Letters Bring Messages of Love, Hope From Gulf : The Home Front: Letters from San Diegans serving in the Persian Gulf are a lifeline for their families.

Becky Ingram started to shake when she got a letter from her son that had been mailed the day after war broke out.

Ingram knew her son was alive but she was anxious for his words, his own account of war.

The first letters from the Gulf since the bombs fell reassure waiting families and lovers. Ingram and three others shared letters from their loved ones with The Times.

Before Seaman Nic Flynn, 21, shipped out to the Persian Gulf aboard the amphibious assault ship Tarawa, he told his mother, Becky Ingram, that he had made out a will. At that moment, Ingram instantly realized that her only son might not return from war.

Even though she had helped him pack, baked chocolate chip cookies and fudge for him to take, and given him a Christmas present to stow aboard, she somehow blocked out where he was going and why.

But she is now painfully and almost constantly aware that she can do nothing to protect the life of her son. Every night, she lights a candle for him. She and her husband, Doug, have tied hundreds of yellow ribbons inside the house and out in the yard. When she drinks a beer, she toasts her boy. When she sees blue jeans and T-shirts in stores, she pictures him. When she cooks his favorite food--bean burritos--she thinks of him.

On the night that the United States attacked Iraq, Becky Ingram, 40, went to sleep in her home in Flagstaff, Ariz., and woke up believing bombs were pounding the ground outside. The next day, her son sat down in the ship’s library where it was quiet and he could think. He sat and wrote to his mother because he didn’t want her to worry. Flynn, a San Diego resident who joined the Navy almost three years ago, wanted to assure her that he would return home.

Jan. 17, 1991

Dear Mom,

Well, I guess you’ve already got the news. Yes, I am fine. I promise I will be home to see you all soon. After last night’s air raid by us, I know I will have nothing to worry about.

I’ve got to go. The library is closing. I will write you later today.

Well, I am back now. I just heard we made a total of three air raids. I am wondering what’s up and how come ole Saddam isn’t coming after us.

You don’t have to worry about us. We have about 30 ships around us right now. We are out here waiting for word to pull in and attack with amphibious forces. Well, I’ve got to get off that subject. Mail goes out in 45 minutes.

Just remember, the way things are going now, you can relax and enjoy yourself.

I love you and I will be home soon.

Love you all a lot,

Nicholas

Greg Wyatt, 7, has started crying at night and calling for his mother, Deborah Wyatt, a 2nd class petty officer. Between sobs, the little boy says that he is scared she will be killed.

Greg’s crying episodes are difficult for Bill Wyatt because he, too, is afraid. He scrutinizes television news, hoping there will be a shot of his wife’s ship, the destroyer tender Acadia. But Chief Petty Officer Bill Wyatt tries to smother his own fears so he can help Greg wrestle with his. The other two children--Kerri, 2, and Cathy, 4--are too young to understand what is going on. They believe their mother is “at work” and will come home, which Greg has begun to doubt.

Bill Wyatt wonders whether the little boy is seeing too much television news. Or maybe he is picking up on the worries of his parents. In a recent letter, Deborah Wyatt wrote: “I love you with all my heart. Forever. Please keep me in your prayers.”

Sometimes while she is on watch duty, Deborah Wyatt writes to her husband and their three children. She doesn’t like writing letters--she’d much rather call. But since the war broke out, she has not been able to phone home. This is Deborah Wyatt’s first deployment and her first time away from their children.

When Bill Wyatt, 39, returned from work to his Lakeside home and saw the letter from his wife on the kitchen table, he grabbed it and sat down in the living room to read .

Jan. 21 0220

Dear Bill,

Well, here we sit in the Gulf--the “Box.”

I am working nights 2300-0700 and sleep until 1600 to 1700, then putz around til 2300, then work again.

I’m still ship’s master arms, which will be until July. . . .

We take it one day at a time. But the days seem to run into each other out here. We don’t hear much about what is happening out there. We know Baghdad has been leveled. Most of their planes are safe at the moment. Last count, seven Americans missing so far. I guess you can fill me in when you write. . . . Nothing said to indicate when this will end. So be patient. I’ll write when I got something to say, OK? I’m not good at creating letters.. . .

