Your editor received the following via email.
We must fully appreciate our ground
troops in Afghanistan, sailors on ships, airmen in the
air, and those on the ground in
Iraq. While we enjoy our daily comforts
and freedoms, which none of us would have without military sacrifices for the
past 228 years, we must hold our US soldiers,
sailors, coastguardsman, Marines and airmen in our thoughts and
hearts.
Subject: The
Military
The average age of the military man
is 19 years. He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under
normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy.
Not yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer, but old
enough to die for his country. He never really cared much for work and he would rather wax his own car than wash his father's; but
he has never collected unemployment either.
He's a recent High
School graduate; he was probably an average student, pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten
year old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend
that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away.
He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz
or swing and 155mm howizzer. He is 10 or 15
pounds lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after
dusk.
He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for
him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and
reassemble it in less time in the dark. He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or
grenade launcher and use either one
effectively if he must. He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional. He can
march until he is told to stop or stop until he is
told to march.
He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he
is not without spirit or individual dignity. He
is self-sufficient. He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and wears
the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet
dry. He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals,
mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts.
If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if
you are hungry, his food. He'll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run
low.
He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands. He can save your life - or take
it, because that is his job. He will often do
twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay and
still find ironic humor in it all. He has seen more suffering and death
then he should have in his short lifetime.
He has wept in public and in private, for friends who
have fallen in combat and is unashamed.
He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while
tempering the burning desire to 'square-away'
those around him who haven't bothered to stand,
remove their hat, or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and day
out, far from home, he defends their right to be
disrespectful.
Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and
Great-grandfather, he is paying the price for our
freedom. Beardless or not, he is not a boy. He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country free
for over 200 years.
He has asked nothing
in return, except our friendship and understanding. Remember him, always, for he
has earned our respect and admiration with his blood. And now we even have
woman over there in danger, doing their part in this
tradition of going to War when our nation calls us to do so. As you go to bed tonight, remember this shot
... A short lull, a little shade and a picture of loved ones in their helmets
.......
Gary, a movie producer from California was recently in
Roswell filming a historical documentary -- no, not about UFOs -- and upon his
return flight had with him his unique, very expensive movie camera and canisters
of film of valued FBI interviews. As Gary and his carry-ons were passing through
airport security, he respectfully requested that his camera and film be
inspected by hand and not passed through the X-ray, which might harm them. As he
was making his request, the attendant passed those items through X-ray anyway,
then backed them up and ran them through again. The attendant decided the
producer needed additional scrutiny, called his supervisor over and, ultimately,
Gary's valuable and sensitive items were passed through the X-ray at least three
times.
Upon his arrival at his California final destination, Gary
found his undeveloped film as well as his unique camera were destroyed. Both had
to be replaced at great expense.
The purpose of this brief tale is two-fold. It is to confirm
that some of the many stories told of rude and inconsiderate airport security
personnel are true, and travelers who transport such sensitive items should
consider doing what Gary did the second time around, after he purchased another
camera and returned to Roswell to refilm segments of his documentary and then
went home: Ship such items ahead, insured, via UPS, Federal Express, USPO
Priority mail, etc.
The other, more herein pertinent, purpose of this tale is to
show you that not all airport personnel are unfeeling and inconsiderate. Read
on:
(The following beautiful tribute to our fallen military was
forwarded in the Black & Grey Network Bulletin #26, generated by Gilbert C.
Baca Jr. of New Mexico Homeland Security. The purpose of this B&G Network
Bulletin is to enable retired and active New Mexico State Police officers, as
well as other NM law enforcement officers, to keep in touch. The B&G Network
Bulletin is also proudly patriotic, as is the Roswell
Webmag.)
Taking Chance
LtCol
Strobl
Chance Phelps was wearing his
Saint Christopher medal when he was killed on Good Friday. Eight days
later, I handed the medallion to his mother. I didn't know Chance before he
died. Today, I miss him.
