Seitz. He always answered the phone by providing only his last name. Nothing more would come until you identified yourself. He wasn’t brusque or distrustful. He was busy. Always busy. Always into something. The nature of his work required rapid and efficient communication.
Upon identifying the caller to his satisfaction, there would come a torrent of greetings, salutations, and his distinctive laughter. His accent was unmistakable. He would always begin with “Harry. How ya’ dooin’? How are things in D.C.? Listen, Harry. I need you to do me a favor.” That’s when I would always brace myself.
It was never ordinary with Ed Seitz. It was never routine. It was always some prickly investigation. There were always feathers to be smoothed, and skids to be greased. Buckle your seat belts, everybody. Ed’s working another hot one. He always made the day go fast. Never a dull moment with Seitz.
We would always end our conversations with talk of baseball. “Listen, Harry. We gotta get you out here for a Cubs game. I got tickets. We’ll get a couple of ’dogs and a brew. Have a great time. Wadda ya’ say?”
I would always promise to come out and see the Cubs, but time and circumstance would always prevent. Another season would pass without the promised pilgrimage to Wrigley Field.
During our last conversation, Ed told me of his decision to volunteer for assignment to Baghdad. Having spent time in conflict zones throughout the world during the course of my own career, I knew it was going to be rough. Very rough. There would be no Cubs games for a long time. I was grateful, ever so grateful that guys like Seitz were willing and able to fill the breach and serve overseas.
Last Sunday began with the soft patter of an autumn rain on leaves of rust and gold. The furnace kicked on and warmed the house as my family lay sleeping. I made coffee for my wife, and turned on the television set. The family cat tangled my feet insisting on her breakfast first. Thankfully, at this stage of my career, work now kept me stateside. I maintained the daily routine of long commutes to D.C., and lazy weekends with the wife and children.
Then came the dreadful announcement over the television. A diplomatic security agent “killed in Baghdad.” “Ed Seitz.” The room grew dark and cold, and I was suddenly alone. Very much alone and feeling the pangs of survivor’s guilt.
Why did it have to happen? Why are we in that God-forsaken place? Why Ed? Why had it not happened to me? I’ll tell you why. It’s because we have an enemy that hates us for being different, and fears us for being free. It’s because our enemy insists that women should remain in bondage, and that school children are legitimate targets in their reign of terror. It’s because they view the knife and gun as an acceptable response to dissenting opinion. It’s because our enemy cloaks itself in the mantel of religion, while its sympathizers engage in moral relativism. It’s because no one else could do more. We could do no less. We are Americans. Guys like Seitz will always be there to confront them.
Ed Seitz didn’t go to Baghdad for the big oil companies, or to ensure President Bush’s re-election, or all the other such nonsense uttered by newscasters and political pundits these days. He went there for you and for me.
Don’t anybody dare to use that tired old anti-war refrain “not in my name” with me. Because when the time came, and it would have, everybody would have asked on their hands and knees. By that time, it would have been too late. Guys like Seitz make it possible for front-office types like me to push the paper, answer the phones, scribble policy in the comfort of our little cubicles and generally make life complicated for guys like Seitz.
He made it possible for guys like me to gripe about D.C. traffic, see the children off to safe and secure schools, mow the lawn, feed the cat on quiet Sunday mornings, and have dinner with the family. Every night. Never forget that.
I’ll go to that Cubs game some day. I’ll watch them play under a broad and blue Midwestern sky, and I’ll listen to rustle and snap of Old Glory on a rising breeze as the umpire shouts, “Play ball.” And maybe for a moment, just one quiet moment, Ed and I will finally get to share that ’dog and a brew while we cheer the Cubs, in a world finally at peace. Thanks, Ed. God bless. See you at Wrigley Field.
HARRY JACOBSON
Security Specialist
Bureau of Diplomatic Security
Department of State
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