Kaziah

Please Don't Forget.

Oh Say can you See?

Back in December 2009, I began to read about Medal of Honor recipient Van T. Barfoot's fight with his homeowners association. It seems the homeowner's association forbade the flying of flags on a free standing flagpole based on asthetics, and the old vet wanted to fly Old Glory properly outside his home. When he was denied a permit for a free standing flagpole, Col. Barfoot erected one on his property anyway.

The Sussex Square Homeowners Association first threatened legal action. Colonel Barfoot remained unswayed. After the story of the old soldier's struggle began making the military blogs, the mass media was coerced into paying it some mind. Then the homeowners association went into damage control mode.

I may be late, but I recently learned that The Sussex Square Homeowners Association has agreed to drop threats of legal action against the 90-year-old veteran of three wars. Col. Barfoot's star spangled banner yet waves.

Colonel Barfoot's MoH Citation:

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life above and beyond the call of duty on 23 May 1944, near Carano, Italy. With his platoon heavily engaged during an assault against forces well entrenched on commanding ground, 2d Lt. Barfoot (then Tech. Sgt.) moved off alone upon the enemy left flank. He crawled to the proximity of 1 machinegun nest and made a direct hit on it with a hand grenade, killing 2 and wounding 3 Germans. He continued along the German defense line to another machinegun emplacement, and with his tommygun killed 2 and captured 3 soldiers. Members of another enemy machinegun crew then abandoned their position and gave themselves up to Sgt. Barfoot.

Leaving the prisoners for his support squad to pick up, he proceeded to mop up positions in the immediate area, capturing more prisoners and bringing his total count to 17. Later that day, after he had reorganized his men and consolidated the newly captured ground, the enemy launched a fierce armored counterattack directly at his platoon positions. Securing a bazooka, Sgt. Barfoot took up an exposed position directly in front of 3 advancing Mark VI tanks. From a distance of 75 yards his first shot destroyed the track of the leading tank, effectively disabling it, while the other 2 changed direction toward the flank.

As the crew of the disabled tank dismounted, Sgt. Barfoot killed 3 of them with his tommygun. He continued onward into enemy terrain and destroyed a recently abandoned German fieldpiece with a demolition charge placed in the breech. While returning to his platoon position, Sgt. Barfoot, though greatly fatigued by his Herculean efforts, assisted 2 of his seriously wounded men 1,700 yards to a position of safety. Sgt. Barfoot's extraordinary heroism, demonstration of magnificent valor, and aggressive determination in the face of pointblank fire are a perpetual inspiration to his fellow soldiers.

Dumping Drop Tanks with a 1911

Landing a Lockheed F-80C with a full drop tank on one wing and an empty one on the other is nigh impossible. Military pilots are not often as well versed in the sidearms they carry as they are in the aircraft they fly. When a full tank refused to jettison, Lieutenant Colonel Alfred D’Amario found a solution.

"Finally, it dawned on me that I could reach the gun with my left hand. I jacked a round into the chamber, opened the canopy, and, with the gun in my right hand and flying the airplane with my left, I tried to point the gun at the front end of the left tip tank, far enough forward so as not to hit the wing. I pulled the trigger—and missed.

I was so anxious I forgot that a semi-automatic pistol reloads after each shot. I manually jacked another round into the chamber while ejecting a round over my shoulder. The only way I could hit the tank was to lean down and aim along the barrel of the gun. I put my head down and sighted at the widest part of the tank and about two feet from its front.

The bullet punched a hole through the near side of the tank and went out the other side. I quickly squeezed off two more rounds. Now I had six holes in the tank, and I could see fuel streaming out."

"I started to put the gun back into the holster, but now it was loaded, and I could accidentally shoot myself. While I was trying to figure where I could safely stash it, I held it in my right hand—the same one holding the control stick, so the gun was pointed at the instrument panel. Great, I thought, now I’ll accidentally shoot the panel. I moved the gun to my left hand, and the tower officer called again. I had to depress the microphone button on the throttle with my left hand and the gun was in the way. Finally I said The hell with it, opened the canopy, pointed the gun out, and fired until the clip was empty."