Over a year ago, I volunteered to escort the remains of
Marines killed in Iraq should the need arise. The military provides a uniformed
escort for all casualties to ensure they are delivered safely to the next of kin
and are treated with dignity and respect along the way.
Thankfully, I hadn't been called on to be an escort since
Operation Iraqi Freedom began. The first few weeks of April, however, had been a
tough month for the Marines. On the Monday after Easter I was reviewing
Department of Defense press releases when I saw that a Private First Class
Chance Phelps was killed in action outside of Baghdad. The press release listed
his hometown--the same town I'm from. I notified our Battalion adjutant and told
him that, should the duty to escort PFC Phelps fall to our Battalion, I would
take him.
I didn't hear back the rest of Monday and all day Tuesday
until 1800. The Battalion duty NCO called my cell phone and said I needed to be
ready to leave for Dover Air Force Base at 1900 in order to escort the remains
of PFC Phelps.
Before leaving for Dover I called the major who had the
task of informing Phelps's parents of his death. The major said the funeral was
going to be in Dubois, Wyoming. (It turned out that PFC Phelps only lived in my
hometown for his senior year of high school.) I had never been to Wyoming and
had never heard of Dubois.
With two other escorts from Quantico, I got to Dover AFB
at 2330 on Tuesday night. First thing on Wednesday we reported to the mortuary
at the base. In the escort lounge there were about half a dozen Army soldiers
and about an equal number of Marines waiting to meet up with "their" remains for
departure. PFC Phelps was not ready, however, and I was told to come back on
Thursday. Now, at Dover with nothing to do and a solemn mission ahead, I began
to get depressed.
I was wondering about Chance Phelps. I didn't know
anything about him; not even what he looked like. I wondered about his family
and what it would be like to meet them. I did pushups in my room until I
couldn't do any more.
On Thursday morning I reported back to the
mortuary. This time there was a new group of Army escorts and a couple of the
Marines who had been there Wednesday. There was also an Air Force captain there
to escort his brother home to San Diego.
We received a brief covering our duties, the
proper handling of the remains, the procedures for draping a flag over a casket,
and of course, the paperwork attendant to our task. We were shown pictures of
the shipping container and told that each one contained, in addition to the
casket, a flag. I was given an extra flag since Phelps's parents were divorced.
This way they would each get one. I didn't like the idea of stuffing the flag
into my luggage but I couldn't see carrying a large flag, folded for
presentation to the next of kin, through an airport while in my Alpha uniform.
It barely fit into my suitcase.
It turned out that I was the last escort to leave
on Thursday. This meant that I repeatedly got to participate in the small
ceremonies that mark all departures from the Dover AFB mortuary.
Most of the remains are taken from Dover AFB by
hearse to the airport in Philadelphia for air transport to their final
destination. When the remains of a service member are loaded onto a hearse and
ready to leave the Dover mortuary, there is an announcement made over the
building's intercom system. With the announcement, all service members working
at the mortuary, regardless of service branch, stop work and form up along the
driveway to render a slow ceremonial salute as the hearse departs. Escorts also
participated in each formation until it was their time to leave.
On this day there were some civilian workers doing
construction on the mortuary grounds. As each hearse passed, they would stop
working and place their hard hats over their hearts. This was my first sign that
my mission with PFC Phelps was larger than the Marine Corps and that his family
and friends were not grieving alone.
Eventually I was the last escort remaining in the
lounge. The Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant in charge of the Marine liaison there
came to see me. He had Chance Phelps's personal effects. He removed each item; a
large watch, a wooden cross with a lanyard, two loose dog tags, two dog tags on
a chain, and a Saint Christopher medal on a silver chain. Although we had been
briefed that we might be carrying some personal effects of the deceased, this
set me aback. Holding his personal effects, I was starting to get to know Chance
Phelps.
