4 years

Never Forgotten

August 16, 2007

Taramiyah, Iraq

OIF

  "If you are able, save for them a place inside of you and save one backward glance when you are leaving for the places they can no longer go.

    
Be not ashamed to say you loved them, though you may or may not have always. Take what they have taught you with their dying and keep it with your
own.

     And in that time when men decide and feel safe to call the war insane, take one moment to embrace those gentle heroes you left behind.

Major Michael Davis O'Donnell
1 January 1970
Dak To, Vietnam
Listed as KIA February 7, 1978

RIP Will

Never Forgotten

"What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others." ~Pericles

Not Forgotten

This is a post I originally did for the anniversary of a friend of mine's death in Iraq.  I will visit his grave tomorrow and I will think of many more fallen soldiers and their families.  You are not forgotten.

Also see this post: 
Coming Together

Meet Cpl. Willard M. Powell

August 15, 20007 was Cpl. Will Powell's last day on this earth.

He joined the Army in Feb. of 2006. He was assigned to the 4th Battalion, 9th Infantry Regiment, 4th Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division (Stryker Brigade Combat Team), Fort Lewis, Wash. and died Aug. 16 in Balad, Iraq, of wounds sustained when the enemy attacked using small-arms fire during combat operations in Taramiyah, Iraq. He was posthumously awarded the Combat Infantryman’s Badge, Bronze Star, Purple Heart, Army Commendation Medal and Good Conduct Medal.

This was a man who grew into a hero, but I knew him best as Will, a super-competitive kid who often annoyed the crap out of me in 3rd-4th grade. I was a super-competitive kid too. We had many battles before and after school in daycare. Recesses were also fair game. We played on competing soccer teams in the school league. I took great pleasure in beating him. At anything.

Whatever it was-basketball, soccer, checkers, the card game War with Uno cards, redlight-greenlight, or heads up seven up- we seemed to face off. He didn't want me on his teams much, as I was a just a girl, and a small one at that. That just made me angry and all the more determined to beat the living daylights out of him.

One day in childcare, we were playing basketball. I was on the opposing team, the only girl. He gave me crap the whole game, wouldn't shut up. I ended up with the ball as the teacher was calling everyone in. It was the last shot and the score was tied. I got a shot away- while being knocked down by one the boys- and ended up with two bloody knees and a bloody elbow. But I made the basket. My team won. My mom wasn't happy with another pair of torn pants, but my team won.
As I was picking the gravel out of my knee and contemplating a trip to the nurse for some bandaids, Will offered me a hand up and said, "you can play." That day, we went from being rivals to friends. We recognized in each other a certain fight, a stubborn determination. After that, we teamed up together a couple of times. We never lost.

Will transfered schools at some point, maybe a year later. It seemed like one day he was there and the next he was gone. He was going through some family stuff, and that probably had something to do with it. The playground wasn't quite as frustrating without him, or as fun.

I was walking down the hallway at my high school, I believe at the beginning of the year, turned a corner and almost walked into him. This was a surprise, not many kids from our small Christian school went to this high school, ever. It took us a second to recognize each other and from where. We caught up, laughed, and then rushed off to make it to class before the bell rang.

We saw each other in the halls often after that. I had a class or two with him, and we were friendly. Didn't really run around with the same people though, after classes. But he always had a smile for me in the hall. We joked around about teachers and assignments. Sometimes even about those games on the playground when I kicked his butt (or he kicked mine). He never failed to notice if I looked sad or upset. He'd crack a grin and tell me to cheer up.

Will is one of the last people I saw before I left the building the final time on the last day of school as a senior. I was in the business hallway, and he was too. He was at a locker, his or someone elses, just standing around. He flashed a giant last-day-of-school smile and said "Good luck, have a good summer. I'll see ya around."

