Story and Photos by DENNIS MAGEE, Courier Regional Editor

WATERLOO - For a time, the women knew little about each other beyond first and last names. Debbee Way works at a law firm downtown, Annette Crowe at a nearby dental office.

They would wave, chat on occasion at a handy mailbox both visited. The two had more in common than they realized.

Both divorced years ago. And both remarried. Debbee and her husband, Ron, live on an acreage north of Dunkerton. Annette and her husband, Gerald, live on Waterloo's southern edge. Not quite country, but visible across the street.

"The only thing I knew about her was that she had horses," Annette says.

Annette had a son and a daughter. So did Debbee.

"We've gotten to know each other better because our paths crossed … ," Annette says.

Brian Gienau, Debbee's son, liked to play soldier as a boy. Eric Steffeney, Annette's son, grew up convinced that defending the United States was a worthy cause.

Brian joined the Iowa Army National Guard and became a second lieutenant assigned to Company A, 224th Engineer Battalion. Eric joined the U.S. Army and became a staff sergeant. He served in an explosive ordnance disposal unit.

Both young men went to Iraq.

Annette found out on a Friday in late February that an explosive device killed Eric. He was 28. Debbee learned her awful truth two days later. Brian, 29, died when an improvised explosive device hit his Humvee.

Debbee made the connection and called Annette, a friendly face she only knew in passing.

"She said, 'I don't know if you know, but I'm Brian Gienau's mother,'" Annette remembers. "I said, 'Oh, Debbee. Yeah, I know who that is.'"

For Debbee, the nightmare was a chilling reprise. Her daughter, Amanda Gienau, died in 1992 in a car accident. She was 14.

"I was devastated. I cried," Annette says.

Five days later, the same earlier attack that killed Brian forced unwanted club membership on Lori Garceau of Oelwein. The mother flew to a U.S. military hospital in Germany. There she faced the decision of taking her son off life support systems.

"The truth was he died that day his vehicle was blown up," Lori says.

Spc. Seth Garceau was an Iowa guardsman. And he was only 22.

"I guess I was luckier than most mothers. At least I got to see him," she adds.

Her tone reflects no joy from the grim consolation prize.

National awareness

Mothers who mourn their hero sons.

"It's a pretty elite group," Debbee says.

And one pushed this month to the forefront of Americans' consciousness by Cindy Sheehan of Vacaville, Calif. The mother buried her son, Casey, last year after he died in Iraq.

Sheehan until recently staged a protest outside President George W. Bush's ranch in Texas. She promised to stay until they meet again or until the president's vacation ends, but she left for California on Thursday because of her mother suffered a stroke.

Bush received Sheehan and other military families after her son's death. Since then, Sheehan has turned into an outspoken critic of the war effort.

"For the more than 1,800 who have come home this way in flag-draped coffins, each one … was a son or a daughter, not cannon fodder to be used so recklessly," Sheehan said during a candlelight vigil Wednesday evening. "Each one is a valuable human life that is missed so desperately."

Administration officials talked to Sheehan the day she started her demonstration, but Bush has given no indication the two will speak again.

Annette, Debbee and Lori noticed the commotion on television and in newspapers. Though the women belong to the same sad troupe, they maintain varying degrees of interest in the situation.

"I think if my health was better, I'd be down there myself," Lori says. "… I never supported the war."

Debbee's impression of Sheehan conflicts with her son's heartfelt convictions.

"I have to commend her for what she's doing, but I have mixed emotions about the whole ordeal," Debbee says.

"It was something my son believed in. That's why he went over there to fight," she adds.

Annette primarily sees a stricken mother not unlike her new friends.

"When you're grieving, you're angry," Annette says.

"I think she just wants some sympathy. But she just lost her son and he's the president. And he says when we go to war," she adds.

Sheehan, Annette speculates, may also want an answer to a bigger question about Casey's death.

" … Does anybody care?"

She understands the question.

"You want to have a reason for their death. You don't want it to be futile," Annette says.

