This post submitted by reader Randy Daitch.

~ Alan

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I discovered this morning, on Memorial Day, a letter sent by my father to my mother, when he was serving in an army medical detachment in British Guiana, in April 1943. Next Sunday marks the 29th anniversary of my father’s passing. His words would surely resonate with our soldiers overseas today:

LETTER DATED APRIL 1943, FROM MAURICE DAITCH, IN BRITISH GUIANA, TO SELMA ROSENBERG, IN WINDSOR ONTARIO, SEVEN MONTHS BEFORE THEIR MARRIAGE:

Our countries are fighting a war, and I am a soldier - a fighter for the common cause. At present my leaders have seen fit to place me in a position of comparatively little danger. I’ll not complain, but accept the verdict of my commanders as to the best place in the scheme of things for me.

I’ve heard men say that they would rather be a live coward than a dead hero. I would rather be neither. I believe that while it is great to die for one’s country, it is even greater to live for it. But if it ever comes to the choice of losing, to the Nazi hordes, our way of life, or dying in the attempt to maintain that way of life, I’ll choose the latter.

Sweetheart, I miss you much, but whether I see you soon or later does not really matter. The important thing is that there is a job to be done, and if there is to be any of peace, freedom and security in the future - do it, and do it well, we must.

Until I return then, my love, keep me close to your heart, and I will remain happy in the knowledge that some day, soon I hope, I’ll return and there will be no more waiting, wondering, worrying, for either of us, and we will be eternally happy in one another’s arms.

With all my love,
Maury

This is my Memorial Day post, inspired by the original (also posted here):

Within a commemorative area at the western side of the memorial is recognized the sacrifice of America’s WWII generation and the contribution of our allies. A field of 4,000 sculpted gold stars on the Freedom Wall commemorate the more than 400,000 Americans who gave their lives. During WWII, the gold star was the symbol of family sacrifice.

This post was submitted by reader TexasGal.

~ Alan

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FREEDOM’S WARRIORS

Free people can never live free without the commitment of those who are willing to risk all even to giving their lives to secure that freedom. Lest we forget not all that have made the ultimate sacrifice wear the uniform. But I would like to borrow from the words of Charles M. Province:

These aren’t only American ideals; these are the ideals of free people of the world. Through the efforts of dedicated men and women the history of the world is changed not only by the stopping of aggression but also by the liberation of the oppressed from tyranny.

God’s Blessing to all those who serve in the defense of freedom, and liberty. God’s Strength to all those who bear the burden from this pursuit, may they recover and truly know the merit of their contribution. And God’s Peace to all those family and friends who loose loved ones through the ultimate sacrifice of lying down ones life for another. Truly life is measured by deed, not by length.

To all of them, I say Thank You.

TexasGal

From the White House Commission on Remembrance:

Along with other Americans, you are asked to observe the National Moment of Remembrance on Memorial Day, Monday, May 31, 2004 at 3:00 p.m. local time (duration: one minute). The time 3:00 p.m. was chosen because it is the time when many Americans are enjoying their freedoms on the national holiday. The Moment does not replace the traditional Memorial Day observances. It is intended to a be a unifying act of remembrance for Americans of all ages. As you participate in the Moment you are helping reclaim Memorial Day for the noble and sacred reason for which it was intended—to honor those who died in service to our Nation.

The Palm Springs Desert Sun pays Memorial Day tribute here.

Memorial Day is a time of remembrance for the sacrifice of this country’s sons and daughters who have given their lives in war for the United States. By custom, the observance has become a day for all Americans to remember their dead. It is a time to contemplate what America and its people have lost — and gained.

This Memorial Day is especially poignant in the aftermath of the war in Iraq, which claimed the lives of some of the Coachella Valley’s own. They and the loved ones they left behind are in our thoughts and prayers today …

Written by reader and blogger Chap, and originally posted here.

~ Alan

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Today, my friends and classmates meet in Talloires and Normandy, for a reunion and to be present for the sixtieth anniversary of the D-Day invasion. I cannot attend because I go to sea too soon and I wish I were there. I would gladly violate my personal boycott of French products for this occasion.

This isn’t emotional writing–it’s just history, and history that affects how I do my job today.

The American submarine force defines itself through its actions in the Pacific. The British submarine force, however, had significant exploits in the Atlantic. One of these operations enabled D-Day to happen.