We went our separate ways after that. I regret not keeping in better touch. I guess I thought we would fall back into each others lives at some point, as childhood friends seem to do. That image- of Will holding onto a locker at the end of the hall, rocking jeans and a white shirt, huge grin plastered on his face- is the memory I hold onto.

Cpl. Will Powell is a hero who gave his life looking out for other people. It will be two years tomorrow. His story should be told. He deserves to be remembered.

RIP Will.

Remembering Pfc Gunnar Becker

One inescapable fact about war is that there will be casualties.  When nations wage war men and women will die.  They will be young.  They will be missed.  They will be gone, as Seeger says, forever lost to "some disputed barricade." 

There is an old, traditional song entitled Hard Times that reminds us that we must account for these things that are hard to acknowledge.   It begins, "Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears..."  Often, the hard times are the ones we want to forget.  The harsh reality of young men and women in uniform not coming home is certainly a reality we as a society wish to ignore.  

But we cannot ignore them.  We cannot hide from them.  We must pause our own lives for a moment to count life's tears.  There are many tears to be shed for our fallen, not just in the moment their names are released to stream on the scrolling news bar, but for the many moments after where their absence is felt.

One of the casualties of our current wars is Pfc. Gunnar D Becker, 19, Forestburg, South Dakota.  Gunnar was a tanker stationed out of Vilseck, Germany.  Today, January 12, 2005, he was living the last day of his life.  By the end of the next, January 13, 2005, his rendezvous with Death had come to pass.  The disputed barricade where he gave his life was came on a battlefield in Iraq.  

By all accounts, Gunnar was someone you'd be lucky to call a friend.   Despite his youth, he had a commitment to his chosen profession.  He knew the risks.  He believed in what he was doing.  He possessed the values of Honor, Courage, and Commitment that too many of his peers lack.  He understood service and undertook the greatest act of service there is, service to one's country.  He stood the watch for us, protecting us and the ideals of our nation.  He was willing to give his life for a cause that was greater than himself.   The phrase "the price of freedom" is thrown around a lot by the media, sometimes seriously, mostly around Memorial Day, but mostly facetiously.  But the true price of freedom ultimately is the life of Pfc Gunnar Becker and those like him who defend our nation.  That is what it has always been. 

Gunnar gave his life for his country.  He paid the ultimate price.  For this reason, many would call him a hero.  I would argue that it is not his death that makes him one.  He is a hero for the way he lived his life.  It reminds me of  FDNY Chief Ed Croker's words while speaking upon the deaths of a deputy chief and four firemen in a 1908 blaze.  He said of their bravery: 

"Firemen are going to get killed.  When they join the department they face that fact.  When a man becomes a fireman his greatest act of bravery has been accomplished.  What he does after that is all in the line of work.  They were not thinking of getting killed when they went where death lurked.  They went there to put the fire out, and got killed.  Firefighters do not regard themselves as heroes because they do what the business requires."

Indeed, Gunnar's greatest act of bravery was accomplished when he took the oath of enlistment and promised to protect and defend the United States of America.   He went where the job sent him and did what the job required.  This is what makes him hero.

But it does not lessen the pain of his loss for those who loved and knew him.  He is still gone from them.  There are no words we can offer to make this loss better.

Instead, we must offer what we can: acknowledgement.

Pfc. Gunnar D Becker lost his life in service to our country.  Today, and everyday, I remember him.  I remember him as an individual who is no longer here to leave his mark on the world.  I remember his family who must face his absence daily.

Laurence Binyon wrote of the fallen in World War I that "they will not grow old, as we that are left grow old:/ age will not weary them, nor the years condemn."  With each year that passes, I become more aware of the truth in these lines.

As another anniversary of his death nears Gunnar remains as he was.

And we must remember him.

3 Years: Remembering Will

On August 16, 2007 Cpl. Willard M. Powell was wounded in action near Tarimiyah, Iraq after his unit was attacked. He succombed to his wounds and passed away in Balad.