You can read more about the account here.

A Matter of Appreciation

Imagine serving your country, losing both legs, traveling on your own dime to get rehab, and then having your firearm confiscated and being charged and jailed for the simple act of possessing it, in the country you lost your limbs defending. Imagine having the hope of walking again stripped away because you chose to carry the means to defend yourself. That is the outrage that happened to USMC Corporal Melroy H. Cort.

On his third tour in Iraq, Cpl. Melroy H. Cort was severely injured by an IED that cost him both of his legs. He was traveling in his privately owned automobile to Walter Reed Army Medical Center when he had a flat tire. Unable to change the wheel himself, he and his wife limped the car to a service station. There, he removed his handgun from the glove compartment and secured it underneath his jacket. Cort had an Ohio CCW license, and was anticipating an extended stay at Walter Reed. He had been advised by his commanding officer to transport the firearm with him to Walter Reed and have it secured in the armory there.

Unfortunately, a bystander saw the young black man secure the handgun underneath his olive drab jacket. Law enforcement arrived, handcuffed the wheelchair bound man, and placed him in jail. He was charged with three counts of carrying a pistol without a license, possession of an unregistered firearm and possession of ammunition. Felonies.

The first impact of a felony conviction for most gun owners is loss of gun ownership rights. For this young Marine, such a conviction meant the loss of the medical benefits that would allow him to walk again. The stakes were high. Cort's public defender advised him to plead guilty. Another day another dollar for the court appointed attorney.

Fearless in the face of overwhelming odds, Cpl. Melroy H. Cort fired the lackluster lawyer, and took on the role of defending himself. He would be judged by a jury of people not quite his peers. Cort tried to tell the jury his story, how he enlisted in the Marines after achieving a business degree from Wright State University in Ohio. He tried to tell the jury how he was on his third tour of Iraq when he lost his legs in the service of their country. Judge Lynn Leibovitz declared the testimony inadmissible.

The arresting officers described how Cort surrendered peacefully and how he behaved cooperatively. Although they may have seen a black man with a gun at the time of the arrest, I can not help but think Cort now had the officer's profound respect. But would the jury?

On January 13, 2008, a jury acquitted Corporal Melroy H. Cort of all felonious charges. He was convicted of possession of ammunition, a misdemeanor. He would keep his medical benefits and the chance to walk again. Cort was sentenced to time already served. "I had to fight for myself..... I wasn't going to plead guilty and lose everything," said Cort. He and his wife are returning to Columbus Ohio, where she works in real estate. Cort plans to appeal the misdemeanor conviction.

It is my sincere hope that Corporal Cort applies the same fearlessness to rehabilitation with two new legs. Semper Fi.

Taking Chance

Watch it on HBO. February 2009.

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, 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 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 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 except 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 article was written by Lieutenant Colonel M.R. Strobl, USMC who is assigned to MCCDC Quantico, Virginia and served as the officer who escorted the remains of PFC C. Phelps USMC from Dover AFB, Delaware to his home.

Say Thank You.

The Gratitude Campaign

Directive from the Commandant

In a message to all Marines worldwide, the Commandant recently informed his troops that Marines were to cease and desist from using the age old term "Squid" to refer to members of the US Navy.

"Use of this word to refer to a member of the Navy is totally inappropriate," the Commandant said.

"According to Webster's Dictionary," the Commandant's message continues, "Squid is defined as 'a higher form of marine life.' Obviously, we must hide the truth when referring to Sailors."

They finally figured it out.

Observe Memorial Day. The squids, jarheads, grunts, airheads and puddle pilots deserve it.

Thank You.

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As we place out the flags this Memorial Day, let us not forget that the war is not over once our boys get back home.

To Jesse

Dear Jesse,

My wife, a friend of your mother's, has been asking me to write to you for several months now. So far I have resisted. I really did not know what to say.