In the Pacific, the US submarines Nautilus and Argonaut, small diesel boats, embarked two hundred and twenty two Marines led by a Colonel Carlson, who had spent time in China and took the phrase “work together”–gung ho–for the Marines’s own. They performed a raid on Makin Island. While the Marines were ashore the submarines went destroyer hunting. Upon the completion of the raid, some of the Marines weren’t there. They had been captured by the Japanese and beheaded.

I had the honor, once, of meeting some of these Marines, although I didn’t understand who these geezers were at the time. (Yes, I was an idiot.) I just knew they had done something important that they wouldn’t talk about. Fifty-some years later, they went back and found their compatriots and brought them home.

Some important lessons about amphibious warfare were learned on the Makin Island raid. More painful lessons were learned at the cost of innumerable Canadians at an early landing in Dieppe–on the tactical level, it was a bloody disaster on the level of a Gallipoli attack. Strategically, the Dieppe landing bought time and more importantly taught lessons that paid off on D-Day.

One lesson learned by the British was that you had to know where you were landing and what type of beach you were landing at. For this, they used a team called the COPP, and small submarines called X-Craft.

Tiny, weak, short legged X-Craft were small boats. A lieutenant commanded. They were towed to their operation area, a dangerous and exhausting feat in itself. They could carry things–explosives on a belt on the outside–but also small boats with people in it.

In other amphibious landings, some landing craft discharged troops in the wrong place, or landed where the sand was too soft for the machinery, causing men to die before they even could get to the beach. To counter this, pairs of men were put on tiny folding canoes and sent out on the submarines to perform beach feasibility surveys (what we call them today, anyway). In my last ship we did much the same as they did them–but we ride in a lot more comfort, and they invented it.

The survey complete, the X-craft beached themselves and turned lights on as navigation beacons for the ships riding in. The Americans refused this help and some of their craft landed a mile off target.

From a local history:

The southeastern tip of the Island housed the Most Secret of all establishments. COPP (Combined Operations Pilotage Parties) was based in what is now Hayling Island Sailing Club: a band of adventurers who had volunteered for Special Service without being told what this involved! Here the 57 officers and men, expert canoeists, swimmers and survivalists -trained in all weathers in strictest secrecy. Like the famous Cockleshell Heroes, their targets were those impossible for conventional attack and usually so dangerous that a COPP mission was regarded as a one-way ticket. COPPs specialised in the unorthodox - and on many occasions it worked.

Midget submarines, or Xcraft, 50ft long, 6ft wide, displacing 30 tons, were crewed by COPPists. Packed together inside were diesel engines (2 Gardineror Perkins), electric motor, air compressor, batteries, escape compartment-cum-heads, and canisters to re-cycle foul air. Then there was the crew and their gear, all the navigation and signalling instrumentation, food, water - every inch of space held some piece of equipment, some lever or wheel…or the cramped men. Keeping silence during a mission meant no movement: the hull plating was only 3/8 inch thick: in fact the crew could hear German asdic pinging off their hull, time for evasive action! Xcraft of the 12th Submarine Flotilla played a vital role on D-Day. They were to guide inthe first assault boats to the correct landing areas of Sword and Juno beaches. COPPists on an advance recce, using canoes, had secured samples from these beaches which proved the ground suitable for the advance-guard heavy tanks. Canoes used were folboats and could carry 480lbs; a tiny sail of camouflaged parachute silk could be hoisted on the mast, whose other function was for mounting a powerful signalling lamp.

Lt George Honour, RNVR had (most unusually) been briefed about the D-Day COPPs mission three weeks in advance. Such was the degree of secrecy demanded that he dared not go for a run ashore during that tense waiting period. He was to command X23 with a Sub/Lt and an Engine-Room Artificer as crew, but taking two extra men: navigation experts. This made for much increased discomfort in the tiny vessel.

X23 was ordered to sail on 2nd June, and was towed towards the French coast. Here the midget submarine was submerged for l7hrs 59mins. This detailing of the EXACT length of time indicates the ghastly strain of prolonged inactivity in confined quarters and foul air. On June 3rd they moved cautiously to within 1 & 1/2 miles of the beach, and checking their position through the periscope found they were spot-on - and German soldiers could be seen playing on the beach!

