Time Magazine - Monday, February 18, 1991

The Home Front: War's Real Cost

Last Saturday they buried Thom Jenkins beneath the soaring pines of California's Sierra Nevada. As silence again envelops Dudley Cemetery, echoes of a U.S. Navy chaplain's words linger: "Thomas Allen Jenkins, your sacrifice will not be forgotten. Your courage stands as a beacon of liberty. You exemplify the U.S. Marine Corps motto, 'Semper Fidelis.' "

Lance Corporal Jenkins was one of the first ground soldiers to be killed in action in Operation Desert Storm. He turned 21 last August, just two days before leaving for Saudi Arabia. He was killed, perhaps by friendly fire, in a clash near the Kuwait border. On Feb. 9 he returned home to Coulterville in a flag-draped casket, both a hero and a haunting reminder of war's real cost. His handsome freckled face reflects the human toll of a conflict sanitized by high-tech smart bombs and camouflaged by antiseptic acronyms like KIA (killed in action).

Big cities may be able to absorb the death of one young man with indifference, but in places like Coulterville (pop. 115) the loss strikes home with intense personal force. "If I could trade for Thom, I'd do it," says the distraught Marine who helped recruit him. "Poor kid."

Shortly after the Marine messengers appeared on Tom and Joyce Jenkins' front porch with the horrible news about their only son, the word blazed across these drought-stricken mountains like a runaway forest fire. The close-knit community of this historic gold-mining town, one of simple values and sturdy folk, circled its wagons around the family, including Thom's sister Jamie, 19, in a show of patriotism and support. But the Jenkins' selfless stoicism is even more telling. "Our boy came home, and we know exactly where he's at," says Joyce, 39, who drives a school bus. "But there's lots of other men and women over there who need our love and support." She wears a sweatshirt with a yellow ribbon and a simple message: 'TIL THEY ALL COME HOME.

American flags and yellow ribbons adorn almost every house, pole, tree and car antenna in Coulterville, for here patriotism is a solemn duty. These people despise antiwar protesters, and they consider few acts more heinous than flag burning. So if anyone here believes Thom died in vain, he is keeping it to himself. "People do view him as a hero," says Tom, 42, who works for the state transportation department. "To me, he's my son." Tom has only simple requests. "Please be kind," he asks. "Please be honest. Don't be too big, because it's not real."

After arriving in Saudi Arabia with the 1st Combat Engineers Battalion, Thom fought boredom by keeping pet scorpions -- the first one, named Maurice, died; the other was called Mel Torme -- in a camouflaged desert shelter. In one letter home, he pleaded for Tabasco to spice up his rations, and in another he told a fire-fighting friend to keep the boisterous Magnolia Saloon on Main Street from burning down so they could enjoy his first legal beers there upon his return. At home, a Queensland heeler puppy named B.B. and a cat named P.J. are still waiting for him.

Protected by a web of friends, the Jenkins family spoke to no outsiders during the week following Thom's death. When they finally did, it was to reminisce for several hours as the warm winter sun sank behind the mountains. They shed no tears, but rather smiled and even laughed as the memories poured forth. Though pain seemed to burn in their eyes, the healing had begun.

Just five days after hearing of Thom's death, his parents received a letter written a few days before he died. He wrote that he had never seen so many planes in his life, and that he expected to head into Kuwait after the bombing had softened up the Iraqis. He had latched onto an infantry corporal who knew his business. "He's teaching me a lot," Thom wrote. "It's weird, but I'm not scared. Nervous, I guess, but not scared. I've been preparing for this for a year now, and ((Aunt)) Jean would probably say I'm brainwashed, but I've joined the Marines to do something for the U.S., and why not the best?" The letter ends, "Take care. I love you."

Last Christmas his parents sent Thom a 35-mm camera, and the photos from the roll he mailed home in January are among his family's greatest treasures. One shows Thom clowning around in a red-checked kaffiyeh under a camouflage net. Another portrays him standing in his tent, an M-16 on his arm and a cigarette hanging jauntily from his mouth. Several others show his light armored vehicle, hauntingly dubbed "Blaze of Glory." Painted on one side is a cartoon of an armed Saddam Hussein atop a camel, his body framed within the cross hairs. Says Dan Bartok, Thom's boss back when he spent a summer fighting fires for the U.S. Forest Service: "We figure he'd have pulled the mustache off of Saddam Hussein."