You see Jesse, I was over there in 1990-1991. I did not come home to the States to receive a hero's welcome like so many troops did. Instead, I sailed back to Japan, stopping at Pattaya Beach and Subic Bay to burn off pent up frustration before stepping back onto the land of the rising sun. I remember Green Peace protesting our presence in Japan as we reentered Yokosuka Bay. I finally returned back to the States in November of 1991, to find our nation still wrapped up in a patriotic fervor. I was actually asked to ride on the back of a convertible in my small town's Christmas parade like a damned prom queen or something. I refused the invitation. I was used to free beer from the vets in Perth Australia, but bar patrons not allowing me to buy my own brew in my home town was a new experience for me. It was nuts.

We were fortunate in 1991. While the "Gulf War sickness" has affected some, and others suffer from PTSD, relatively few Americans lost their lives or were physically maimed. Many of us thought we would sail the Gulf like the Flying Dutchman, never going to war at all. One of my favorite photos is of a friend holding a sign that read "Bush Ain't Got the Balls." I remember being placed on the day crew, and awakening from a deep sleep the night of January 17, as the steam powered catapults began to send incessant heavy booming shudders into the bowels of our ship. Our air campaign had begun. I remember 'round the clock flight ops, and I remember going ashore on detachment. I remember how it felt to not know if you would live, die, or never make it back home in either condition. And I cannot imagine what you may be feeling.

Our little war was not easy, but it was a damned sight easier than yours. In a very real sense, we failed to finish a job that you are presently cleaning up. Many folks may not understand that, but the reality is there, and the guilt I feel for leaving the job for you and your comrades to finish is something I was forced to accept.

When Al Quaida attacked the U.S. on September 11, I found myself on the way to a recruiter's office. As I pulled up in the parking lot, I realized........I had become old, fat, soft. I now had a wife and little girl at home. September 11 was the day I realized I had become an old man. I did not go into the recruiter's office. I drove away to let someone else clean up my mess. The guilt of that action still haunts me at times.

My heart is over there with you Jesse. How I wish I still had the opportunity to participate in the history making events that you now possess. Believe it or not, your life will never again be as good, or as bad. The memories you will carry from these moments will affect the way you conduct yourself for the rest of your life. The mental fortitude and sureness of self that you will return home with is something nobody can ever take from you. No matter what. Just today, I had a physician try to chew me out. Physicians can be little tyrants in their dealings with nurses. I just smirked. Then I told him it looked to me like he had a problem, and I walked away and did my job. I had long ago been chewed on by much better men, and his little stink would not merit me wiping it off the bottom of my shoe.

You may become disillusioned with the way the media and some people in the States are starting to think Jesse. Do not let it sway you. You know your job, they do not. They are nobody to judge you. The United States will still be waiting for you when you return. Your family will still love you. The freedoms and opportunities you are fighting to protect will still be yours for the taking. The ability to tell your grandchildren you defended their future is something nobody can take from you. But you must come home. Take care of your buddies and yourself, and make it home. When you do, I'll be the grizzled old vet wanting to shake your hand, saying thank you, and not allowing you to buy your own beer. One day, when another generation of young men go off to war, and you are an old man, you will know how I feel.

Until that time, all I can do is proudly salute you and say thank you for your service. Thank you Jesse. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Xavier

MOH Recipient Petty Officer 2nd Class Michael A. Monsoor

Arlington, Va. — The grenade hit him in the chest and bounced to the ground. Petty Officer 2nd Class Michael A. Monsoor could have gotten out of harm’s way before it went off, but three other Navy SEALs and eight Iraqi soldiers could not, according to Monsoor’s Navy biography. So Monsoor, 25, dove on the grenade to shield the others from the blast.

Because of his quick thinking, the other SEALs and Iraqi soldiers survived after the grenade exploded, but Monsoor did not. He died 30 minutes later. On Monday, the White House announced that Monsoor would receive the Medal of Honor for his actions on Sept. 29, 2006, in Ramadi, Iraq. His parents, George and Sally Monsoor, will receive the medal on his behalf at an April 8 ceremony at the White House, according to the Navy.

Monsoor embodied the “SEAL ethos,” said the head of Naval Special Warfare Command in San Diego said in a Navy news release.