Expecting 5th June to be D-Day, the Xcraft thankfully surfaced after a further 12 hours underwater, to await their coded message via the BBC. Nothing. In great anxiety they tuned in again at 01.00: Invasion postponed 24 hours; this meant an extra 24 hours of hell waiting on the bottom. At 04.45 on 6th June they surfaced for action and flashed the guiding lights for the in-coming armada as planned. The crew watched landing-craft forging ahead to the beach and our troops swarming down the ramps to wade ashore, ant-like on the great sweep of sand.

The job done, X23 turned away for its rendezvous with HMS Largs; this proved the most dangerous time of the whole operation. Vessels of every kind were charging towards the shore - nothing should stand in their way now - least of all a tiny, barely visible midget submarine!

These guys were in desperate times, living in small metal tubes to try and make a difference. They were the first to land at D-Day. They weren’t celebrated in movies and song. They knew the chances were slim–three X-craft didn’t return from the Tirpitz attack just previously. But they did it anyway.

And they weren’t American. They were brothers-in-arms saving American lives with their efforts.

For this Decoration Day, I hope you will take a thought about the sacrifices being made around the world by all of us, and the Americans who died hard and without recognition–but who made the difference. Let us strive to live up to their ideals.

Chap.

Thanks, Mates.

Signed: the Usual Suspects.

We’re here to mark that day in history when the Allied peoples joined in battle to reclaim this continent to liberty.

For four long years, much of Europe had been under a terrible shadow. Free nations had fallen, Jews cried out in the camps, millions cried out for liberation. Europe was enslaved, and the world prayed for its rescue. Here in Normandy the rescue began. Here the Allies stood and fought against tyranny in a giant undertaking unparalleled in human history.

We stand on a lonely, windswept point on the northern shore of France. The air is soft, but forty years ago at this moment, the air was dense with smoke and the cries of men, and the air was filled with the crack of rifle fire and the roar of cannon. At dawn, on the morning of the 6th of June 1944, 225 Rangers jumped off the British landing craft and ran to the bottom of these cliffs. Their mission was one of the most difficult and daring of the invasion: to climb these sheer and desolate cliffs and take out the enemy guns. The Allies had been told that some of the mightiest of these guns were here and they would be trained on the beaches to stop the Allied advance.

The Rangers looked up and saw the enemy soldiers — at the edge of the cliffs shooting down at them with machine-guns and throwing grenades. And the American Rangers began to climb. They shot rope ladders over the face of these cliffs and began to pull themselves up. When one Ranger fell, another would take his place. When one rope was cut, a Ranger would grab another and begin his climb again. They climbed, shot back, and held their footing. Soon, one by one, the Rangers pulled themselves over the top, and in seizing the firm land at the top of these cliffs, they began to seize back the continent of Europe. Two hundred and twenty-five came here. After two days of fighting only ninety could still bear arms.

Behind me is a memorial that symbolizes the Ranger daggers that were thrust into the top of these cliffs. And before me are the men who put them there.

These are the boys of Pointe du Hoc. These are the men who took the cliffs. These are the champions who helped free a continent. These are the heroes who helped end a war.

Gentlemen, I look at you and I think of the words of Stephen Spender’s poem. You are men who in your ‘lives fought for life…and left the vivid air signed with your honor’…

Forty summers have passed since the battle that you fought here. You were young the day you took these cliffs; some of you were hardly more than boys, with the deepest joys of life before you. Yet you risked everything here. Why? Why did you do it? What impelled you to put aside the instinct for self-preservation and risk your lives to take these cliffs? What inspired all the men of the armies that met here? We look at you, and somehow we know the answer. It was faith, and belief; it was loyalty and love.

The men of Normandy had faith that what they were doing was right, faith that they fought for all humanity, faith that a just God would grant them mercy on this beachhead or on the next. It was the deep knowledge - and pray God we have not lost it - that there is a profound moral difference between the use of force for liberation and the use of force for conquest. You were here to liberate, not to conquer, and so you and those others did not doubt your cause. And you were right not to doubt.

You all knew that some things are worth dying for. One’s country is worth dying for, and democracy is worth dying for, because it’s the most deeply honorable form of government ever devised by man. All of you loved liberty. All of you were willing to fight tyranny, and you knew the people of your countries were behind you.

- Ronald Reagan — Pointe du Hoc, Normandy, June 6, 1984

Seems as potent now as it was then. You can view the original online here.

