Monday, May 25, 2009
MEMORIAL DAY 2009
This week, I got a call from a good friend. He was trying to make sense of the death of a fellow Air Force officer. On May 20, 2009, Lt Roslyn L. Schulte, 25, was killed by a roadside bomb near Kabul, Afghanistan. The pain in my dear friend's voice, the questions he asked, and his anger evoked memories that I discuss quite infrequently. However, since it is Memorial Day, I find it fitting to honor my entire military family, especially those on the ground in Iraq and Afghanistan.
On May 30, 2001, I threw my hat in the air with 887 other graduates of the United States Air Force Academy. In a pre-9/11 environment, we were all bright shiny new lieutenants off to happily serve in a time of relative peace. However, 9/11 changed our lives forever, and the once distant concept of war quickly became reality.
The summer of 2003, I was deployed to Bagram AB, Afghanistan to support A-10's. This ugly fighter, the red-headed stepchild of the Air Force, is a flying titanium bathtub that is a hero to the soldiers on the ground. I will never forget the numerous evenings standing on the flight line, silent, and at attention as a flag draped coffin was loaded onto an aircraft. But, this is what you see in movies. One nondescript day, I was rushing to chow hall after a workout to grab a hot meal, and a young soldier approached me, "Ma'am, are you with the A-10's?" I replied yes. "I just want you to know, I was out there last week on the border. I just got back from the field. We called you guys in and you all took out the whole (expletive deleted) ridge. I love that plane, ma'am. I always feel good when I know it's on the way. Thank you." I stood there silent. I was frozen with that silly grin that often hides my nervousness. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. No, don't thank me. I thought. Thank you. That day, an 18 year old soldier helped me to begin to understand the sacrifices of those on the ground. War had become personal.
May 30, 2005 should have been a good day for the US Air Force Academy Class of 2001. It was Memorial Day, and we pinned on the rank of Captain. On that fateful day, two of our classmates, Capt. Derek Argel, 28, and Capt. Jeremy Fresques, 26, were killed in the crash of small Iraqi reconnaissance plane. Both were Special Tactics Officers (Combat Controllers). I knew Derek only by reputation. Who wouldn't remember the towering star athlete that struck fear in any underclassmen in his midst? Called "Mr. Indestructible" by his fellow squadron members, Derek towered over the cadet wing. At 6'6", 4% body fat, and with an infamous smirk-smile, I remember hearing Derek's booming voice "convincing" underclassmen to hide all weakness. I was happy not to be in their shoes. Jeremy was a friend of mine. He was in the squadron next to me, and I have fond memories of a weekend escape trip with a group of close friends to Denver. Jeremy was a quieter force; the one who carried his classmates' rifles the last two miles of a squadron run, who took heat from upperclassmen for something another classmate did, and never complained. How trivial that all seems now, yet it is that same pure soul and steel grit that fueled both Derek and Jeremy through the rigors of combat. We were so young at the Academy, but on the day we all became Captains, I realized that we were not too young to die for our country.
Exactly two years later, on May 30, 2007, I was serving in Kandahar, Afghanistan under an 82nd Airborne led Army Task Force. I remember sitting in the Task Force briefing room then walking outside to watch our helicopters take off. It was standard, but still surreal: young soldiers, rucksacks, weapons, helicopters, blazing heat, the smell of fuel, dust. I watched them take off. I rushed back to my operations center. Not even an hour later, five U.S. soldiers along with a British soldier and Canadian soldier were killed when one of our CH-47 Chinook helicopter was shot down by Taliban fighters in the Helmand province. I couldn't believe it. It was our bird. I just sat in the same room as those men. We watched on live feeds as 25,000 lbs of steel lurched, shuddered, and fell out of the sky. Although I could not show my anger and frustration, a part of my soul died that night.
Whenever I deploy, I spend most of my time on base "behind the wire." I feel guilty when people say, "Thank you for your service." It is an honor to serve my military family. I want to say, "Please, thank them, the soldiers on the ground." So this weekend, my heart stands still for my dear military family, for all those that have sacrificed more than I can comprehend and for the families of our fallen.
