What Memorial Day Means to
a Veteran
By
T.J.
WoodardAmericanThinker.com
When I was a young
seven-year-old, I noticed my neighbor's mother crying. I learned that
her brother-in-law, a helicopter pilot, had been killed in Vietnam. I
felt bad about it, but to me, it was just a story.
When I was
a high school student, my Uncle Bob, a police lieutenant, sat in our
living room and told us of a police officer who had been killed in the
line of duty. I remember Uncle Bob sitting there, wiping tears from his
eyes as he explained the officer's actions that day. Uncle Bob was on
the scene and was about to take command when the shooting occurred. "It
was a hell of a brave thing he did," my uncle reported. Uncle Bob's
story was of valor and sacrifice, but still only a story to me.
Sacrifice became real for me many years later in Iraq. I was the
executive officer (second in command) of a newly formed task force --
Task Force Tacoma. We had the mission of preventing mortar attacks on
the largest American air base in the country, the security "outside the
wire" for 20,000 Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, Marines, and civilians. It
was a difficult mission. The area was known as "mortaritaville" because
of the constant threat of attack by rocket and mortar fire.
The
reality of the war hit the task force on 22 June 2004. Alpha Company,
579th Engineers, California Army National
Guard, were conducting search and seizure operations north of the base.
Most of the men were dismounted, walking and searching for hidden
weapons caches. A company of Iraqi National Guard (ING) troops were also
on the mission.
Shortly
before 1100 hours, the radio crackled with "Contact! Small arms fire!"
The gunfire was close to the base's fence line, and we heard the very
brief exchange. Our ING "allies," the very people we were there to help
rebuild their country, had ambushed part of the patrol. Our scout
platoon provided overwatch. The scouts reported something that stopped
every heart in the command post. "We have one KIA and two wounded. We
are evacuating to the north gate. Get that gate open so we can get to
the CASH [Combat Support Hospital]." We did so, and the patrol quickly
got our men to the hospital.
It was
too late for First Lieutenant Andre Tyson. Twenty minutes later, we
learned that Sergeant Patrick McCaffrey also died of his wounds.
Specialist Bruce Himmelright was critically wounded. In an instant, the
reality of war hit three hundred men and women. I spent the rest of the
day coordinating the actions of the quick reaction force, ensuring the
mortar platoon was ready to fire to support any further enemy contact,
calling brigade headquarters to inform them of the casualties, and
coordinating with 1st Battalion, 77th
Armor to the north, and the 2nd Brigade
Combat Team headquarters. I worked nonstop until 2300 hours (11 pm) that
night.
Our world
was shattered in an instant. That night, after the graves registration
team did their job, nearly the entire battalion assembled on the ramp at
the airfield to put our men, our friends and comrades, on a C-130
aircraft for their last trip home. It was a somber experience.
Events
calmed down for the next six weeks. In early August, the commander's
gunner (the man who mans the .50 caliber machine gun on his vehicle),
Specialist Donald Roy McCune II, asked to go on a patrol with the scout
platoon. He told the battalion commander, "I like working in the
headquarters section, Sir, but we just don't go on patrols often enough.
I need to get out there in the field." He was volunteering for his last
mission.
Just
before 1800 hours (6 pm), the radios came alive. "Shawnee 6 hit an IED
[improvised explosive device -- Shawnee 6 was the radio call sign for
the scout platoon leader]!" Three 155-millimeter artillery shells were
wired together for detonation. The explosion caused a crater eight feet
wide and four feet deep. The HMMWV (High Mobility Multi-purpose Wheeled
Vehicle) was thrown in the air and landed upside-down next to the
crater. The engine of the vehicle was destroyed -- everything forward of
the engine block was gone. A patrol found a tire from the truck 300
meters from the site of the explosion.
The
blast broke First Lieutenant Tim Ozmer's back. He crawled from the
truck. Specialist John West was critically wounded, hanging upside-down
by his seat belt. Sergeant Robert Johnson, who was not seriously
wounded, pulled his crew from the vehicle. Specialist McCune suffered
serious internal injuries when he was thrown from the vehicle.
Another
long night of work followed. At the hospital, I met the remaining scout
platoon men and briefed them on their fellow soldiers' injuries. I had
never felt such strong emotions before in my life -- the desire to kill
the enemy, the pain of seeing healthy young men broken and bleeding, and
the exhaustion from conducting one mission after another after another
in a very stressful environment.
In
November we lost Sergeant First Class Michael Ottolini, who was also
killed by an improvised explosive device. Mike never knew what hit him
-- he was here one second, gone the next.