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of it as a final resting place for those who died here that the nation might live. This we may, in all propriety do. But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead who struggled here have hallowed it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.

It is rather for us the living, we here be dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.”

Daniel Henninger reminds us of the ultimate sacrifice, and the opportunity to visit our National Cemeteries this day:

There are 16,897,000 living veterans, which makes for a very large band of brothers. At a big cemetery like Calverton on Long Island, they’ll do 7,300 burials a year. Standing in this cemetery on a wet day, staring out at field after field of white gravestones in perfect rows, each marked with a name and a war, one frankly has the expectable, and welcome, feelings of gratitude and respect. Still, one can’t help but feel overtaken by the awful, indiscreet largeness of war’s claims on the living. Amid Calverton’s stillness, the cemetery’s director Rick Boyd offers without prompting: “Each one of these people had a particular service story, and I often wish I could know what they were.”

Read the rest.

This post was submitted by reader Max in our comments.

~ Alan

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Many years ago, before 9/11 the world was a different place, but America’s young men and women were still going into the face of danger, I had the Great Honour to soldier along side 1st Armoured Division, if not a combat zone, then the most heavily mined piece of land in the world.
Two memories spring to mind:

A young American NCO, attempting to defuse a mine(he was not qualified and was not following SOPs) he recognised the weapon as a potential threat to his soldiers, and more importantly to the civilian population. He died, instantly and without any pain.

Two weeks later, I HAD to go into a minefield (Duty Call), SoP said I went alone. Half way towards my particular objective, a hand touched my shoulder, it was a young Specialist (Female, wrong side of the tracks, poor white trash, once). She said, “I don’t want you going in here alone Sir, I’ll be with you”.

I’m not an American, though I am proud to say that I am a Friend of America.

The young ladies name was Teresa Hawkins, the young NCO’s name (I will not publish). I would ask that all the readers spare a moment not only for the valiant dead, but also to remember those Brave Americans who have not had to make the ultimate sacrifice.

Max

This post was submitted by reader Marymcl in our comments.

~ Alan

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Because he cleaves to me in love, I will deliver him;
I will protect him, because he knows my name.
When he calls to me, I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble,
I will rescue him and honor him.
With long life I will satisfy him,
and show him my salvation.

Psalm 91

safe home, all our soldiers, then and now

This post was submitted by reader Different Kind Of Button in our comments. It’s been posted in many places, including Blackfive, and Mr. Phelps is indeed on the list.

~ Alan

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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 buildings 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 stoop 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’s 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 expect 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 Copenhagen 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

This post was submitted by reader Jonathan Cook.

~ Alan

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I just wanted to share our family’s Memorial Day offering:

My wife’s great-uncle Hiram Clifford Pitts (Clifford to family and friends - he did not like Hiram), from Fort Pierce, FL enlisted in the Army Air Forces in 1942 leaving his mother, six siblings, and a fiancee behind. He became a 2nd LT flying a P-38 with the 96th Fighter Squadron/82nd Fighter Group/12th Air Force (later 15th Air Force). He was first based in North Africa and later Sicily and mainland Italy. By December 1943 he had three confirmed air victories and two probables. There is one account that states he may have had other victories, but the record isn’t clear and many of his personnel records were destroyed in a fire in a records repository in St. Louis.

On Christmas Day 1943, while escorting bombers over Italy his plane was damaged either directly or indirectly during a mid-air collision with an Me-109. He was able to bail out of his plane. His parachute did not open.

At that same time one ocean and half a sea away, his mother woke out of her sleep and knew Clifford was gone. She received official notification of his MIA status in January 1943. His status was changed to KIA in June 1944. We have a picture of her standing somberly as a Purple Heart is pinned to his empty uniform. In all, he received the Purple Heart and an Air Medal with four Oak Leaf Clusters. His body now rests in Plot A/Row 13/Grave 30 at Florence American Cemetary in Florence, Italy. He shares that hallowed ground with 4,401 other American service members.

So, on this Memorial Day I want to pay my respects in Clifford’s memory to all those heroes past and present, known and unknown who gave all for the freedom we enjoy.

Sincerely,
Jonathan Cook

This post was submitted by reader Stephen.

~ Alan

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Elements Of Chance (originally posted here)

You there! under shaded haven true
In ease, who fill your days near shelter’s bole.
How ill is known…of leaves o’er arching you,
Broad trunk and branch conveyed of Monticello soul.