On this Memorial Day, please pause and remember the sacrifices of those that have set aside hopes, dreams, and personal interests to answer a higher calling.
Make the most of your freedom.
Thank you. Peace be with you.
"War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself." John Stuart Mill
On May 30, 2001, I threw my hat in the air with 887 other graduates of the United States Air Force Academy. In a pre-9/11 environment, we were all bright shiny new lieutenants off to happily serve in a time of relative peace. However, 9/11 changed our lives forever, and the once distant concept of war quickly became reality.
The summer of 2003, I was deployed to Bagram AB, Afghanistan to support A-10's. This ugly fighter, the red-headed stepchild of the Air Force, is a flying titanium bathtub that is a hero to the soldiers on the ground. I will never forget the numerous evenings standing on the flight line, silent, and at attention as a flag draped coffin was loaded onto an aircraft. But, this is what you see in movies. One nondescript day, I was rushing to chow hall after a workout to grab a hot meal, and a young soldier approached me, "Ma'am, are you with the A-10's?" I replied yes. "I just want you to know, I was out there last week on the border. I just got back from the field. We called you guys in and you all took out the whole (expletive deleted) ridge. I love that plane, ma'am. I always feel good when I know it's on the way. Thank you." I stood there silent. I was frozen with that silly grin that often hides my nervousness. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. No, don't thank me. I thought. Thank you. That day, an 18 year old soldier helped me to begin to understand the sacrifices of those on the ground. War had become personal.
May 30, 2005 should have been a good day for the US Air Force Academy Class of 2001. It was Memorial Day, and we pinned on the rank of Captain. On that fateful day, two of our classmates, Capt. Derek Argel, 28, and Capt. Jeremy Fresques, 26, were killed in the crash of small Iraqi reconnaissance plane. Both were Special Tactics Officers (Combat Controllers). I knew Derek only by reputation. Who wouldn't remember the towering star athlete that struck fear in any underclassmen in his midst? Called "Mr. Indestructible" by his fellow squadron members, Derek towered over the cadet wing. At 6'6", 4% body fat, and with an infamous smirk-smile, I remember hearing Derek's booming voice "convincing" underclassmen to hide all weakness. I was happy not to be in their shoes. Jeremy was a friend of mine. He was in the squadron next to me, and I have fond memories of a weekend escape trip with a group of close friends to Denver. Jeremy was a quieter force; the one who carried his classmates' rifles the last two miles of a squadron run, who took heat from upperclassmen for something another classmate did, and never complained. How trivial that all seems now, yet it is that same pure soul and steel grit that fueled both Derek and Jeremy through the rigors of combat. We were so young at the Academy, but on the day we all became Captains, I realized that we were not too young to die for our country.
Exactly two years later, on May 30, 2007, I was serving in Kandahar, Afghanistan under an 82nd Airborne led Army Task Force. I remember sitting in the Task Force briefing room then walking outside to watch our helicopters take off. It was standard, but still surreal: young soldiers, rucksacks, weapons, helicopters, blazing heat, the smell of fuel, dust. I watched them take off. I rushed back to my operations center. Not even an hour later, five U.S. soldiers along with a British soldier and Canadian soldier were killed when one of our CH-47 Chinook helicopter was shot down by Taliban fighters in the Helmand province. I couldn't believe it. It was our bird. I just sat in the same room as those men. We watched on live feeds as 25,000 lbs of steel lurched, shuddered, and fell out of the sky. Although I could not show my anger and frustration, a part of my soul died that night.
Whenever I deploy, I spend most of my time on base "behind the wire." I feel guilty when people say, "Thank you for your service." It is an honor to serve my military family. I want to say, "Please, thank them, the soldiers on the ground." So this weekend, my heart stands still for my dear military family, for all those that have sacrificed more than I can comprehend and for the families of our fallen.
On this Memorial Day, please pause and remember the sacrifices of those that have set aside hopes, dreams, and personal interests to answer a higher calling.
Make the most of your freedom.
Thank you. Peace be with you.
"War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself." John Stuart Mill
# posted by Kima McCoy @ 1:54 PM 