Thom's roots are deep in the rocky mountain soil, stretching back seven generations to Coulterville's first settlers. His forefathers arrived in the 1850s, shortly after the California gold rush began. This proud heritage infused every bit of his 6-ft. 1-in., 180-lb. frame. In some of Thom's desert pictures, his greenish-brown eyes, often hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, are filled with the glint of a growing confidence as he began to make his way in the world. His bearing betrayed a lifelong fascination with the military. Thom often wore camouflage pants and shirts, and he spent weekends playing survivalist in the mountains around his family's 160-acre ranch up toward Yosemite. His high school classmates picked him as the best companion on a desert island.

Though Thom took a lot of teasing about his paramilitary pursuits, he fascinated some kids at Mariposa County High School with tales about a secret cave called Havoc, where he claimed to have stored a cache of weapons. Thom could identify knives and guns with uncanny precision, and his military obsession gave rise to a nickname, "G.I. Jenkins." Another was "Indiana Jenkins," since Thom often sported a hat like Indiana Jones' in Raiders of the Lost Ark, his favorite movie. Says his cousin Ed Jenkins: "He was always a dreamer, dreaming of exciting places." His high school yearbook announced, "Expect the best from your future."

Friends recall that if Thom dove into something, from emergency medical training to playing basketball in high school, he gave it his best. "He never made the first string, but he was always close," says Jon Turner, his English teacher and a Vietnam vet. "If he got in, he'd win the game for you." That was true whether he was square dancing as a kid or out on a county search-and- rescue mission. His steady marksmanship enabled him to bag a four-point buck, whose weathered rack sits on a fence beside his house. Around town, folks knew Thom was coming when they saw "Baby Huey," a battered green-and- rust 1972 GMC pickup. He would zoom through mud puddles in it, yelling at friends, "Just like a Jeep commercial!"

Though Thom had long wanted to join the Marines, the first time he talked with his dad about it the answer was no. Tom wanted his son to go to college. So he studied criminal justice for a year, planning to become a peace officer. But he got restless and asked again. This time the answer was yes. Explains Jenkins: "I have a saying -- save the boy, destroy the man."

At least 15 other local men and women are in the gulf, a consequence of the convergence of patriotism and economics in rural America. Their parents are proud but also worried that their child could be next. At home, TVs blare incessantly. Parents stay awake at night hoping for reassuring phone calls from the front. They get headaches. They cry, they hug, they pray.

There was some talk around Coulterville about building a permanent memorial for Thom, but it has been silenced. "We're postponing that decision because he may not be the only one," explains Sharon Tucker, a close family friend. Thom's cousin Ed Jenkins and his friend Jason Turpin are signed up to join the Navy this summer, after they graduate from high school. Ed is the last male in the Jenkins line. "I don't know whether to serve my family or my country," he says. But in his heart he knows he will join the Navy.

The last time Tom Jenkins saw his son alive was after drinking several cups of coffee with him at the breakfast table three weeks before he left for Saudi Arabia. Two days before the funeral, Tom paid a solitary visit to the funeral home in nearby Sonora. He propped Thom's wooden-framed portrait in front of the gunmetal-gray steel casket, then stood quietly to one side, his eyes misting up. It was the first time he'd been alone with his son since Thom ) returned from the Persian Gulf. "Good memories flow," said Jenkins. "They just keep flowing."


Modesto Bee - May 25, 2008

Memorial Day also a time to remember those lost in other conflicts

Roughly 16 years ago in Mariposa County, the students of Coulterville Greeley School planted a sugar maple and placed a monument along the edge of the playground.

The tree and plaque help the community remember Marine Lance Cpl. Thomas A. Jenkins Jr., who attended elementary school there in the 1980s.

They wanted to remember one of their own who became the first military member from Central California and among the first from the United States to die in the Persian Gulf War in 1991.

Only a few feet tall in 1992, the maple now is an eye-catching canopy that protects the children from the sun, just as Jenkins sought to protect their freedoms when he joined the Marines.