…Of at your feet strewn green, and brown, and gray
Imparting rustle massed of plaintive cries;
Grand knotted roots drink deep in streaming clay,
From such a flood at plaint, wellsprings there in reprise.

They’ve taken fire in half a million fights
At other houses, quarters—park and square.
Great stretches done to black—oppression’s blight
Ran dark, diseased with ruin over there.

On other houses, quarters—park and square,
And others living fearful, pinched and hard—
Reflect and ponder; ruin ever there—
And why it is so quiet in your yard.

Such ones! who plunge their hands in living seethe
Such cast, such die—lest all should come to harm.
Distinct it is when any cease to breathe;
He held him as his blood dripped off his arm.

Forgone the time and forfeited the sweet;
Their greatest sacrifice, as some would say.
Good words alleged by unattached elite
Who speak of sacrifice in common way.

But such! they measure not as you or I;
Uneasy they, to dwell at tyrant’s let.
The things we may allow can never vie
For those who live no value under threat.

And burnt off from their rule our banal score;
Accorded minds were cast, then forged anew.
There matters much, and little, when at war—
Not high, not low, not whence, but what they do.

Then how are we to take the measure say,
When Tillman, Chance, or Dunham—others fall.
Why, see them as they are! they willing weigh
Their measure, simply said, at all for all.

Outside them, never shortage drought or dearth
Of disaffected, boasting pained complaint.
Yea, betters show us duty on this earth,
And some are something very near a saint.

Though Heroes live and die to scattered care,
There’s honor understanding honor’s guard.
Reflect and ponder; who is willing there
And why, it is so quiet in your yard.

This post was submitted by reader A. Saadya.

~ Alan

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Just a simple word of thanks to all those who are currently serving in
the military of the United States and its allies, and especially to our
Commander-in-Chief, President Bush.

For those men and women of every conceivable ethnic group who gave their
lives to protect our country, I stand humbly for a moment of silence. I
can never fully appreciate your sacrifice. May you rest in peace.

A. Saadya

This post was submitted by reader Wayne Fielder.

~ Alan

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Staff Sergeant Arthur Lee Tackett joined the Army in 1942 as a member of
the 82nd Airborne. He completed Basic Training at Fort Bragg and moved
on to Camp Claiborne, Louisiana, to join the new 101st Airborne gaining
the Glider Infantry Badge. He took part in the D-Day invasion, marched
through France and Belgium, endured the seige of Bastogne and worked his
way back home in 1945 to see his 3 year old daughter for the first time.

Sergeant Tackett began a new career with Ashland Oil Company in
Catlettsburg Kentucky as a Welder. Hanging up his Sergeant stripes
replacing them with the Ruptured Duck lapel pin. He raised his daughter
to eventually become a Registered Nurse. He reluctantly accepted the
fact that she eloped to marry her husband which he quickly grew to like
both as son in law and friend. He spoiled his new grandson as often as
possible until 1976 when he died of lung cancer.

His wife called him Tack. His daughter called him Dad. His son in law
called him Mr. Tackett. His friends called him Art. His grandson
called him Papaw.

His grandson wasn’t old enough at the time of his death to even consider
discussing the war and his experiences during the war. The fact is that
he never talked much about the war to anyone. It was sufficient for him
that he did what he had to do. In the years after Sergeant Tackett’s
death, his grandson researched the activities of the 426th Quartermaster
Company of the 101st Airborne Division and came to respect the man in a
way the Sergeant would probably find quite entertaining.

I miss you Papaw.

This post was submitted by reader Jeff B.

~ Alan

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On this special day, I hope that all living free people will stop and pray/give thanks to all the men and women that sacrificed the wonderful life we take for granted. We should also stand in awe of the men and women that live to this day with the memories of the admission they paid, while we got in free. If those that wish to change this country, from what our heroes fought to preserve, cannot clear their minds for one day to reflect and respect, may I be worthy of those hero’s sacrifice and have tolerance for one day.

On Tuesday, I will continue to digitally defend the heartland from the enemy within and castrate those within reach.

PS. I must say what a pleasure it has been, in hard times, to meet the finest people on Com-Po.

PS Disclaimer: X, NNTK, Tony F., Pass, liberals, etc., who are all real enemies of freedom and the United States.

PSS. Beer is good.

This post was submitted by reader Richard Santalesa.