Word traveled across the globe to the home of his mother, to his father, to his best friends, his friends, and to all those who knew him.

Will Powell, who had just weeks ago turned 21, was gone.

I made a promise to never forget Will and

that promise is something I take very seriously. Will was a good soldier. He was a better man. We cannot let his memory fade away.

I wrote a long post on this subject last year. You can read that here: Coming Together.

This year, I am just remembering his smile. His competitiveness. His sacrifice.

One thing that Will has taught me with his death is that each day is sacred. We must take it and use it for all that it is worth. We don't know how much time we have left on earth or how much time we have with those that we love. We must be present in the moment. We must love each other with all that we have. We must live life fully and faithfully.

Will did.

Will gave up his life so that we have the chance to do so in a free country, safe from the threat of harm.

Let us not waste it.

Will, you are loved. You are missed. You are not forgotten.

See you when I get there.

If you are able,
save them a place
inside of you
and save one backward glance
when you are leaving
for the places they can
no longer go.
Be not ashamed to say

you loved them,
though you may
or may not have always.
Take what they have left
and what they have taught you
with their dying
and keep it with your own.
And in that time
when men decide and feel safe
to call the war insane,
take one moment to embrace
those gentle heroes
you left behind.

Major Michael Davis O'Donnell
1 January 1970
Dak To, Vietnam, KIA

If You Are Able

I came across this today and it touched me deeply.

If you are able,
save for them a place inside of you
and save one backward glance when you are leaving
for the places they can no longer go.

Be not ashamed to say you loved them,
though you may or may not have always.
Take what they have taught you with their dying
and keep it with your own.

And in that time when men decide
and feel safe to call the war insane,
take one moment to embrace
those gentle heroes you left behind.

Major Michael Davis O’Donnell
1 January 1970
Dak To, Vietnam
Listed as KIA February 7, 1978

Price of Freedom

Flags.

Cigarettes.

Wonka Bar.

Chocolate Chip Cookies.

Præmaturi

When men are old, and their friends die,

They are not so sad,

Because their love is running slow,

And cannot spring from the wound with so sharp a pain;

And they are happy with many memories,

And only a little while to be alone.

But we are young, and our friends are dead

Suddenly, and our quick love is torn in two;

So our memories are only hopes that came to nothing.

We are left alone like old men; we should be dead

--But there are years and years in which we shall still be young.

~Margaret Postgate

Memorial Day 2010

I have been working with soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines deployed overseas to Iraq and Afghanistan for over 6 years. That is a really long time. There are times where I feel each and every day. One of those days where I feel it most acutely is Memorial Day.

Memorial Day has always been associated with a picnic that brings the entire extended family network together to celebrate the beginning of summer. There is joy, laughter, swimming, horseshoes, and baseball in the field. It is a small town and it is well known that this spot is ours on this day, yet occasionally we still have to fight off those who would swipe the tables...even then, we always end up sharing our food with them.

From the early days of my adulthood, Memorial Day has also become something else. It has reverted to its historical origins and become a day that brings with it the sharp twist of mourning. It is when I feel each and every day of the six years in the ache of my heart, the set of my jaw, and the bags under my eyes.

It is a fact that when nations go to war men and women will die. They will most often be young. Their deaths will cause a ripple effect that rips across the nation, tearing the hearts of brothers in arms, parents, spouses, siblings, children, grandparents, best friends, relatives, school mates, teachers, caregivers, pediatricians, neighbors, former employers, the guy that used to deliver the pizzas on Friday night, and any number of people that cross paths in the course of living.

These deaths also rip into those who care deeply for their nation and their nation's armed forces, the people that join military support organizations. People like me, who build relationships with these men and women, knowing there is a chance that this new friend may not make it back. Knowing that the more people you befriend in a war, the greater the chances are.