“He led by example and protected his teammates to the very end,” said Rear Adm. Joseph Kernan in the news release. “But more than that, Mike was a brother in our family. We will honor him every day by upholding the values he shared with us as SEALs.”

During his tour in Iraq, Monsoor served as a heavy weapons machine gunner for his platoon and a SEAL communicator, according to his biography. On 15 operations, he carried his communications gear, machine gun and ammunition, weighing more than 100 pounds. “He bore the weight without a single complaint, even the midst of the 130 degree Western Iraqi summer,” his biography said.

Monsoor had previously been awarded the Silver Star for rescuing another SEAL who had been shot in the leg in May 2006. “He ran out into the street with another SEAL, shot cover fire and dragged his comrade to safety while enemy bullets kicked up the concrete at their feet,” his biography said. Monsoor will become the fourth servicemember — each killed in the line of duty — to receive the nation’s highest military award for the war on terrorism.

By Jeff Schogol, Stars and Stripes

Prince Harry

I don't usually do paparazzi blogging, but recent news has revealed that Britain's Prince Harry is a man. He has gone to the front lines of Afghanistan to serve his country while others in Britain sleep peaceably in their beds, holding their manhood cheap. Harry has even gone so far as to say he doesn't particularly like Britain with it's bands of press vultures picking at his hide. He prefers to be with his men.

This is not uncommon among men who have tasted the simplicity and unique clarity that comes with warfare. Leaving the complexity of society and all the unnecessary crap associated with the media generated reality soap opera existence that is foisted upon us is truly enlightening.

I read with sadness Harry's plight as he was ordered to leave the theater of operations after the story of his presence broke over the internet. Then I noticed Harry's cap. Yep. I might just have to send him a Molon Labe cap. Good man Harry.

Veterans Day

Happy Birthday Jarheads US Marines

It's enough to make even a salty squid proud.

Medal of Honor

Lieutenant Michael Murphy, USN was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor today.

Summary of Action
Operation Redwing
June 28, 2005

On June 28, 2005, deep behind enemy lines east of Asadabad in the Hindu Kush of Afghanistan, a very committed four-man Navy SEAL team was conducting a reconnaissance mission at the unforgiving altitude of approximately 10,000 feet. The SEALs, Lt. Michael Murphy, Gunner’s Mate 2nd Class (SEAL) Danny Dietz, Sonar Technician 2nd Class (SEAL) Matthew Axelson and Hospital Corpsman 2nd Class (SEAL) Marcus Luttrell had a vital task. The four SEALs were scouting Ahmad Shah – a terrorist in his mid-30s who grew up in the adjacent mountains just to the south.

Under the assumed name Muhammad Ismail, Shah led a guerrilla group known to locals as the "Mountain Tigers" that had aligned with the Taliban and other militant groups close to the Pakistani border. The SEAL mission was compromised when the team was spotted by local nationals, who presumably reported its presence and location to the Taliban.

A fierce firefight erupted between the four SEALs and a much larger enemy force of more than 50 anti-coalition militia. The enemy had the SEALs outnumbered. They also had terrain advantage. They launched a well-organized, three-sided attack on the SEALs. The firefight continued relentlessly as the overwhelming militia forced the team deeper into a ravine.

Trying to reach safety, the four men, now each wounded, began bounding down the mountain's steep sides, making leaps of 20 to 30 feet. Approximately 45 minutes into the fight, pinned down by overwhelming forces, Dietz, the communications petty officer, sought open air to place a distress call back to the base. But before he could, he was shot in the hand, the blast shattering his thumb.

Despite the intensity of the firefight and suffering grave gunshot wounds himself, Murphy is credited with risking his own life to save the lives of his teammates. Murphy, intent on making contact with headquarters, but realizing this would be impossible in the extreme terrain where they were fighting, unhesitatingly and with complete disregard for his own life moved into the open, where he could gain a better position to transmit a call to get help for his men.