~ Alan

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Memorial Day - What’s the price of freedom?

Every Memorial Day weekend I watch a WWII war movie. For this Memorial Day weekend I rented Bataan, courtesy of Netflix. Bataan was released in 1943, during WWII, before we returned to the Philippines, and included a very young, pre-I Love Lucy, Desi Arnez as Corp. Felix Ramirez. I was stuck home today waiting for the siding guy to give me an estimate, and so I popped the movie in. This movie would appall the Euro can’t-we-all-get-along crowd.

The plot centers around a single squad of thirteen men. There’s no sweeping battle field; no epic tactics involved. Thrown together from other units the squad’s mission is: blow up a bridge, and prevent the “Japs” from crossing and outflanking the remains of the U.S. army to the south. Everyone in the squad dies by the end. Let that sink in. That’s a 100% KIA rate by the time the final credits roll.

Yet, they accomplished their mission, and if any one line stands out — again the movie is not an epic — it’s the line the Sgt., played by Robert Taylor, speaks to one young soldier. He delivers it at the point when the squad has been whittled down to three, and has just finished a brutal hand-to-hand battle with grenades flying like spitballs, thumping tommy guns spitting clouds of smoke, bayoneting galore, and a samurai sword decapitation (though sans today’s level of gore). The Sgt. states, without fanfare, that “it doesn’t matter where a man dies, as long as he dies for freedom.”

But do those words still resonate in 2004? What would we do today, given a political climate evidenced by Ted Kennedy, Al Gore, and their minions, were we called upon to fight an all-out-war that would absolutely result in large casualties? On one level the question’s more rhetorical than practical, given our military superiority, and the level of technical precision and prowess today’s military brings to bear compared to the pre-digital WWII era.

Although the world of 2004 is not the world of 1941, and I have great faith in the American people, I wonder if the intestinal fortitude needed to ensure we remain the “land of the free and home of the brave” remains. As a law student, the creeping federalization of criminal law, and the rise of zero tolerance idiocy troubles me deeply. But, freedom ultimately boils down to enough people sharing the values our country was founded upon, and being willing to fight for them.

Living in northern Queens, New York City, where the nearest main thoroughfare is Francis Lewis Blvd., I enjoy asking people if they know who Francis Lewis was [bio here]. Few do. Few know he signed the Declaration of Independence, or that his

“house [in what is now Whitestone, Queens,] was plundered by a party of British light horse. His extensive library and valuable papers of every description were wantonly destroyed. . . . [the British] thirsted for revenge upon a man, who had dared to affix his signature to a document, which proclaimed the independence of America. Unfortunately Mrs. Lewis fell into their power, and was retained a prisoner for several months. [She died shortly after her release.]”

Rev. Charles A. Goodrich, Lives of the Signers to the Declaration of Independence 193-197 (New York: William Reed & Co., 1856); see also Benson J. Lossing, Lives of the Signers of the Declaration of Independence (reprinting the original 1848 edition).

The price of freedom can be very high. Can it ever be too high? Would I be willing to — knowing it would mean the loss of everything, the death of my dear wife, and a future populace that cared little about my sacrifice — have signed the Declaration? That’s a question one can only answer honestly alone in the middle of the deep dark night. The price of freedom can be very high — as it was for virtually every signer of the Declaration, (see What Happened to the 56 Men Who Signed the Declaration of Independence, available at http://www.patriotparty.us/documents/bios/price.htm). Granted, Francis Lewis and the other signers couldn’t know what fate awaited them, but surely they knew with certainly what their fate would be should the British capture them.

Memorial Day is the day we, as Americans, reflect on the sacrifices made by those who could and did answer the question of “what’s the price of freedom?” It’s a question worth revisiting every year.

30

Michele and I posted Friday that we’d accept and post on the Op-Ed page any Memorial Day tribute or thoughts readers would forward. We’ve received several, and will be posting them here throughout the day. We’ll continue to do so through midnight EDT tonight; email any submissions to alan at command-post dot org.

We’ll also be bringing you the best professional memorials we can find, and will also be posting those in this space.

And finally, to the families of those who gave the last full measure: you have my wishes and my gratitude.

General Anthony Zinni, USMC (Ret.): 10 mistakes in Iraq War strategy.