"That's why our men and women fight, so that she has the freedom to do what she is doing. More power to her. She's got a lot of guts," Annette adds.

None of the three Northeast Iowa women have met with Bush, and in fact have given the idea only modest consideration.

Lori says she would likely decline an invitation to meet the president.

"It's too late. He can't change it. He can't bring Seth back," she says.

"I don't think there's anything he could say. And I don't think there's anything I could say to him, other than I think war is a tragedy."

Debbee would share her views on the senseless loss of young American lives.

"It's time to back out. We don't need to lose any more children over there. … Why does the United States have to go in to fight other people's battles?" she asks.

But she would add Brian's convictions.

"He believed in fighting for his country and our rights. He was fighting for his family. Even though the outcome wasn't good. But it was what he believed."

Annette thought about writing a letter to Bush, offering her son's esteem for the president. Eric's military duties included security details at the White House, at Bush's ranch and on the campaign trail in 2004.

"I just want to tell him, 'You know, President Bush, you met my son. He protected you and thought a lot of you,'" Annette says.

A father's view

Bush has met privately with more than 900 family members related to 270 soldiers killed in Afghanistan and Iraq, according to a story in the latest issue of Newsweek. The article goes on to report Bush makes about 10 visits to military bases each year. Part of the time is spent with those hit by grief. Recently, he spent more than three hours with 33 people at Fort Bragg in North Carolina.

Brian's father, Richard Gienau of Waterloo, has never gotten that close. While Brian was still alive, Richard made a special effort, though, when Bush campaigned in Waterloo.

"I went to see the president's plane. I thought that was a big deal," Richard says.

He would accept an invitation, but Richard doesn't expect or need to visit with the president. Like his ex-wife, Debbee, Richard understands mourning.

"I lost a daughter. I've got experience with it," he says.

That Bush is consoling others is comforting in and of itself.

"I don't need to see him. Just knowing he's doing it helps me," Richard says.

"As far as my relatives and friends go, they might need it," he adds.

Sheehan, Richard suggests, apparently wants more.

Richards doesn't display photos of his son in his home. That would be too painful and constant reminder. He does wear dog tags around his neck with Brian's image.

"That's just tapping at my chest," he says.

It's one tactic for dealing with his sorrow. It might not be another's.

"That lady in Texas, she's grieving in her own way," Richard says.

"Everybody's got their view, and I think they are entitled to it."

Richard didn't agree with the rationale for entering the war.

"I don't think we should have gone in, but after we went in, I believe we need to stay there. We need to finish it," he says.

He empathizes with the Iraqi citizens, with what they've gone through and continue to endure. Their best hope now lies with American military men and women.

"I definitely don't want them to pull out. That would say my son's life was wasted," Richard says.

"I do believe in what President Bush is saying. So far, what I'm seeing, he is doing it right."

No more pain

The notion that early withdrawal would lead to additional chaos falls flat for Lori.

"Tell that to another mother," she says.

The Oelwein woman just wants the conflict to end.

"It's just hard. I miss him so much," Lori says.

"It's not anger. It's more of a deep sadness. And fear. For our soldiers and their families," she adds.

She tended her son briefly, saw his head and throat wounds, broken leg and missing right eye. And then watched him die.

"That's my story. And I don't want any other mother to go through what I went through."

Living longer than sons and daughters may be a parent's worst fear.

"You never know what it's like, when you lose a child. It's a club you don't want to belong to. But you're in," Annette says.

"Every time I hear another soldier died, I think, 'There's another mother coming home and finding military guys standing in her living room.' It's a sight you never forget."

Debbee acknowledges the comfort found among those who know the pain.

"You never want to take anyone else down with you, but I do feel fortunate that there is someone who knows exactly how I feel," she says. " … I wouldn't want any more people in our group, though."

In the end, the enormity of what Debbee, Annette and Lori face daily is self-evident.

"All I have is grief," Debbee says.

And a folded American flag …

Contact Dennis Magee at (319) 291-1451 or dennis.magee@wcfcourier.com. The Associated Press contributed to this report.