Moving away from the protective mountain rocks, he knowingly exposed himself to increased enemy gunfire. This deliberate and heroic act deprived him of cover and made him a target for the enemy. While continuing to be fired upon, Murphy made contact with the SOF Quick Reaction Force at Bagram Air Base and requested assistance. He calmly provided his unit’s location and the size of the enemy force while requesting immediate support for his team. At one point he was shot in the back causing him to drop the transmitter. Murphy picked it back up, completed the call and continued firing at the enemy who was closing in. Severely wounded, Lt. Murphy returned to his cover position with his men and continued the battle.

An MH-47 Chinook helicopter, with eight additional SEALs and eight Army Night Stalkers aboard, was sent is as part of an extraction mission to pull out the four embattled SEALs. The MH-47 was escorted by heavily-armored, Army attack helicopters. Entering a hot combat zone, attack helicopters are used initially to neutralize the enemy and make it safer for the lightly-armored, personnel-transport helicopter to insert.

The heavy weight of the attack helicopters slowed the formation’s advance prompting the MH-47 to outrun their armored escort. They knew the tremendous risk going into an active enemy area in daylight, without their attack support, and without the cover of night. Risk would, of course, be minimized if they put the helicopter down in a safe zone. But knowing that their warrior brothers were shot, surrounded and severely wounded, the rescue team opted to directly enter the oncoming battle in hopes of landing on brutally hazardous terrain.

As the Chinook raced to the battle, a rocket-propelled grenade struck the helicopter, killing all 16 men aboard.

On the ground and nearly out of ammunition, the four SEALs, Murphy, Luttrell, Dietz and Axelson, continued the fight. By the end of the two-hour gunfight that careened through the hills and over cliffs, Murphy, Axelson and Dietz had been killed. An estimated 35 Taliban were also dead.

The fourth SEAL, Luttrell, was blasted over a ridge by a rocket propelled grenade and was knocked unconscious. Regaining consciousness some time later, Luttrell managed to escape – badly injured – and slowly crawl away down the side of a cliff. Dehydrated, with a bullet wound to one leg, shrapnel embedded in both legs, three vertebrae cracked; the situation for Luttrell was grim. Rescue helicopters were sent in, but he was too weak and injured to make contact. Traveling seven miles on foot he evaded the enemy for nearly a day. Gratefully, local nationals came to his aid, carrying him to a nearby village where they kept him for three days. The Taliban came to the village several times demanding that Luttrell be turned over to them. The villagers refused. One of the villagers made his way to a Marine outpost with a note from Luttrell, and U.S. forces launched a massive operation that rescued him from enemy territory on July 2.

By his undaunted courage, intrepid fighting spirit and inspirational devotion to his men in the face of certain death, Lt. Murphy was able to relay the position of his unit, an act that ultimately led to the rescue of Luttrell and the recovery of the remains of the three who were killed in the battle.

This was the worst single-day U.S. Forces death toll since Operation Enduring Freedom began nearly six years ago. It was the single largest loss of life for Naval Special Warfare since World War II.

The Naval Special Warfare (NSW) community will forever remember June 28, 2005 and the heroic efforts and sacrifices of our special operators. We hold with reverence the ultimate sacrifice that they made while engaged in that fierce fire fight on the front lines of the global war on terrorism (GWOT).

-NSW-

US Navy SEAL Team ~Operation Red Wing

Lt. (SEAL) Michael P. Murphy, 29, of Patchogue, N.Y.
Gunner’s Mate 2nd Class (SEAL) Danny P. Dietz, 25, of Littleton, Colo.
Sonar Technician (Surface) 2nd Class (SEAL) Matthew G. Axelson, 29, of Cupertino, Calif.
Hospital Corpsman 2nd Class (SEAL) Marcus Luttrell ~ survivor

US Army Rangers ~ Rescue Team

Staff Sgt. Shamus O. Goare, 29, of Danville, Ohio.
Chief Warrant Officer Corey J. Goodnature, 35, of Clarks Grove, Minn.
Sgt. Kip A. Jacoby, 21, of Pompano Beach, Fla.
Sgt. 1st Class Marcus V. Muralles, 33, of Shelbyville, Ind.
Master Sgt. James W. Ponder III, 36, of Franklin, Tenn.
Maj. Stephen C. Reich, 34, of Washington Depot, Conn.
Sgt. 1st Class Michael L. Russell, 31, of Stafford, Va.
Chief Warrant Officer Chris J. Scherkenbach, 40, of Jacksonville, Fla.