Finally: an antidote for the nattering nabobs of negativism in the American mainstream media: an interview with the no-nonsense Jon Schaffer of the band “Iced Earth.” As posted on the “Brave Words & Bloody Knuckles” website:

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- - - - - - -

Via Andrew Sullivan (under “HARD ROCK VS. CHOMSKY”).

Here’s the website for Iced Earth. I think I’ll go buy one of their CD’s. Good job, mate!

And, while I’m one the topic, there’s something that’s really been bothering me lately. I’m sick and tired of everyone (including way too many conservatives) saying President Bush and the Administration did a good job of waging the war, but have done a bad job of “managing the peace.” I think this is utter, laughable, inane bullshit.

We took a country that has never known democracy or individual liberties - and which was in a state of utter disrepair with regard to its public services and infrastructure. We’ve taken this basket-case country and we’re on the verge of an interim Iraqi government leading to free elections.

We’ve put down brutal insurgency after brutal insurgency and we’ve brought basic services to the people (schools, hospitals, power, water, food, telephones, internet access, etc.).

In short, I THINK WE‘VE DONE AN AWESOME JOB OF MANAGING THE PEACE! And in my humble opinion, anyone who doesn’t think so is a gutless-wonder arm-chair quarterback. If we listened to these gutless wonders we’d never do anything - we’d just wring our hands over the “complexity of the situation” and leave blood-stained brutes like Saddam Hussein in power forever.

The anti-war whiners around the world have no credibility. If they’d gotten their way, Saddam Hussein would still be in power - filling mass graves - and Uday Hussein would still be picking women off the streets of Baghdad to rape and kill them. Nice morality you have there, anti-war lefties.

Don’t listen to them, troops. Most of us know the truth: you’ve done an outstanding job at winning the war and you’ve done an outstanding job of managing the peace!

God bless you and keep up the good work!

And President Bush: you’ve done a great job too. I may be one of the few to come right out and say it (in even the conservative blogosphere). Great job. Here’s hoping for four more years.

This is a duplicate of the original post on the nikita demosthenes website.

This Monday is Memorial Day in the United States, our annual day of remembrance for those who have given their lives in military service of our country. With the war in Iraq, Memorial Day this year promises to be more poignant than in several years past. As such, we want to honor our war dead on these pages as well.

On Monday, May 31st, Michele and I will publish readers’ Memorial Day remembrances on our Op-Ed page. Remembrances may reflect on the meaning of the day, or may offer a memorial to a particular person or people who have paid the ultimate sacrifice in service to our country, regardless of war or theater. If you’d like to share your thoughts on the day, remember a particular person, or just say thank you to those who have served, we welcome your words.

We will accept and post any submission as we receive it and without editing, presuming it is appropriate to the tenor of the call above, and that it honors our standards of respectful and civil discourse.

If you’d like your thoughts, or your remembrance of a fallen soldier or soldiers, to be posted this Monday, please email your submission to alan at command-post dot org.

[The following was written by Matt of the weblog BlackFive. It originally appeared here and is reprinted with permission of the author. We thank Matt of allowing us to share this story with you, especially with Memorial Day approaching]

Major Mathew Schram’s Memorial Day

Memorial Day is like any other day when you’re in an Army at War.

On Memorial Day, May 26th, 2003 at approximately 7:00AM, Major Mathew E. Schram was leading a resupply convoy in Western Iraq near the Syrian border. Major Schram was the Support Operations Officer for the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment (out of Ft. Carson, Colorado). He had responsibility for organizing the logistical arm of the regiment - ensuring that the Cavalrymen never ran out of food, fuel or ammo.

Normally, Major Schram would not accompany the convoys as his responsibilities kept him at the main resupply point. However, due to the problems with attacks on supply convoys (i.e. Jessica Lynch’s 507th aintenance Company ambush), he decided to lead this one. He also decided that there was a side benefit to the ride - he would be able to talk with the field commanders and troops that he supported. Major Schram wanted to make sure that his “customers” were happy. Anyone who knew Mat Schram knew that he was obsessive-compulsive about making sure “his soldiers” were taken care of…that’s why he was one of the top logistical officers in the US Army.

Major Schram’s convoy consisted of eight vehicles - one 5,000 gallon water tanker, two 3,000 gallon water trucks, one water pump truck, two 5,000 gallon fuel tankers, one truck with MREs and bottled water, and Major Schram’s command Humvee (bumper numbers: S&T 323, 344, 350, 237, 210, 204, 219, and HQ12).