He died Jan. 29, 1991, when an Air Force anti-tank plane fired on an Iraqi vehicle but hit Jenkins' armored car instead.

Likewise, Airman 1st Class Justin Wood's name graces the granite memorial in front of the Stanislaus County Courthouse in downtown Modesto. Wood died in 1996, when a bomb exploded at the Khobar Towers

U.S. military housing complex in Saudi Arabia, killing 19.

His is among the dozen names under the heading "Gulf War," even though he died between the two U.S.-Iraqi conflicts.

This Memorial Day, many who take time to honor our war dead likely will do so with World War II and the ongoing Iraq war in mind. Memorial Day, though, is supposed to honor all Americans who have died in service, including the 405,000 who lost their lives during World War II.

Ken Burns' PBS series "The War" reemphasized the magnitude of World War II, with an urgency based upon the fact that Americans who survived it are now dying off at a rate of more than 1,100 per day.

Likewise, the Iraq war is closing in on 4,100 American deaths in a war brought home by so many military funerals for valley soldiers.

But military deaths are deaths, no matter the size and scope of the conflict. Which is why it's important to remember people such as Jenkins and Wood, who died under circumstances overshadowed by wars before and since.

It's equally important to remember the tens of thousands who died in Korea and Vietnam, or the 17 killed in the attack on the USS Cole in 2000, the 19 killed in Grenada in 1983, the 40 who died in Panama in 1989 or the 43 who died in Somalia.

Ultimately, it's not the war that counts. The service and sacrifice matter most.

In June 1996, a truck loaded with explosives slammed into the Khobar Towers, killing Downey High grad Wood and 18 other airmen. The Persian Gulf war supposedly had ended five years earlier. But the no-fly zone remained in effect, and the 20-year-old airman flew 34 search-and-rescue missions, helping to save 10 lives.

"We were at war, but we weren't at war," said his father, Richard Wood of Modesto.

After the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, U.S. forces pursued al-Qaida and leader Osama bin Laden in Afghanistan before invading Iraq in March 2003.

The Khobar Towers attacks were all but forgotten by everyone except those who endured the losses -- families such as Wood's.

"We're involved with some Gold Star stuff," said Richard Wood, referring to the organization of parents whose children have died in the military. "But I feel like an outsider because of everything that's happened since 2002 (the invasion of Afghanistan and the Iraq war)."

The Woods also can feel a bit out of place, he said, when they visit Justin's grave at

San Joaquin Valley National Cemetery in Santa Nella, where many World War II, Korea and Vietnam War veterans rest.

"People are sometimes surprised," Richard Wood said. "They'll say, 'Which war was your dad in?' We'll say, 'We're in here for our son.' They don't understand."

More than 17 years after Thomas Jenkins Jr.'s death, his father's heart still aches.

"(Memorial Day is) a celebration," Jenkins Sr. said. "But the truth is, it takes a long time to get over it. There's a horrible wound inside. There's emptiness and loss."

The death of his wife, Joyce, in an automobile accident in 1996 compounded his pain. He remarried a few years later. Daughter Jamie Bertram, her husband and their two children have lifted his spirits, but losing Thomas Jr. is something he'll never get over.

"Until (the grandchildren) came, my life was empty," Jenkins Sr. said. "How would anybody feel when your only son is gone?"

Whenever he drives by the elementary school, he can't help but notice the maple tree -- how much it's grown. He occasionally visits the plaque on the school grounds, as well as his son's grave in the small family plot at Greeley Hill Cemetery.

To those who didn't know Thomas Jr., he is a name on a plaque and a Veterans of Foreign Wars post.

Those who knew him, such as his father, remember the person rather than an image.

"I still see that smile, that grin on his face," Jenkins Sr. said. "He was happy-go-lucky -- an easy-to-get-to-know person, a caring person. I still feel that warmth.

"There are so many facets to the equation."

So many wars, so much death.

Jenkins Jr.'s aunt, Jean Nebel of Coulterville, said none of those killed is more important than the others.

"Nobody should ever be forgotten," she said, "no matter which war or conflict they were in."