Finally we were ready. I grabbed my bags and went
outside. I was somewhat startled when I saw the shipping container, loaded
three-quarters of the way in to the back of a black Chevy Suburban that had been
modified to carry such cargo. This was the first time I saw my "cargo" and I was
surprised at how large the shipping container was. The Master Gunnery Sergeant
and I verified that the name on the container was Phelps' then they pushed him
the rest of the way in and we left. Now it was PFC Chance Phelps's turn to
receive the military--and construction workers'--honors. He was finally moving
towards home.
As I chatted with the driver on the hour-long trip
to Philadelphia, it became clear that he considered it an honor to be able to
contribute in getting Chance home. He offered his sympathy to the family. I was
glad to finally be moving yet apprehensive about what things would be like at
the airport. I didn't want this package to be treated like ordinary cargo yet I
knew that the simple logistics of moving around a box this large would have to
overrule my preferences.
When we got to the Northwest Airlines cargo
terminal at the Philadelphia airport, the cargo handler and hearse driver pulled
the shipping container onto a loading bay while I stood to the side and executed
a slow salute. Once Chance was safely in the cargo area, and I was satisfied
that he would be treated with due care and respect, the hearse driver drove me
over to the passenger terminal and dropped me off.
As I walked up to the ticketing counter in my
uniform, a Northwest employee started to ask me if I knew how to use the
automated boarding pass dispenser. Before she could finish, another ticketing
agent interrupted her. He told me to go straight to the counter then explained
to the woman that I was a military escort. She seemed embarrassed. The woman
behind the counter already had tears in her eyes as I was pulling out my
government travel voucher. She struggled to find words but managed to express
her sympathy for the family and thank me for my service. She upgraded my ticket
to first class.
After clearing security, I was met by another
Northwest Airline employee at the gate. She told me a representative from cargo
would be up to take me down to the tarmac to observe the movement and loading of
PFC Phelps. I hadn't really told any of them what my mission was but they all
knew.
When the man from the cargo crew met me, he too
struggled for words. On the tarmac, he told me stories of his childhood as a
military brat and repeatedly told me that he was sorry for my loss. I was
starting to understand that, even here in Philadelphia, far away from Chance's
hometown, people were mourning with his family.
On the tarmac, the cargo crew was silent except
for occasional instructions to each other. I stood to the side and saluted as
the conveyor moved Chance to the aircraft. I was relieved when he was finally
settled into place. The rest of the bags were loaded and I watched them shut the
cargo bay door before heading back up to board the aircraft.
One of the pilots had taken my carry-on bag
himself and had it stored next to the cockpit door so he could watch it while I
was on the tarmac. As I boarded the plane, I could tell immediately that the
flight attendants had already been informed of my mission. They seemed a little
choked up as they led me to my seat.
About 45 minutes into our flight I still hadn't
spoken to anyone expect to tell the first class flight attendant that I would
prefer water. I was surprised when the flight attendant from the back of the
plane suddenly appeared and leaned down to grab my hands. She said, "I want you
to have this" as she pushed a small gold crucifix, with a relief of Jesus, into
my hand. It was her lapel pin and it looked somewhat worn. I suspected it had
been hers for quite some time. That was the only thing she said to me the entire
flight.
When we landed in Minneapolis, I was the first one
off the plane. The pilot himself escorted me straight down the side stairs of
the exit tunnel to the tarmac. The cargo crew there already knew what was on
this plane. They were unloading some of the luggage when an Army sergeant, a
fellow escort who had left Dover earlier that day, appeared next to me. His
"cargo" was going to be loaded onto my plane for its continuing leg. We stood
side-by-side in the dark and executed a slow salute as Chance was removed from
the plane. The cargo crew at Minneapolis kept Phelps's shipping case separate
from all the other luggage as they waited to take us to the cargo area. I waited
with the soldier and we saluted together as his fallen comrade was loaded onto
the plane.
My trip with Chance was going to be somewhat
unusual in that we were going to have an overnight stopover. We had a late start
out of Dover and there was just too much traveling ahead of us to continue on
that day. (We still had a flight from Minneapolis to Billings, Montana, then a
five-hour drive to the funeral home. That was to be followed by a 90-minute
drive to Chance's hometown.)