The convoy was headed North from Al Asad Airbase - Foward Operating Base (FOB) Webster (grid coordinate KC 640 430) along Route 12 to FOB Jenna (KC 360 748).

After delivering supplies at Jenna, the convoy would continue on to Al Qaim - FOB Tiger (GT 146 911) which had the 1/3 Armored Cavalry.

At 7:15AM, vicinity KC 6514 6181, Major Schram’s convoy approached a ravine where the bridge crossing the ravine had been destroyed. The convoy had to go down the embankment, into the ravine, and back up the other side to get back onto the highway.

Once the lead vehicle started up the far bank of the ravine, the convoy came under intense fire from Rocket Propelled Grenades (RPGs), machine guns, and small arms fire. It was an ambush. Fifteen Iraqi insurgents had been waiting by the ravine.

An RPG hit the lead tanker vehicle, disabling it in the kill zone. It was a perfect ambush set up. If the insurgents could knock out the first and last vehicles, then the entire convoy would be stuck in the kill zone. Bullets flew from insurgents on both sides of the ravine. The insurgent grenadiers were trying to concentrate fire on the last American vehicle to bottle Major Schram’s convoy in the ravine. The attackers would then be able to kill the Americans at
will.

Major Schram ordered his driver, Specialist Chris Van Dyke, to accelerate from their position in the convoy into the insurgents’ positions. Major Schram sent a
message to Headquarters for help and began returning fire out of the Humvee. The Iraqi grenadiers recognized the threat and shifted their fire from the rear truck to Schram’s Humvee, HQ-12.

Multiple grenades exploded at the front and rear of HQ-12. Specialist Van Dyke was blown out of the vehicle. Once he stopped rolling on the ground, he got up and ran back to HQ-12. He got back in and drove the Humvee out of the Kill Zone.

When he turned to get orders from Major Schram, Van Dyke realized that his Major had been killed. Even though he wore body armor, two 7.62 rounds had gone through his armpit (where there is no body armor coverage) and struck his heart, killing him instantly.

The Iraqi insurgents had fled after they fired their grenades at HQ-12 which was heading for them at full throttle.

Immediately, from a nearby FOB, two Apache helicopter gunships were launched along with a MedEvac helicopter. A Quick Reaction Force from FOB Webster was on the scene in less than ten minutes. Aside from the death of Mathew Schram, the convoy suffered only two wounded. Specialist Van Dyke was wounded in his hand and was able to continue his mission. One other
soldier in the lead vehicle suffered a broken femur from the initial grenade attack.

The MedEvac brought Major Schram’s body and the injured soldier back to the hospital at FOB Webster.

The military conducted a funeral for Major Schram in Iraq. Two hundred soldiers were present. Everyone that knew Mat loved him.

The military said it would take ten days to get Mat Schram’s body to his family in Wisconsin. It took less than a few days. Also, in a few days after the
ambush, the Army had rounded up all of the attackers and put them in prison.

I was at my desk at work on Tuesday, June 3rd. The phone rang. I looked at the caller ID to see that it was a call from Ft. Leavenworth. I picked it up. It was John, a friend of mine and Mat Schram’s. We had all served together years ago and had stayed in touch. He told me to sit down. I did. He told me
that Mat had been killed in Iraq.

After composing myself, we finished our conversation and I promised to see John’s wife, Patti, at the funeral. John had to be at Special Operations Command and couldn’t make it.

I shut the door to my office, sat back down at my desk and wept for a long time.

At the funeral, Mat’s family displayed his last letters and emails that he sent. All were strong, positive messages (sooo very Schrambo-like). Here’s an example of the kinds of things that Mat told his family (from the Green Bay Gazette):

Phil Schram of Hartland said his brother had visited Wisconsin over Christmas. The family knew then war was likely. Mathew Schram had been involved in the first Persian Gulf War and, later, in Somalia.

“He was anxious to get over there and get to work. He loved the military. He loved the structure. He loved serving under George W. (Bush),” Phil Schram
said.

The one part that I left out of this post is that Major Schram’s convoy was followed by a car with a Newsweek reporter in it. Once the action began, the reporter and his driver turned and got the hell out of there. If it wasn’t for Mat’s charge up into the ambushers, they never would have made it out of there alive.

Newsweek never ran a story about my good friend, Mat. It took a few weeks for me to decide what to do.

I had been reading