US Navy SEALs ~ Rescue Team

Chief Fire Controlman (SEAL) Jacques J. Fontan, 36, of New Orleans, La.
Senior Chief Information Systems Technician (SEAL) Daniel R. Healy, 36, of Exeter, N.H.
Lt. Cmdr. (SEAL) Erik S. Kristensen, 33, of San Diego, Calif.
Electronics Technician 1st Class (SEAL) Jeffery A. Lucas, 33, of Corbett, Ore.
Lt. (SEAL) Michael M. McGreevy Jr., 30, of Portville, N.Y.
Quartermaster 2nd Class (SEAL) James Suh, 28, of Deerfield Beach, Fla.
Machinist Mate 2nd Class (SEAL) Eric S. Patton, 22, of Boulder City, Nev.
Hospital Corpsman 1st Class (SEAL) Jeffrey S. Taylor, 30, of Midway, W.Va.

Better men this world will never know.
Rest in peace.

And She Called

She called...

Blacks, Whites...wait
African Americans and Caucasians, Asians, excuse me.
Vietnamese, Philipenes, Koreans and Jamaicans or
Haitans, waitin' Hispanics y'all.

Please be paitent
Mexican, Puerto Ricans, Venezualean, Cuban, Dominican, Panamanian Democrats
I beg your pardon, you partied with the late, great Reagan?
Republican, Independent, Christian, Catholic,
Methodist, Baptist, 7th Day Adventist, 5 Percenters,
Hindu, Sunii Muslim, Brothers and Sisters who never seen the New York city
skyline when the twin towers still existed.
But still She called.

From the bowels of Ground Zero she sent this 911 distress signal.
Because She was in desperate need of a hero,
and didn't have time to decipher what to call 'em,
so she called 'em all Her children.
The children of the stars and bars who needed to know nothing more than the fact that she called.
The fact that someone attempted to harm us
this daughter who covered us all with her loving arms.
And now these arms are sprawled across New York City streets.
A smoke filled lung, a silt covered faced,
and a solitary tear poured out of her cheek.
Her singed garments carpets Pennsylvania Avenue and the Pentagon was under her feet.
As she began to talk, she began to cough up small particles of debris
and said, "I am America, and I'm calling on the land of the free."
So they answered.

All personal differences set to the side
because right now there was no time to decide which state building the Confederate flag should fly over,
and which trimester the embryo is considered alive,
or on our monetary units, and which God we should confide.
You see, someone attempted to choke the voice
of the one who gave us the right for choice,
and now she was callin.
And somebody had to answer.
Who was going to answer?

So they did.
Stern faces and chisled chins.
Devoted women and disciplined men,
who rose from the ashes like a pheonix
and said "don't worry, we'll stand in your defense."
They tightened up their bootlaces
and said goodbye to loved ones, family and friends.
They tried to bombard them with the "hold on", "wait-a-minute's", and "what-if's".
And "Daddy, where you goin?".
And, "Mommy, why you leavin?".
And they merely kissed them on their foreheads and said "Don't worry, I have my reasons.
You see, to this country I pledged my allegience
to defend it against all enemies foreign and domestic.
So as long as I'm breathin, I'll run though hell-fire,
meet the enemy on the front lines,
look him directly in his face,
stare directly in his eyes and scream,
"I AM AMERICA! WE WILL NOT BE TERRORIZED!
WE WILL NOT BE TERRORIZED!
I REFUSE TO BE AFRAID!
I'LL FIGHT YOU ANY COUNTRY, ANY CONTINENT, ANY TERRAIN.
I'LL FIGHT TO MY LAST BREATH!"