I was concerned about leaving him overnight in the
Minneapolis cargo area. My ten-minute ride from the tarmac to the cargo holding
area eased my apprehension. Just as in Philadelphia, the cargo guys in
Minneapolis were extremely respectful and seemed honored to do their part. While
talking with them, I learned that the cargo supervisor for Northwest Airlines at
the Minneapolis airport is a Lieutenant Colonel in the Marine Corps Reserves.
They called him for me and let me talk to him.
Once I was satisfied that all would be okay for
the night, I asked one of the cargo crew if he would take me back to the
terminal so that I could catch my hotel's shuttle. Instead, he drove me straight
to the hotel himself. At the hotel, the Lieutenant Colonel called me and said he
would personally pick me up in the morning and bring me back to the cargo
area.
Before leaving the airport, I had told the cargo
crew that I wanted to come back to the cargo area in the morning rather than go
straight to the passenger terminal. I felt bad for leaving Chance overnight and
wanted to see the shipping container where I had left it for the night. It was
fine.
The Lieutenant Colonel made a few phone calls then
drove me around to the passenger terminal. I was met again by a man from the
cargo crew and escorted down to the tarmac. The pilot of the plane joined me as
I waited for them to bring Chance from the cargo area. The pilot and I talked of
his service in the Air Force and how he missed it.
I saluted as Chance was moved up the conveyor and
onto the plane. It was to be a while before the luggage was to be loaded so the
pilot took me up to the board the plane where I could watch the tarmac from a
window. With no other passengers yet on board, I talked with the flight
attendants and one of the cargo guys. He had been in the Navy and one of the
attendants had been in the Air Force. Everywhere I went, people were continuing
to tell me their relationship to the military. After all the baggage was aboard,
I went back down to the tarmac, inspected the cargo bay, and watched them secure
the door.
When we arrived at Billings, I was again the first
off the plane. This time Chance's shipping container was the first item out of
the cargo hold. The funeral director had driven five hours up from Riverton,
Wyoming to meet us. He shook my hand as if I had personally lost a
brother.
We moved Chance to a secluded cargo area. Now it
was time for me to remove the shipping container and drape the flag over the
casket. I had predicted that this would choke me up but I found I was more
concerned with proper flag etiquette than the solemnity of the moment. Once the
flag was in place, I stood by and saluted as Chance was loaded onto the van from
the funeral home. I was thankful that we were in a small airport and the event
seemed to go mostly unnoticed. I picked up my rental car and followed Chance for
five hours until we reached Riverton. During the long trip I imagined how my
meeting with Chance's parents would go. I was very nervous about
that.
When we finally arrived at the funeral home, I had
my first face-to-face meeting with the Casualty Assistance Call Officer. It had
been his duty to inform the family of Chance's death. He was on the
Inspector/Instructor staff of an infantry company in Salt Lake City, Utah and I
knew he had had a difficult week.
Inside I gave the funeral director some of the
paperwork from Dover and discussed the plan for the next day. The service was to
be at 1400 in the high school gymnasium up in Dubois, population about 900, some
90 miles away. Eventually, we had covered everything. The CACO had some items
that the family wanted to be inserted into the casket and I felt I needed to
inspect Chance's uniform to ensure everything was proper. Although it was going
to be a closed casket funeral, I still wanted to ensure his uniform was squared
away.
Earlier in the day I wasn't sure how I'd handle
this moment. Suddenly, the casket was open and I got my first look at Chance
Phelps. His uniform was immaculate-a tribute to the professionalism of the
Marines at Dover. I noticed that he wore six ribbons over his marksmanship
badge; the senior one was his Purple Heart. I had been in the Corps for over 17
years, including a combat tour, and was wearing eight ribbons. This Private
First Class, with less than a year in the Corps, had already earned
six.
