Cpl. Christopher A. Gibson, U.S.M.C. (KIA)

Burying A Hero
By Phillip O'Connor
Of the Post-Dispatch
05/02/2004

SIMI VALLEY, Calif. - Jessica Gibson curled into a corner of a couch in her mother's home and spoke quietly about the last phone call she received from her husband, a Marine stationed in Iraq.

Just days before, a friend in his unit, Lima Company, 3rd Battalion 7th Marines, had been killed. She worried about how her husband was handling the loss.

"What's it like out there? How's it going?" Jessica asked.

"He said, 'You know, I just want to talk about the kids,'" she recalled him saying.

So she told her soldier about his son's first birthday party just days before and how much little Luke had enjoyed his cake. Living the military life of frequent deployments and long separations, he'd never been home for any of his children's birthdays. The Gibsons also have a daughter, Ivy, 3.

"Is he walking yet?" he'd asked of the tiny boy who never seems to stop smiling.

"No, he's lazy just like you," she'd joked.

Luke Gibson, born just before the fall of Baghdad, has started to walk in the last few days. But his father will never see those teetering steps.

Cpl. Christopher A. Gibson died April 17 along with four other Marines in his unit after they were caught in an early-morning ambush in Husaybah. He was 23.

Jessica Gibson, 22, is far too young to be a widow. Yet from outward appearances, she is bearing up well. For the most part, she has held her tears in check.

Perhaps she draws her emotional strength from the support of her family and from Christopher Gibson's fellow Marines.

Both descended last week on a quiet street of tidy one-story homes, where flowers and bushes bloomed in an orgy of pinks, yellows, purples, blues, oranges and reds under a cloudless California sky.

They came to offer their condolences, share their memories, pay their last respects and bury a man they consider a hero.

Across America, nearly 700 families have buried a fallen soldier killed in Iraq. No one can say how many more such services are yet to come from this conflict.

Many families grieve in private, out of sight from the sympathetic eyes of a nation at war.

Jessica Gibson chose to allow a reporter and photographer to share her experience of burying her man. She wants America to understand the sacrifice of her husband and his family.

His body arrived here from Dover Air Force Base early last week, escorted across the country by Marine Gunnery Sgt. Gregory Morgan. Morgan had never met Gibson, yet he said he considered him a brother.

On Thursday afternoon, Jessica went to the funeral home to sign forms and collect the personal effects that her husband wore when killed.

She came home with a small red felt bag that bore the words United States Marine Corps stitched in yellow. Inside were a watch, dog tags, a small cross and a St. Christopher medal that she had given her husband the day before his departure. The silver medallion now dangles from a chain around her neck.

On an organ in her mother's living room sits a shadow box that holds the medals and ribbons awarded to an accomplished soldier. In the center is a picture of her square-jawed husband in his dress blue uniform, his white-peaked, black-billed cap pulled low on his forehead. His eyes cast a resolute stare.

On a television across the room, Fox News Network broadcast the latest images and headlines from Iraq; 10 more servicemen dead. Bombs raining down on insurgents in Fallujah.

Throughout the day, former comrades, many accompanied by their wives, trickled into town from Alaska, Illinois, Florida and Oklahoma. On a sun-drenched lawn they looked through pictures of a friend and father.

"My daddy's in heaven," said Ivy, her long blonde hair kissed by a gentle breeze.

That evening, Jessica's mother cooked a dinner of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and okra for the visitors. Before filling their plates, they gathered in a circle and held hands. Navy Lt. James Redmond, a chaplain, offered the blessing. He concluded the prayer with, "And Lord, if you would, give Chris a hug."

Afterward, they sat in lawn chairs in the front yard. An outdoor fire pit warded off the evening chill. They drank beer, pulled swigs from a bottle of Jack Daniels (with Jessica's mother, Collette Brady, joining in) and shared recollections of a man they said at times was so blunt that he could be hard to like. And yet he was utterly dependable - a good Marine. They celebrated memories, talked about the good times and laughed. Some proudly showed new tattoos that honored their friend. Collette said she was going to get one, too.

Christopher Gibson dreamed of becoming a Las Vegas police officer.

"We used to think it was cool that we'd be 40 and the kids would be out of the house and we would be able to do all the things we didn't get to when we were 20," his widow said.

Jessica and Christopher had met as teenagers when he sat behind her in ninth-grade English class. "I don't know how to be an adult without him," she said.

For now, her concerns rest solely on her two toddlers and the fate of Chris's friends who remain on the front line in Iraq.

"Tell them," she said, "I worry about them and pray for them every day."

On Friday, dozens turned out for his closed-casket visitation. Jessica chose to stay away.

"It's too much for me," she said. "I don't need to be there in front of his coffin to say goodbye to him."

In the back of the sunlit chapel, poster boards held dozens of photos of a young Chris in diapers, a baseball uniform, on family vacations, embraced by loving parents and on his wedding day.

Forward of the pews, his flag-draped casket sat beneath a simple silver cross.

Slowly, his brothers in arms approached in ones and twos. The thick-muscled men stared in silence into the field of blue with white stars. Some reached out and touched the casket. Others bent and offered a gentle kiss. Broad shoulders shuddered and the reassuring hands of wives traced small comforting circles on their backs.

A former Marine who had lost a brother and had himself been badly injured in Vietnam limped forward, one leg rigid, and cast a crisp salute.

The sounds of sniffles and stifled sobs mingled with soft music.

On Saturday, hundreds attended Christopher's funeral. Chaplain Redmond performed the graveside service, his third for a fallen Marine in less than two weeks.

Family members shared favorite memories, especially Chris' propensity for powerful hugs and big kisses.

At the cemetery, people crowded a dozen deep around his shade-dappled grave. "Rejoice in the life he lived," the chaplain told the gathered, his voice choked with emotion. "He did what Jesus did for us. He gave his life for us. Semper Fi, Marine. Semper Fi."