I have not escaped this phenomenon. When I first started writing soldiers I was a bit naive about it. It would be cool to write soldiers and they are doing this brave and noble thing. I knew people could get hurt, even killed in a war, but it didn't seem real. I didn't really think about it happening. That naivety shattered with that first name I recognized on a casualty list. Then I recognized another, and another, and another. As Lucas Holt wrote: "nothing threatens the romance of war more effectively than war itself."

I have my list of people to visit, names to engrave, when they get around to building memorials for our war. It has been six years and it seems that each year the list grows longer.

They are "My Guys." The funerals I have represented at. They are the people behind the sacred stories I have been entrusted with. They are the Fallen. They are my fallen.

It is not my place to judge what their deaths mean in terms of big-picture war or policy strategy. I don't really care how history judges the conflict in which they fought. They lived lives of honor and service. Many died for something they truly believed in. That is enough for me. Each one has taught me something in life or through their death about living. I have had the chance to meet some of their families, something I am humbled and honored by. It is a reminder that behind each name, each number, is a unique individual.

Each and every individual deserves to be remembered on this Memorial Day weekend. I encourage you to visit a site like Honor the Fallen to do just that. But if you can't or won't do that then borrow a portion of my list and remember them.

They were killed in Iraq or Afghanistan.

Each name means something specific to me.

One is a childhood friend. One was the first military funeral I ever attended. One was a name on the letter I never got send. Each one I am connected to in some way.

Even if I didn't know them in life, today I miss them.

I will carry each of them, and many others, in my heart forever.

It is our sacred duty to remember. We must not forget.

May you have Peace and Rest, my friends. I remember you.

Pfc. Gunnar Becker
Sgt. Jessica Housby
Pvt. Jonathon Pfender
Pfc. James Brown
Pfc. Chris Dixon
Spc. Joseph Ford
Pfc. Aaron Gautier
Pfc. Jonathan Hamm
Cpl. Will Powell

Lt. Miroslav "Steve" Zilberman

We shall find peace. We shall hear the angels, we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.
~Chekhov, Uncle Vanya

Lt. Steve Zilberman-Remember the Fallen

I received an email and phone call this week from a lady who attends my church. I organize military support there and we have a big board filled with the names and pictures of all the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines that we support.

She was calling to ask me to pray for her grandson, who is an E-2C pilot deployed in support of operations in Afghanistan. She said his plane had crashed. Her grandson and two other crew members were ok, but his co-pilot was still missing.

After days of searching, the Navy has called ended search and rescue efforts and declared the co-pilot deceased.

The Navy has also released his name: Lt. Steve Zilberman, Columbus, Ohio.

I have been praying for this man all week and now I pray for his family as they deal with his loss.

I am also praying for J and the rest of his crew. They have lost a brother.

May we never forget.

Fair winds and following seas, Steve.

The Losses

There have been so many fallen Marines (and soldiers) since the offensive began in Afghanistan. My heart breaks for the families of each and every one of them. I cannot help but mourn for each life that ended too soon and the experiences they will not get the have.

Each loss is also a reminder to hold on dearly to the ones that I love. I need to be fully present in each moment, because there is no guarantee of another. My prayers go out in earnest today, for the Bestie, my cousins, and each Marine, soldier, sailor, and airman who serves in harms way.

I am praying for a fellow blogger, who lost her husband, Cpl Jonathan Daniel Porto. They have a little girl, 9 weeks old, who will not get to know her daddy. Rachel, age 23, has lost the love of her life.

Visit her blog and let her know you are thinking of her and will remember the sacrifice her family has made for our nation:
A Little Pink in a World of Camo

Remember the Fallen- Cpl. Jamie Lowe, USMC

A local Marine was recently killed in Afghanistan. He was laid to rest last week. May God be with his friends and family.









Photo Credit: Denny Simmons- Courier Press

Remembering Gunnar

I wanted to take a moment today to remember Pfc. Gunnar Becker.

Gunnar was from Forestburg, South Dakota. He joined the army after high school, and soon found himself headed off to war.