The next morning, I wore my dress blues and
followed the hearse for the trip up to Dubois. This was the most difficult leg
of our trip for me. I was bracing for the moment when I would meet his parents
and hoping I would find the right words as I presented them with Chance's
personal effects.
We got to the high school gym about four hours
before the service was to begin. The gym floor was covered with folding chairs
neatly lined in rows. There were a few townspeople making final preparations
when I stood next to the hearse and saluted as Chance was moved out of the
hearse. The sight of a flag-draped coffin was overwhelming to some of the
ladies.
We moved Chance into the gym to the place of
honor. A Marine sergeant, the command representative from Chance's battalion,
met me at the gym. His eyes were watery as he relieved me of watching Chance so
that I could go eat lunch and find my hotel.
At the restaurant, the table had a flier
announcing Chance's service. Dubois High School gym; two o' clock. It also said
that the family would be accepting donations so that they could buy flak vests
to send to troops in Iraq.
I drove back to the gym at a quarter after one. I
could've walked, you could walk to just about anywhere in Dubois in ten minutes.
I had planned to find a quiet room where I could take his things out of their
pouch and untangle the chain of the Saint Christopher medal from the dog tag
chains and arrange everything before his parents came in. I had twice before
removed the items from the pouch to ensure they were all there-even though there
was no chance anything could've fallen out. Each time, the two chains had been
quite tangled. I didn't want to be fumbling around trying to untangle them in
front of his parents. Our meeting, however, didn't go as expected.
I practically bumped into Chance's step-mom
accidentally and our introductions began in the noisy hallway outside the gym.
In short order I had met Chance's step-mom and father followed by his step-dad
and, at last, his mom. I didn't know how to express to these people my sympathy
for their loss and my gratitude for their sacrifice. Now, however, they were
repeatedly thanking me for bringing their son home and for my service. I was
humbled beyond words.
I told them that I had some of Chance's things and
asked if we could try to find a quiet place. The five of us ended up in what
appeared to be a computer lab--not what I had envisioned for this
occasion.
After we had arranged five chairs around a small
table, I told them about our trip. I told them how, at every step, Chance was
treated with respect, dignity, and honor. I told them about the staff at Dover
and all the folks at Northwest Airlines. I tried to convey how the entire
Nation, from Dover to Philadelphia, to Minneapolis, to Billings, and Riverton
expressed grief and sympathy over their loss.
Finally, it was time to open the pouch. The first
item I happened to pull out was Chance's large watch. It was still set to
Baghdad time. Next were the lanyard and the wooden cross. Then the dog tags and
the Saint Christopher medal. This time the chains were not tangled. Once all of
his items were laid out on the table, I told his mom that I had one other item
to give them. I retrieved the flight attendant's crucifix from my pocket and
told its story. I set that on the table and excused myself. When I next saw
Chance's mom, she was wearing the crucifix on her lapel.
By 1400 most of the seats on the gym floor were
filled and people were finding seats in the fixed bleachers high above the gym
floor. There were a surprising number of people in military uniform. Many
Marines had come up from Salt Lake City. Men from various VFW posts and the
Marine Corps League occupied multiple rows of folding chairs. We all stood as
Chance's family took their seats in the front.
It turned out the Chance's sister, a Petty Officer
in the Navy, worked for a Rear Admiral-the Chief of Naval Intelligence-at the
Pentagon. The Admiral had brought many of the sailors on his staff with him to
Dubois pay respects to Chance and support his sister. After a few songs and some
words from a Navy Chaplain, the Admiral took the microphone and told us how
Chance had died.
Chance was an artillery cannoneer and his unit was
acting as provisional military police outside of Baghdad. Chance had volunteered
to man a .50 caliber machine gun in the turret of the leading vehicle in a
convoy. The convoy came under intense fire but Chance stayed true to his post
and returned fire with the big gun, covering the rest of the convoy, until he
was fatally wounded.
