Frontlines
is a collection of real life essays from Wayland Baptist University students, devoted to military life and service. Some
have seen combat in Iraq and Afghanistan. Some support
those missions. Some are Army, some are Air Force, and
some are National Guard. Some are career soldiers. Some
are not. All serve the citizens of the United States of America, and these essays are a historical marker and testimony
to that fact. Frontlines and Wayland honors the sacrifice
and service of these men and women.
“The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the
soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and
scars of war.”
~ Douglas MacArthur
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Bataan
by Christine Cunningham
T
he sun has yet to rise, and I already have second
thoughts as to why I am even here. It’s freezing
cold, and it feels as if I don’t exist in the massive
crowd of people who surround me. Then a voice begins to
speak out from the darkness. The crowd gradually stops
talking, and there is silence. All attention is given to the
speaker who is about to do the roll call of the names of those
who, having endured far more than we could ever imagine,
have passed. Every year, the names are fewer and fewer, and
soon there will be no one left to call.
As the last name is read, the sun blazes across the horizon, and the silence is broken by the sounds of jets flying
over us, echoing off the mountains. This is when it hits me: I
am about to participate in something far greater than myself.
And still, at that time, I only had a vague idea as to just how
much of an impact it would ultimately have on me. After all,
why would anyone willingly walk 26.2 miles through the
hot desert and around the rugged, steep mountains? The
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walk of which I am speaking is “The Bataan Memorial
Death March,” which takes place in New Mexico each year
at the White Sands Missile Range. The march honors those
who have died, and those who initially survived, the original
Death March from World War II.
The March begins, and movement is slow as the runners
take off first. The faces that were once in the dark are now
appearing in every direction. Soldiers from all over the
world and suited in full combat gear run are together, calling
cadence to help keep each other motivated. Groups or teams
stick together, weaving in and out of the crowds, trying to
gain the lead. Families, like mine, walking side by side,
gaze at all the courageous human beings beginning this honorable March. The original survivors of the March are on
the sidelines to greet and thank the participants for being
there. However, for the marchers it just feels wrong for
these old, frail heroes of a past time to thank those of us
without experience for being there; we should instead be
thanking them for their sacrifices.
After winding our way through the missile range and out
into the desert, we find ourselves at mile nine. At this point,
I’m feeling pretty good as we begin the long climb up the
four-and-a-half-mile hill. Each step is becoming more of a
challenge, so I decide to walk backwards for a while to give
my burning thighs a break. Nearing the top, the pain shoots
through my body, and I think to myself, Why keep going?
Just stop and say, “I’m done!”
While having those thoughts, a young soldier passes me
who has lost both of his legs while in Iraq or Afghanistan. I
feel so overwhelmed that I cannot hold back the tears. The
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soldier is using his prosthetics to walk this March, and
alongside him are others who have lost their limbs as well. I
then begin to think about the men who made the original
March and the choices they did not have. Those men were
forced to march for days with no food and no water, and if
they fell to their knees and did not get up, or if they even
tried to help another who had fallen, then they were shot,
stabbed, or beheaded. I stop feeling sorry for myself and instantly find the drive and inspiration to keep on going.
As we begin to walk around the mountain, our shoes
start to fill up with sand, our socks begin to slip, and then
comes the agonizing blisters. The miles are slowly passing,
and soon we are more than halfway done as we start back
down the hill. Along the way, we meet a gentleman from
Canada who has done this March for the past ten years, and
every year he plays his bagpipes. That’s right, bagpipes! He
plays songs to help pass the time and to encourage others to
complete the March. The Canadian nods at us as he passes
by, continuing his harmonious play. I look to my right to see
three lone soldiers sitting alongside the path with their shoes
and socks off, exposing their blister-infested feet. As we
come around the corner, my eyes zero in on the red flashing
lights of an ambulance that is carrying someone who had
fallen during the March.
At mile marker 26, the families from the missile base
are there on the sidelines, cheering and offering water,
Gatorade, and snacks to the marchers. Their encouraging
words, “We are so proud of you,” are such a blessing to hear
at this point in time. As I finally cross the finish line, the
pain in my legs, back, and feet all disappear, and I am on an
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emotional high. As I walk through the mass of people, I see
a WWII Veteran sitting in his wheelchair, smiling as he
waves the American flag. I can’t help but pause and reflect
on the day that began so long ago and feel elated that I had
accomplished the 26.2 miles of the Bataan Memorial Death
March. Even though it was nothing compared to what those
heroic war veterans went through, I still feel on top of the
world because I was there to honor them.
About the Author:
Christine Cunningham is the wife of Larry Cunningham, who served his country for 21 years in the U.S. Army.
During their military service, the Cunninghams lived in
Germany and traveled all over Europe.
After Larry’s retirement from active
service, the family settled near a military installation in Sierra Vista, Ariz.
Christine is working toward her
bachelor’s degree in human services at
the Wayland campus in Sierra Vista.
She and Larry have three sons: Nick,
who currently serves in the U.S. Army;
Shane; and Nathan.
“Living the military lifestyle has
made me not only appreciate being an American but also
appreciate all our heroic service men and women who have
served and are still serving to keep our country free,”
Christine says. “Bless all of you!”
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