Two weeks before he was supposed to go home, January 13, 2005, he was killed in Mosul, Iraq. He was just 19 years old.

If you have a moment, please go visit his online memorial page In Memory of PFC Gunnar Becker. There, you can learn Gunnar's story and see what he meant to his family and friends.

Walter M. Schirr, Sr. said "You don't raise heroes, you raise sons." Some people raise sons who become heroes. Gunnar's mom was one of those people. Go visit her blog, leave her a message, and let her know that you remember her son.

Even though he is gone, Gunnar is still touching lives. He is a major influence my decision to pursue my current career path.

God bless the Becker and Senska families on this, and every day. You are in my prayers.

I remember.

We are soldiers.
We are soldiers in the United States Army.
We are trained to be all we can be.

We fight for the freedom of many citizens of the United States.
We are all ready to meet our fates.

We all volunteer to defend the red, white and blue.
Not only the flag, but for the citizens of our great country too.

Since our country's birth for all these years,
we have been trained to be the best on Earth.

Many times we have went to war.
We will be involved in many more.

Generation by generation soldiers continue to enlist.
Some of us will got to war and definitely be missed.

Some soldiers will return and some won't.
Those who do not, we won't forget and we hope you don't.

Many of us are going to Iraq.
Some of us won't be coming back.

We have loved ones we are leaving behind.
They will always be in our prayers, hearts and mind.

If we don't make it home safely at the end of the war,
just remember we died defending the beliefs of those of many more.

Gunnar Becker , 23 Nov. 2003

Local Marine KIA

A local Marine was killed in Afghanistan Monday.

Cpl. Jamie Lowe, USMC, age 21, was the son of Kevin and Teresa. He was the brother to Cody and Hunter.

Teresa's father was killed in the Vietnam war, now her son has been killed in another war.

Jamie, may you rest safely in the arms of our Father.

Many prayers going out for his family and friends.

The Marines' Hymn

If the Army and the Navy Ever look on Heaven's scenes; They will find the streets are guarded By UNITED STATES MARINES.

Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep

When my best friend was in town, we took time to do something I have wanted to do for awhile. We visited the grave of a fallen soldier.

There are many graves of fallen soldiers. What makes this one special is that I knew him.

I knew him as a child. I knew him as a teammate and a competitor. There were days I knew him as a pain in the butt. But I grew to know him as a friend. As a fellow believer. I knew his good heart and genuine spirit. I knew him as a classmate. I did not know him as a soldier.

He was one of those people I lost touch with after graduation. I guess I expected us to fall back into each other's lives at some point, as that's what always happened before. We had too many mutual friends and connections to avoid it. But he was killed by insurgents in Iraq before that had a chance to happen.

I regret we didn't stay closer. I wish the last memory I have of him...wasn't the last memory I have of him. But as last memories go, this one is sort of fitting. It is the end of the year. He is wearing jeans and a white tshirt, standing by an open locker, grinning. He is waving goodbye...have a good summer....see you around. In my mind, it is like this that he disappears into the mist.

I wasn't sure what to expect. I didn't know what I would feel being back there. I wasn't even sure I could find it again. Hadn't been back there since the funeral.

After all, this is the harsh reality of war, isn't it? A young man....simply gone from the world.

The greatest fear for anyone who loves a soldier.

The grave is located in the veterans portion of the cemetery. It is on the top of a hill, rather scenic as spots go. It overlooks the baby cemetery, as if these warriors stand sentry for the innocents, even in death.

It was windy, gloomy, bitterly cold day. Maybe because of that, my first thought was that it seemed lonely.

Compared to the graves around it, Will's still seems new. The grass hasn't filled in all the way yet. The ground is sunken a little bit, as if the ground is still accepting the fact that he now fills it.

There is a bench near it, where one could sit and reflect, on less chilly days. There was as Christmas tree and a wreath, all decorated immaculately. The small offerings left under it were testament to others who had made this holiday pilgrammage to see a friend.