Then the commander of the local VFW post read some
of the letters Chance had written home. In letters to his mom he talked of the
mosquitoes and the heat. In letters to his stepfather he told of the dangers of
convoy operations and of receiving fire.
The service was a fitting tribute to this hero.
When it was over, we stood as the casket was wheeled out with the family
following. The casket was placed onto a horse-drawn carriage for the mile-long
trip from the gym, down the main street, then up the steep hill to the cemetery.
I stood alone and saluted as the carriage departed the high school. I found my
car and joined Chance's convoy.
The town seemingly went from the gym to the
street. All along the route, the people had lined the street and were waving
small American flags. The flags that were otherwise posted were all at
half-staff. For the last quarter mile up the hill, local Boy Scouts, spaced
about 20 feet apart, all in uniform, held large flags. At the foot of the hill,
I could look up and back and see the enormity of our procession. I wondered how
many people would be at this funeral if it were in, say, Detroit or Los
Angeles--probably not as many as were here in little Dubois, Wyoming.
The carriage stopped about 15 yards from the grave
and the military pall bearers and the family waited until the men of the VFW and
Marine Corps league were formed up and schools busses had arrived carrying many
of the people from the procession route. Once the entire crowd was in place, the
pallbearers came to attention and began to remove the casket from the caisson.
As I had done all week, I came to attention and executed a slow ceremonial
salute as Chance was being transferred from one mode of transport to
another.
From Dover to Philadelphia; Philadelphia to
Minneapolis; Minneapolis to Billings; Billings to Riverton; and Riverton to
Dubois we had been together. Now, as I watched them carry him the final 15
yards, I was choking up. I felt that, as long as he was still moving, he was
somehow still alive.
Then they put him down above his grave. He had stopped
moving.
Although my mission had been officially complete once I
turned him over to the funeral director at the Billings airport, it was his
placement at his grave that really concluded it in my mind. Now, he was home to
stay and I suddenly felt at once sad, relieved, and useless.
The chaplain said some words that I couldn't hear
and two Marines removed the flag from the casket and slowly folded it for
presentation to his mother. When the ceremony was over, Chance's father placed a
ribbon from his service in Vietnam on Chance's casket. His mother approached the
casket and took something from her blouse and put it on the casket. I later saw
that it was the flight attendant's crucifix. Eventually friends of Chance's
moved closer to the grave. A young man put a can of Coppenhagen on the casket
and many others left flowers.
Finally, we all went back to the gym for a
reception. There was enough food to feed the entire population for a few days.
In one corner of the gym there was a table set up with lots of pictures of
Chance and some of his sports awards. People were continually approaching me and
the other Marines to thank us for our service. Almost all of them had some story
to tell about their connection to the military. About an hour into the
reception, I had the impression that every man in Wyoming had, at one time or
another, been in the service.
It seemed like every time I saw Chance's mom she
was hugging a different well wisher. As time passed, I began to hear people
laughing. We were starting to heal.
After a few hours at the gym, I went back to the
hotel to change out of my dress blues. The local VFW post had invited everyone
over to "celebrate Chance's life." The Post was on the other end of town from my
hotel and the drive took less than two minutes. The crowd was somewhat smaller
than what had been at the gym but the Post was packed.
Marines were playing pool at the two tables near
the entrance and most of the VFW members were at the bar or around the tables in
the bar area. The largest room in the Post was a banquet/dinning/dancing area
and it was now called "The Chance Phelps Room." Above the entry were two items:
a large portrait of Chance in his dress blues and the Eagle, Globe, &
Anchor. In one corner of the room there was another memorial to Chance. There
were candles burning around another picture of him in his blues. On the table
surrounding his photo were his Purple Heart citation and his Purple Heart medal.
There was also a framed copy of an excerpt from the Congressional Record. This
was an elegant tribute to Chance Phelps delivered on the floor of the United
States House of Representatives by Congressman Scott McInnis of Colorado. Above
it all was a television that was playing a photo montage of Chance's life from
small boy to proud Marine.
