American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

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suitcases, cartons and the odd box of soda. We could have been a traveling
rock band, staging a stadium road show.
Except that our road show had very serious pyrotechnics.
Besides snipers from Team 3, men had been pulled from Team 5
and Team 8 to join the assault. I already knew most of the West Coast
guys; the others I’d come to respect over the next few weeks.
The energy level was intense. Everyone was eager to get into the
fight and help the Marines.
THE HOME FRONT
As the battle drew near, my thoughts wandered to my wife and son.
My little baby boy was growing. Taya had started sending me photos
and even videos showing his progress. She’d also sent images through
e-mail for me to look at.
I can see some of those videos now in my mind—he’d be lying on
his back, and shake his hands and feet, going as if he was running, a
big ol’ smile on his face.
He was a super-active kid. Just like his daddy.
Thanksgiving, Christmas—in Iraq, those dates didn’t mean all that
much to me. But missing my son’s experience of them was a little different.
The more I was gone, and the more I saw him grow, the more I
wanted to help him grow—do the things a father does with and for a
son.
I called Taya while I was waiting for the assault to begin.
It was a brief conversation.