Many American towns are poised to pay the price for the war in the gulf, but few more than Crystal Springs (population: 5,600). At least 160 of the area’s residents have been deployed to the war zone, including 127 members of the 162nd. Reminders of friends and neighbors overseas are everywhere. At Railroad Park in the town center, a tree ablaze with 160 yellow ribbons bears the names of all the activated guardsmen. And at Sam Green’s Photo & Frame Studio, where people usually gather for a friendly game of dominoes, the discussion has turned to the fate of the fighting men and women of Crystal Springs. “Everybody’s concerned,” says Green, a World War II veteran. “We could have a lot of death. [But at the same time] I think people feel we ought to be there.”
Such ambivalence is not surprising in Crystal Springs, where the military presence has brought both pride and pain. Located just down Interstate 55 from Jackson, the rural community was once a thriving produce-shipping center, known as the Tomatopolis of the World. After World War II the rise of trucking and the decline in produce farming brought the industry to a virtual halt. Since then the military has put bread and butter on the tables of many townspeople, feeding the local economy and providing weekend work for guard members. It has also helped foster racial harmony in Crystal Springs, whose population is almost evenly divided between blacks and whites. Says military wife Bobbie Jones, “We’re just like one big family trying to make it through.”
The going hasn’t always been easy. Like all military families, the community has experienced its share of tragedy. A monument in the Courthouse Square at nearby Hazlehurst bears the names of 110 men who died in World War II; 13 in Korea, and an additional 11 in Vietnam. Jones, whose husband, Garcelle, was dispatched to Saudi Arabia in October, feels as though she’s reliving the past. Her husband’s first call to arms came during the Vietnam War, while she was pregnant with their first child. When he returned 11 months later he met his son, Jimmie. Now Jones and her 19-year-old son and 15-year-old daughter are alone once more. “This is something I though I’d never have to go through again,” she says.
For Jones and her neighbors, the march to war began on Sept. 29, when the guardsmen of the 162nd reported to the nearby armory for deployment to Fort Benning, Ga. Robert Sims, director of the city water department, was so determined to give the troops a proper sendoff that he called every number in the local telephone book and implored residents to come out for the farewell.
They did. Accompanied by police cars and serenaded by the high-school band, the townspeople escorted the soldiers out of town with a parade that snaked from the armory past the local high school. Residents lined the main streets cheering and waving as the motorcade passed, a sea of flags and yellow ribbons shimmering in the morning air.
The final moments were especially painful for S/Sgt. Charles Funchess, whose 6-year-old son, Isaac, came to bid him goodbye. Just as Charles turned to go, the little boy leaped into his father’s arms, hooked his ankles around his waist and hung on for dear life. Charles hugged his son fiercely. “Daddy’s man! Take care of everything!” he said. Then he quickly set Isaac down, turning so that the boy could not see his tears.
The ensuing days have been filled with potluck suppers, prayer meetings and countless anxious phone calls. On Jan. 9, six days before the U.N. deadline, Terry Beazley, wife of S/Sgt. Roy Beazley, watched a grim-faced James Baker on television explaining that talks with Iraqi Foreign Minister Tariq Aziz had failed. The next day she called her husband in Saudi Arabia–and for the first time since he left, she cried. Nearby, military mom Judy Kelley was fluctuating between optimism and rage. “I was angry at Bush, [until] I realized he was under probably as much stress as a human being could be under.
As the deadline for Iraqi withdrawal came and went, Susie Kellum grew increasingly tense. The day before, she phoned her husband, Sgt. 1/C Paul Kellum, in Saudi Arabia. “He said everybody was in pretty good spirits, but they expect something to happen,” Susie recalls. On Jan. 16 she made sure that her children, Jeffrey, 14, and Amber, 9, put through a call to their father, too. Shortly after 6 p.m. local time, her husband’s prophecy was borne out on the evening news. “My first reaction was to go tell [the kids] before somebody else told them,” she says. “But my legs felt like rubber.”
Now the people of Crystal Springs continue to pray for a speedy end to the conflict, banding together for strength and solace. In the morning, many congregate at Hamilton’s bakery to exchange news and lend support; in the afternoon and evening they drop by Trinity Cafe, where words of consolation come free with the hamburger steak and fried chicken. Susie Kellum keeps up with her support group for families with relatives in the gulf. Flags continue to sprout on mailboxes, and yellow ribbons bearing the name of each unit member stretch along a chain-link fence at the armory. But perhaps no one has expressed the sentiments of Crystal Springs better than one man who was there when the troops rolled out of town that fateful day last September. “I love you, boy,” he shouted as he bolted into the street alongside a guardsman’s jeep. “Come home.”