I did not buy a drink that night. As had been
happening all day, indeed all week, people were thanking me for my service and
for bringing Chance home. Now, in addition to words and handshakes, they were
thanking me with beer. I fell in with the men who had handled the horses and
horse-drawn carriage. I learned that they had worked through the night to groom
and prepare the horses for Chance's last ride. They were all very grateful that
they were able to contribute.
After a while we all gathered in the Chance Phelps
room for the formal dedication. The Post commander told us of how Chance had
been so looking forward to becoming a Life Member of the VFW. Now, in the Chance
Phelps Room of the Dubois, Wyoming post, he would be an eternal member. We all
raised our beers and the Chance Phelps room was christened.
Later, as I was walking toward the pool tables, a
Staff Sergeant form the Reserve unit in Salt Lake grabbed me and said, "Sir, you
gotta hear this." There were two other Marines with him and he told the younger
one, a Lance Corporal, to tell me his story. The Staff Sergeant said the Lance
Corporal was normally too shy and modest to tell it but now he'd had enough beer
to overcome his usual tendencies.
As the Lance Corporal started to talk, an older
man joined our circle. He wore a baseball cap that indicated he had been with
the 1st Marine Division in Korea. Earlier in the evening he had told
me about one of his former commanding officers; a Colonel Puller.
So, there I was, standing in a circle with three
Marines recently returned from fighting with the 1st Marine Division
in Iraq and one not so recently returned from fighting with the 1st
Marine Division in Korea. I, who had fought with the 1st Marine
Division in Kuwait, was about to gain a new insight into our Corps.
The young Lance Corporal began to tell us his
story. At that moment, in this circle of current and former Marines, the
differences in our ages and ranks dissipated--we were all simply
Marines.
His squad had been on a patrol through a city
street. They had taken small arms fire and had literally dodged an RPG round
that sailed between two Marines. At one point they received fire from behind a
wall and had neutralized the sniper with a SMAW round. The back blast of the
SMAW, however, kicked up a substantial rock that hammered the Lance Corporal in
the thigh; only missing his groin because he had reflexively turned his body
sideways at the shot.
Their squad had suffered some wounded and was
receiving more sniper fire when suddenly he was hit in the head by an AK-47
round. I was stunned as he told us how he felt like a baseball bat had been
slammed into his head. He had spun around and fell unconscious. When he came to,
he had a severe scalp wound but his Kevlar helmet had saved his life. He
continued with his unit for a few days before realizing he was suffering the
effects of a severe concussion.
As I stood there in the circle with the old man
and the other Marines, the Staff Sergeant finished the story. He told of how
this Lance Corporal had begged and pleaded with the Battalion surgeon to let him
stay with his unit. In the end, the doctor said there was just no way-he had
suffered a severe and traumatic head wound and would have to be
med'evaced.
The Marine Corps is a special fraternity. There
are moments when we are reminded of this. Interestingly, those moments don't
always happen at awards ceremonies or in dress blues at Birthday Balls. I have
found, rather, that they occur at unexpected times and places: next to a loaded
moving van at Camp Lejeune's base housing, in a dirty CP tent in northern Saudi
Arabia, and in a smoky VFW post in western Wyoming.
After the story was done, the Lance Corporal
stepped over to the old man, put his arm over the man's shoulder and told him
that he, the Korean War vet, was his hero. The two of them stood there with
their arms over each other's shoulders and we were all silent for a moment. When
they let go, I told the Lance Corporal that there were recruits down on the
yellow footprints tonight that would soon be learning his story.
I was finished drinking beer and telling stories.
I found Chance's father and shook his hand one more time. Chance's mom had
already left and I deeply regretted not being able to tell her
goodbye.
I left Dubois in the morning before sunrise for my
long drive back to Billings. It had been my honor to take Chance Phelps to his
final post. Now he was on the high ground overlooking his town.
I miss him.
Regards,
LtCol Strobl