Hey sweetie, I sure do love you. I want to come home so bad. I want to be held by you. I want my babies so bad. I miss my big bed. I miss my house. I miss cooking, drinking tea, my civilian clothes. Hell, I miss everything.

This sucks big time. Well, enough of that. If there is time, please send me my Uno and Scruples games, some Tang and Koolaid, please . . .

I hear ground troops will take over when air raids stop.

How are our three doing? Sure hope we leave here and go home with no extensions (of duty). The whole crew feels the same way. We all want to come home. Well not much else to write about so I’ll close this letter and write another day.

lots of love,

forever yours,

Debby

James Darby, 23, plans his day to make sure he is home at 1 p.m. to wait for the mail. If there is no letter from his gay lover, he feels crushed. For two weeks after war broke out, Darby heard nothing.

The two men have kept their relationship a secret because the Pentagon prohibits homosexuality and his partner would be discharged if it were known. Letters and occasional phone calls are their only link. Darby cherishes each letter he receives, rereading them when he feels depressed or lonely. And usually the letters make him cry.

21 JAN 91

Hi Sweetheart,

Well I’m doing OK. Well honey, before now, it didn’t seem like we were at war because all we did was shoot off our Tomahawks and hear what was going on over the radio. It kind of felt like we were a thousand miles away. But when I heard about the POWs on the news, it just hit me like a ton of bricks. And let me tell you I am scared to death that I might not come home.

I love you with all my heart and I will never stop loving you. . . .

We had a full day holiday routine. So got relieved from duty at 0800 and went to bed at 0830 and slept until 1530. It felt so good.

. . . I can’t wait to come home. I want the biggest hug from you and believe me, you are going to get the biggest hug.

Always and forever,

your husband

This letter from Gary Bodenweiser--a military police officer stationed somewhere near the Kuwaiti border--to his mother, Barbara of Anaheim, was his first since the allied bombing began:

Mom: Well, it’s war, huh! We are listening to the radio. It’s now 0330 HRS and Iraqi aircraft just crossed the border. Our Stinger missile platoon has just gone on yellow hold. Basically, that means all our missles (sic) are unboxed and ready to fire. I am well within range of aircraft, and ya, I’m a little worried that I might die... Well, no more time. Take care and remember your son loves you very much. Allison, too. I will get out of here OK, so don’t worry, OK?

Love, Gary.

This time, though, Barbara Bodenweiser could not feel happy reading her son’s words. Along with the letter came a separate sealed envelope. On it were these instructions:

To be opened only in the event I am incapacitated or on life support!!!

“Do you think I should open it?” Bodenweiser said, holding the envelope up to the light. “It scares me. I don’t want to think about him getting killed.”

Barrie Leonard scoured the letter she got from her husband Arrington Leonard, a 2nd class petty officer aboard the Acadia. It was the first one she had received in three weeks. To her disappointment, it said little about the war.

But when she thought about her 35-year-old husband, it didn’t surprise her that he wrote so little of the war or his feelings about it. Instead, she read between the lines. For the first time, he wrote that he “really missed” her; Kenny, 6, and 11-month-old Johnathan.

His letters are usually brief, saying scarcely anything about his feelings. Yet for the first time, he acknowledged the threats posed by the war.

He wrote to Kenny in big block letters, “I feel bad inside that I have to be away so long but I keep holding on to my faith in God that we will be together again soon.”

To his wife, he wrote more. And these words she read and reread.

21 Jan 91

2156 Hr.

Hi My Darling,

I pray that you are well. I really miss you and the boys. I watched the video (of the family) today and had to stop myself from wanting to shed a few tears. There were others in the shop.

I haven’t thought much about what is going on in Iraq. We are only receiving bits and pieces of the news and I am glad that they have waited to send in the ground troops. I don’t want to see (or hear) our men killed but it is somewhat inevitable. The less that are killed the better. God help them.

There isn’t much happening. The mail is going out tonight so I thought I would write and say I Love You, I Miss You. . . .

Love Always,

Len