My husband flew in combat in the first Gulf War. He was gone for four months. In those four months, he flew 40 combat missions, and yes, he got shot at. While he was gone, we (the wives) learned to be very cautious out side of our homes and the base (we were stationed in Germany). He came home, we had our second child, and nothing resurfaced until 8 years later. We were stationed, yet again, in another state, and I was attempting to finish my degree (which I did, but it took 12 years and that's another story). My husband had dropped me off at school and was wearing his uniform. What I would consider a middle-eastern male approached me and asked me if my husband was in the US military. My heart dropped. I started looking around for an escape route or someone who could help me. Noticing my sudden nervousness, he told me that "It's ok. I mean you no harm. I am from Kuwait." This settled my nerves a little. He asked me, again, if my husband was in the military. I answered, "You saw his uniform." He asked me if he was in the Gulf War. I only nodded. He then told me, "Please give your husband my thanks. Because of him and men like him, my mother and sisters were not raped." He then smiled, walked away.
My husband doesn't consider himself a hero. I do and so do others. I work with the military and am grateful that I work in the presence of heroes every day of my life.
Los Angeles, CA