And if by chance death is my fate,
pin my medals upon my chest,
and throw Old Glory on my grave.
But, don't y'all cry for me.
You see, my Father's prepared a place.
I'll be a part of his Holy army standing a watch at the Pearly Gates.
Because freedom was never free.
POW's, and fallen soldiers
all paid the ultimate sacrafice
along side veterans who put themselves in harms way.
Risking their lives and limbs just to hold up democracy's weight,
but still standing on them broken appendages anytime the National Anthem was played.
You see, these were the brave warriors that gave me the right
to say that I'm Black. Or white.

Or

African American or Caucasian,
I'm Asian, excuse me.
I'm Vietnamese, Philipene, Korean, or Jamaican.
I'm Haitan, Hispanic

Y'all, Please be paitent.
I'm Mexican, Puerto Rican, Venezualean, Cuban,
Dominican, Panamanian, Democrat
I beg your pardon, you see I partied with the late, great Reagan.
I'm Republican, Independent, Christian, Catholic,
Methodist, Baptist, 7th Day Adventist, 5 Percenters,
Hindu, Sunii Muslim,

Brothers and Sisters We're just Americans.
So with that I say
"Thank You" to the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines,
for preserving my rights
to live and die for this life
and paying the ultimate price for me to be...FREE!

SSGT Lawrence E. Dean II USMC


Hat tip to JR

Who is this Marine? Take as look at Blackwing 5. Hoorah!

Marcus Luttrell: Lone Survivor

"It was the stupidest, most Southern-fried, lame-brained decision I ever made in my life to vote to let them go ... I actually cast a vote that I knew would sign our death warrant."
-- Marcus Luttrell, from "Lone Survivor"



Marcus Luttrell and his three buddies had to make an impossible decision. Afghani goat herders disrupted their secret mission to track a Taliban leader. Killing the goat herders would be a violation of the Rules of Engagement. Holding them would reveal their position. Letting them go would likely bring the Taliban upon them. Luttrell, who’s riveting new book ‘Lone Survivor: The Eyewitness Account of Operation Redwing and the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10’ is fast top seller, talks to Breitbart.tv in front of the U.S. Capitol about courage, the consequence of decisions, and the meaning of his Navy Cross.

More

Memorial Day

National Guard Among the Looters after Katrina

Twenty-one soldiers in the Louisiana Army National Guard have been court martialed for looting some of the very stores they were assigned to protect during the aftermath of the hurricane Katrina. Brigadier General John Basilica states, "We are very disappointed in these few because they breached a sacred trust, as we're there to help and support the citizens and they should not have taken advantage of their position, and they did." Over half of the guardsmen charged belonged to the 527th Engineer battalion of Ruston, Louisiana.

All twenty-one, including eleven officers were court martialed, and received separate sentences. Twelve received bad conduct discharges. Fifteen, including some who were given BCDs received a reduction in rank, while fourteen were given jail time.

One Guardsman, former Private Trey Battaglia, who was not charged with wrongdoing, recalled being on foot patrol in Chalmette, Louisiana. Outside Chalmette Shooting Specialties L.L.C. he heard a disturbance and found three soldiers looting the gun store. States Battaglia, "You know, we're lookin' for looters--that's what we're out doing, so I went to go scope it out, and when I arrived, I saw my platoon sergeant and a couple of my squad leaders rummaging through the weapons, the guns." Battaglia stated he saw Sergeants Patrick Platt, Christopher Barlett, and Matthew Maggio each take firearms from the empty gun store. All three sergeants were punished for misconduct. Others court martialed were Jeremy Foster, Chad Evans, James E. Holmes, Prater White, Ron Ellison, Christopher Figaro, Jeff Holloway, Theodore Chapman, Joseph Dunn, Michael Wohlfarth, Leopold LeBlanc, Jerrod Cooper, Johnny Boyette, Corby Moore, Ernest Miles, George Babers, and Glen Wallace.

Link

The Best & Brightest

LTC Randolph C. White Jr. delivers the graduation speech for the newest batch of Infantrymen to complete training at Ft. Benning, Georgia, on April 21st, 2006.