in November, when you're due to arrive. She will name you both and send out announcements and we – those who knew your father – will pray hard that life brings you the happiness that you, and all children, deserve.

At first, it struck some of us as especially cruel when we heard that Rene was expecting. It seemed an additional tragedy that Bill would never hold either of you in his arms, or watch you grow up, or glance over to his wife in the half-light of an early morning as you two scampered into the parental bed, an experience described by poet Galway Kinnell as "this blessing love gives again into our arms."

This initial feeling was wrong, of course, and gave way to more tender thoughts: Your arrival, we now realize, is a continuation of something noble. The birth of Bill Cahir's children is a comfort to those who knew him, and it is a gift to this world. This is one letter to you, but you will receive many others. Because this weekend, as your mother prepared for your father's funeral at Arlington National Cemetery, many of his friends and comrades, acquaintances and colleagues were putting their thoughts about your father in writing, for you to see when you are older. This is what your mother asked us to do. I believe her hope is that when you are old enough you will take these letters out and read them, and learn what you must know deep down already: That your father was not only a hero, but a good and decent man, who went to war to protect you, and all of us, and who inspired everyone who knew him.

If you are reading this years from now, you can see that I published it on Aug. 31, 2009, the day your father was buried in Arlington, and two days after Edward M. Kennedy was laid to rest there beside his two brothers. I think Bill would have been pleased by that: As a young man he interned on Capitol Hill, working on health issues on a committee chaired by Senator Kennedy. But the other thing about Arlington is that all the Americans buried there are Bill Cahir's brothers, his brothers in arms. And yes, there are some sisters, too, including a sister Marine. I will mention her in a moment.

Your father was part of an organization that has its recruiting slogan -- "The Few. The Proud. The Marines." Your father was certainly proud of the Corps. He signed his e-mails to us civilians back home "Semper Fidelis," a Latin phrase that means "Always Faithful." William J. Cahir was certainly that. He was also part of something larger than the U.S. Marine Corps – something even larger than America's armed forces. Bill Cahir, along with all the others we have lost in Iraq and Afghanistan -- and the tens of thousands who have been wounded and the hundreds of thousands who served – are part of a national tradition of citizens who march toward the sound of the guns rather than away from trouble or danger.

This was always your father's creed, and it is a code of behavior larger than war. It's the lure of public service, and the men and women who heed this call have a shared instinct: They go where they are needed. Your father did this repeatedly in his life, not just on his final tour of duty.

Your father had the soul of a journalist, and you should know that it is my highest compliment: He was fair-minded and curious, willing to write the truth as he saw it. No nation has ever been free that lacked a free press or the men and women dedicated to practicing the craft of reporting at its highest level. This, too, is what your dad did.

Yet, Bill Cahir was also deeply attracted to the profession he covered as a reporter. Politics intrigued him, not because of the partisan bickering – he was not that type of man – but because he believed government has an essential role in bettering the lives of all Americans. Bill believed that certain policy prescriptions, particularly in the fields of health and education, were better than others, and he wanted to help shape them. Your father was a Democrat, but not a partisan who demonized opponents.

He was the kind who worked with Republicans to forge the best policy solutions that could be enacted into law. For four years, Bill worked on Capitol Hill, first as staff assistant to Senate Labor and Human Resources subcommittee in the early 1990s, and then as a legislative assistant on health care issues for a Pennsylvania senator named Harris Wofford, a smart and decent man who, as a young White House aide in John F. Kennedy's administration, helped draft the legislation that would create the Peace Corps.

When your father died, the tributes rolled in from many quarters of this city and nation. One, in particular, moved me because it gave as much weight to Bill's time as a journalist and congressional aide as to his military service. It was from a New Jersey senator named Robert Menendez, whom your father covered while he was a reporter in the old Washington bureau of Newhouse newspapers. Senator Menendez called your father "a shining example of what makes ours the greatest and proudest nation in the world." Then he added:

"He had a deep desire to serve his country, and he did so as a Congressional aide, with a reporter's notebook, with aspirations to represent his community in government and on the front lines of the battle against extremists who would do us harm. I knew Bill best from his days covering the New Jersey congressional delegation. He was well-respected and dedicated to insightful and trustworthy journalism."

Inspired by the elected officials he met as a Capitol Hill aide and a journalist, your father decided to run for Congress himself after serving two tours in Iraq. Running for an open seat in a Pennsylvania district where he had deep roots, Bill lost in the Democratic Party primary – but not before making his mark with one of the most charming campaign ads in American political history. It opens with your dad introducing himself as an Iraq war veteran and congressional candidate and pronouncing his name "Bill Care," and then telling the audience that it might seem strange to pronounce C-A-H-I-R as "care," then he smiles and says, "Trust me, I deal with that all day long." It was a pun with a political purpose, of course, but it was also true. Bill Cahir did care.