As an
executive officer, I did not experience much action as a member of the
few patrols I did go on. My job entailed running the command post, not
being in the field. I engaged the enemy on occasion, but I did not see
the amount of action the rest of the unit did. However, I often met the
helicopter at the hospital to assist in offloading the wounded. On one
occasion, Alpha Company had struck another IED. Most seriously wounded
was Private First Class James Huff, a young man who had arrived in
country about two weeks earlier. Huff bled profusely from a wound in his
side. I grabbed one corner of the litter and with three others rushed
him into the emergency room. As we transferred him to a table in the ER,
PFC Huff's blood spilled all over the floor. I slipped in it and nearly
fell. Not being a medic, I knew it was time to get out of the way and
let the professionals work. I backed up to the waiting area nearby.
I stood
there, watching the medical team work on PFC Huff. They were proficient,
working quickly, and soon had things under control. Fortunately, the
hospital had been augmented with some excellent Australian Army medical
personnel. A young Australian corporal was busy cleaning up the blood
trail on the floor left by the wounded men. When finished, she turned to
me and said, "Sir, there is nothing more that you can do. Can I get you
a cup of coffee?"
I about
fell over. This young Australian soldier saw that I also needed some
"attention." I politely thanked her and told her I knew where the coffee
was, and I was sure she had better things to do than get a major a cup
of coffee. She smiled and went back to work. I went to the coffee pot.
Lieutenant Tim Ozmer would go to Germany, have surgery, and his back
would heal. He would return to Iraq later in 2004 and again in 2009. He
is still serving in the Army at the rank of Captain. He has the skill
and experience to go far in the Army.
Unable to
get information through the chain of command while in Iraq, I contacted
a friend of mine, a nurse, stationed at Walter Reed. She told me John
West was physically doing as well as could be expected, but would often
wake up thinking he is still hanging upside down from his seat belt in
that HMMWV. John West is a disabled veteran now, but he can walk and
talk and has all his arms and legs. John is a brilliant young man who
will do well in a civilian career.
Sergeant First Class Ottolini was the father of five grown children. He
had come out of retirement from the Army when his unit was mobilized. He
would not let his men go into harm's way without him. He is missed by
all who knew him.
Bruce
Himmelright lives in California. He testified against one of the men who
shot him through a video teleconference for a trial in Iraq, after one
of the men had been captured. Bruce is a well-adjusted "wounded
warrior."
James Huff
healed from his wounds. I last saw him at the commissary at Fort Lewis,
Washington at a voter registration table. He immediately asked me "are
you registered to vote, sir? You have to vote, sir." He continued joking
with me and other soldiers.
Specialist
Donald McCune would die of wounds in Germany. His loss hit the unit
hard. Don had just celebrated his twentieth birthday. He was a tall,
skinny kid with a silly grin who reminded me of my own son, only three
years younger.
In
2006, I visited Specialist McCune's mother, Darcy, in Michigan. I was on
leave for my parents' 50th anniversary, but I
made a point of stopping to see her. We met at a local restaurant, then
drove to the cemetery, where emplaced was a wonderful marker for Don.
When I saw it, all I could do was weep. My wife and I had a nice chat
with Darcy. We placed flowers there and watched the deer walk around the
beautiful cemetery.
The next
morning, my wife asked me if I had been in the command post when Don was
killed. I said, "Yes, why?" She replied, "Because you were talking on
the radio last night in your sleep." I did not realize I carried any
"wounds" of my own. Back at Fort Lewis, where I was stationed, another
unit was conducting exercises near the house. At about one in the
morning, a burst of machine gun fire would wake me and my wife.
Instantly I was on my feet, looking for my helmet and body armor and
ready to run to the command post. It took me a moment to realize I was
in my home, safe and sound, and the gunfire I heard was from an exercise
-- blank ammunition -- as another unit was preparing to deploy.
To many
Americans, Memorial Day remains a day of stories. Stories about heroes.
Stories about valor. Stories about sacrifice. But to veterans like me,
Memorial Day is about men and women, friends no longer with us, feelings
of emptiness. It's about men like Mike Ottolini and Patrick McCaffrey,
Don McCune and Andre Tyson. But it is also about men like Tim Ozmer,
John West, James Huff, and Bruce Himmelright. It's about the heroism of
Sergeant Rob Johnson, about the incredible things the medics did to keep
men alive.
To a
veteran like me, Memorial Day is about people. It is about people who
gave their all, people who gave of themselves and people who loved their
country and their friends more than themselves. It is about those who
died, those who suffered horrific wounds, and those who have serious
wounds that we cannot see by looking at them.
It is about
people who will never be exactly like they were before they went to war.
It is about heroes.
TJ Woodard is a retired
Army Lieutenant Colonel. During Operation Iraqi Freedom he was awarded
the Bronze Star Medal and the Combat Action Badge. He is a 40% disabled
veteran.