With Fighting, Gulf Letters Take on Sense of Urgency : The front: Soldiers tell of relief, worry now that war has begun. They seek to lessen fears of loved ones.

The letters come less frequently now that their writers are at war. But slowly, mail sent since the fighting began is trickling home from the sandy bivouacs of Saudi Arabia and the warships patrolling the Persian Gulf.

Whether on colorful stationery or rumpled notebook paper, in a youthful scrawl or the mature hand of men and women, the letters offer telling reflections on the first weeks of combat.

As in earlier correspondence, the pages carry expressions of love for those left behind, of confidence in eventual reunions, of longing for the safety of home. There are still requests for items at once trivial and important--send more cheese spread and a board game. And there are still dashes of humor.

But now there is a deeper urgency than before the shooting began--both in the way the words are written and the way they are read, over and over again. In letters shared with The Times, a young soldier makes contingency plans for a future that could be marred by injury; a mother worries about her young children growing up without her, and an older brother urges a younger one to stay clear of military service.

Typical is a letter from Gary Bodenweiser to his mother, Barbara of Anaheim. A military police officer stationed somewhere near the Kuwaiti border, this was his first since the allied bombing began on Jan. 17:

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!!!

“It’s devastating,” Bodenweiser said, holding the sealed blue envelope up to the light seeping through a window of her apartment. “Do you think I should open it? It scares me. I don’t want to think about him getting killed.”

In San Diego, Chief Petty Officer Bill Wyatt, 39, knows that kind of fear, too. His wife, Deborah, is a 2nd class petty officer aboard the destroyer tender Acadia, somewhere in the Persian Gulf. While she tends to her duties, he is home with the children--Greg, 7, Cathy, 4 and Kerri, 2.

It is Deborah Wyatt’s first deployment, the first long separation from her children.

Her latest letter told of her duty schedule and discussed the limited war news available aboard ship:

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 Kool-Aid, please . . . .

The Wyatts’ oldest child, Greg, seems to be taking it the hardest, crying at night and calling for his mother. Between sobs, the little boy says that he is afraid she will be killed. Bill Wyatt wonders whether his son is seeing too much television news--or maybe he is picking up on his father’s worries?

In Los Angeles, a woman knows that her son, an Air Force pilot, has his life on the line day after day. While he flies an F-16, she has attended anti-war rallies, adding her voice to those who see this as an unnecessary war. She requested anonymity, explaining that the last time a newspaper printed her name, she received crank phone calls.

Her son has doubtless felt the rush of adrenaline and fear, but spares his mother such war stories. His words are laconic, almost laid-back. “He’s an understated type of person,” his mother explains.

. . . Things have been busy around here as you could imagine. We’re all happy that the air war has been going fairly well. We’ve settled into a routine here in our tent city. Most of our free time is spent either eating, sitting at the club trying to watch CNN or playing dominoes. I’m afraid I’m not yet very tan. I’m still one of the white boys. . . .

I’ll try to write again when I can. Until then, remember no news is good news. Say hi to everyone. And give the cat some scratches from me. I love you.

Her son--27, married and a father--also thanked her for sending him a United Nations flag. He feels strongly, she explains, that it is not just a war between Iraq and the United States, but Iraq and the world. And, she said, he does not mind the anti-war protests.

Vicki Everhart, a 26-year-old Marine wife who lives in El Toro, talks with the same buoyancy that comes across in her husband’s letters. They have been married eight years, and the day after Staff Sgt. Steven Everhart shipped out, their youngest of three children was born. The baby is now 6 months old.

Sgt. Everhart focuses his anger on Saddam Hussein. He was pleased the day U.S. warplanes bombed Baghdad.

I think it’s great for many reasons. First it means I’ll be coming home sooner. That’s the best reason. Another reason is because that bastard is responsible for me being here, missing the birth of my daughter, missing her first six months and who ever knows how many more, and missing you and the rest of my children.

So I think it’s become a little personal with me . . . .

Sometimes, Vicki says she and other Marine wives get together and read their letters aloud, holding nothing back. Then they plot romantic homecomings. “I’ll say, ‘You watch my kids the first weekend. I’ll watch yours next weekend,’ ” she said, still laughing.

When James and Valerie Keeney of Santa Ana received a letter from their son, Daren, an Army medic, they were struck by the timing. They had just heard news accounts about how his unit, the 325th Infantry Regiment of the 82nd Airborne Division, had engaged in its first firefight of the war.

On the news, a commander said troops had to engage the enemy to avoid being ambushed.

Reading their son’s letter, the Keeneys got a sense of how the soldiers felt after the war began, but before their first combat experience.

You should see the men. They all had grins on their faces this morning because we started bombing. . . . The people at home say wait longer for peaceful resolutions but they’re saying that in the comfort of their homes with their loved ones there. We’re tired of waiting. We’re ready to do this and come home . . . .

. . . I better close for now. I’ve got a class to prepare for tomorrow. It’s on stopping the bleeding. I’ll be teaching it to our company. It’s just basic stuff, so it shouldn’t be too hard.

News of his regiment’s first battle, paired with the letter, “brought it even closer to home,” Valerie Keeney said. “I guess it was just a matter of time before they started using those guys.”

Outside, Old Glory and the Army’s 82nd Airborne flag hang from a white pole. The trees and the Keeneys’ cocker spaniel are dressed up with yellow ribbons. “I know he’s going to be OK,” Valerie says.

Another mother, a resident of Pacific Palisades, hoists a portrait of her son at anti-war rallies. He’s a 24-year-old Marine his mother still calls Timmy. She requested anonymity in sharing a lengthy letter written two days after combat began.

Another time she opened an envelope and sand spilled out. “It just wrenched my heart, because I know it’s in his bed, it’s in his clothes,” she said. “It just drives me crazy .”

Look Mom, don’t worry about me too much I know that you’re getting yourself all worked up. It’s understandable but try to go about your life as well as is possible. Personally, I’m worried, nervous and apprehensive. Of course there is a fear element involved, but I’m not a quivering mass, inside or out. I’m proud to be doing service for my country . . . .

I’m not special or superhuman or a machoman or any of that . . . I want you to know I’m not some brainwashed fool. How & why we got into this mess is academic to us at this level. All we have to believe in is ourselves, our equipment and the belief we’ll get home in one fully functioning piece. Don’t cry mama. I always felt I would be in this type of situation. I always felt I would make it out fine too.

He goes on to urge the family to pull together: let bygones be bygones. He tells of a promotion to corporal-- more power!-- and reserves special words for his youngest brother, 6-year-old Michael.

He probably would never think about it but he will never have my support if he ever thinks about joining the service. One Marine in the family is more than enough . . . .

I’ve got to go now but remember: relax!

Love, Tim