I met your father six years ago on the eve of his entry into the Marine Corps. His enlistment at age 34 had impressed some of his colleagues, and puzzled others. One of those who was in awe of Bill's decision told me about it and when I expressed my admiration, this friend of your father's suggested I call and tell him that myself. I did so, and we talked over the phone, and a few weeks later when his friends in the Newhouse bureau met to wish Bill well upon his departure for boot camp, your father invited me to join them at the Mayflower Hotel where we drank and swapped stories and toasted his gallantry.

Last year, in the autumn of 2008, I talked with your father about writing a piece for Reader's Digest. The article I wanted him to write was part of a series called "How to Be an American," and it was to extol the finest traits of our people. Your father liked this idea, but before it came to fruition, I left the magazine and Bill was summoned back to active duty. It is one of my few professional regrets that we didn't manage to collaborate on this piece. On the other hand, your father's deeds spoke more eloquently than any words.

I have been keeping a file by that name, "the best we had to give," where I started putting newspaper and magazine clippings, since early 2003. Some of these names are known to their countrymen. Pat Tillman, the professional football player who walked away from a million-dollar-a-year contract to enlist in the U.S. Army Rangers – and who returned from Afghanistan in a flag-draped coffin. Michael Kelly, a famous and intrepid journalist killed in the second week of the war while embedded with the Army's 3^rd Infantry Division during its speedy assault into Baghdad.

Others are known mainly in their hometowns or among their loved ones. Mike Kelly was riding in a Humvee driven by a staff sergeant named Wilbert Davis. Under enemy fire, Davis took evasive action, and their vehicle flipped into in a canal, trapping and drowning them both. Like Mike Kelly, Wilbert Davis left behind a wife and young children. Like your dad, Cahir kids, Wilbert Davis was 40 years old. When he was 12, young Wilbert pitched his Tampa team into the Little League World Series. It was a highlight of a nondescript life until his sister talked him into joining the Army. He turned things around, remarried, and became a much-loved husband, father and sergeant first class. His life was celebrated at a raucous funeral in Tampa at College Hill Church of God and Christ, a service punctuated by laughter, tears, foot-stomping, and happy shouts of "Amen!"

Marine Major Megan M. McClung was a Naval Academy grad who earned her master's degree in criminology from Boston University months before she died. She was a triathlete and marathon runner with a sunny disposition and a wicked sense of humor. Journalists in Iraq remember her sprinting along the Tigris River while training. Somewhere in North Carolina, a police officer remembers wistfully the copper-haired female Marine who did a back-flip by the side of the road to prove her sobriety. In late 2006, she organized a marathon at the al-Asad air base in Iraq to honor the fallen. Weeks later, she was one of them, killed at age 34 by a roadside bomb.

Sgt. 1^st Class Paul Ray Smith served in both Iraq wars. A motorcycle enthusiast, father, fishing enthusiast, Smith was known by his men as a driven perfectionist. There was a reason. In the Persian Gulf War, three men in his unit were killed when a U.S. helicopter mistook them for Iraqis and opened fire. In the second Iraq war, Sgt. Smith himself died heroically, defending his 16-man platoon from an Iraqi force six times as large. When Smith fell, the call that went out on the radio was, "Superman is down."

Twenty-seven-year-old Private 1^st class David H. Sharrett II had been an all-state football player at Oakton High School in Northern Virginia. He died on Jan. 16, 2008 in nighttime firefight outside Balad, Iraq. "David joined the Army because he felt, inside of him, that this was something he had to do," his father said later. "If you had to put together the kind of person you wanted to defend your country, David was that kind of guy,'' said a guy who'd told his parents that a highlight of his service in Iraq was going out into the country's villages and handing out candy to children.

The reason I'm telling you this, Cahir kids, is that the problem with keeping a file called "the best we had to give" was that nearly every time I saw a story about a fallen American soldier, airman, or Marine, another news clipping went in the file. They were invariably amazing; they were all such fine people. The death total among U.S. members of the armed forces in Iraq as of this writing stands at 4,336. From Afghanistan, where your dad died, it is 807. All of those Americans had parents or spouses, siblings or children, cousins and friends; all of them will be missed.

And each and every of them volunteered for military service, as did your father. William J. Cahir and the others truly were the best among us.