I found that while I was assailed by memories, moved by them even, I wasn't emotional. I knew Will as gone, I saw the body at the funeral, saw them lower him into the ground. This was just where his body rests.

I guess that is what surprised me the most. What I felt was emptiness. It reminded me that according to our faith, the flesh is all that remains. The spirit has gone on to be with our Father. That provides comfort. But the emptiness remains.

What I kept returning to, standing there in the cold, staring at the grave of a fallen friend, were the words of a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye.

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am
a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun
on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the
morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling
flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and
cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

Christmas

I love Christmas. I love being around family and friends. I love the songs, the smells, and getting cards in the mail. I love the sense of peace it brings me.

This Christmas is one that is spent with the bestie on the eve of deployment. Because of this, each memory is even more precious, even more cherished. It is excitement, tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

It is that hint of uncertainty that reminds me to remember.

After many years of war, there are many homes with an empty spot in their Christmas traditions.

At the bottom of my blog, there is a list of names. In some way, I have a connection to each of them.

So here's to Gunnar, Jessica, Jonathon, James, Chris, Joe, Aaron, Jonathan, and Will. Here's to each of their families. May you have peace this holiday season, your loved ones are not forgotten.

SFC Jared Monti- Medal of Honor

SFC Jared Monti was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor today.

Thank you SFC. Jared Monti. You will not be forgotten.

Sgt. 1st Class Jared C. Monti - Medal of Honor Operation Enduring Freedom

Official Citation

Staff Sergeant Jared C. Monti

United States Army

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty:

Staff Sergeant Jared C. Monti distinguished himself by acts of gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty while serving as a team leader with Headquarters and Headquarters troop, 3rd Squadron, 71st Calvary Regiment, 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 10th Mountain Division, in connection with combat operations against an enemy in Nuristan Province, Afghanistan, on June 21st, 2006.

While Staff Sergeant Monti was leading a mission aimed at gathering intelligence and directing fire against the enemy, his 16-man patrol was attacked by as many as 50 enemy fighters. On the verge of being overrun, Staff Sergeant Monti quickly directed his men to set up a defensive position behind a rock formation. He then called for indirect fire support, accurately targeting the rounds upon the enemy who had closed to within 50 meters of his position. While still directing fire, Staff Sergeant Monti personally engaged the enemy with his rifle and a grenade, successfully disrupting an attempt to flank his patrol. Staff Sergeant Monti then realized that one on his soldier was lying wounding in the open ground between the advancing enemy and the patrol's position.

With complete disregard for his own safety, Staff Sergeant Monti twice attempted to move from behind the cover of the rocks into the face of relentless enemy fire to rescue his fallen comrade. Determined not to leave his soldier, Staff Sergeant Monti made a third attempt to cross open terrain through intense enemy fire. On this final attempt, he was mortally wounded, sacrificing his own life in an effort to save his fellow soldier.

Staff Sergeant Monti's selfless acts of heroism inspired his patrol to fight off the larger enemy force. Staff Sergeant Monti's immeasurable courage and uncommon valor are in keeping with the highest traditions of military service and reflect great credit upon himself, Headquarters and Headquarters Troop, 3rd Squadron, 71st Calvary Regiment, 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 10th Mountain Division, and the United States Army.

The Army put together a video of Jared's life. See it here.

Never Forget

I pause today to remember the 2,819 people who died on 9/11.

I also pause to remember the heroism of the 343 New York City firefighters, 23 New York City Police Department officers, and 37 Port Authority police officers who lost their lives that day. I remember those who lived, and continue to serve.

I will never forget September 11, 2001.

I was at school and was taking a test. The teachers made us finish, but after we were done they had the coverage playing on the tvs in the classrooms all day. When the Pentagon was hit, there was a boy in the room who started yelling that his uncle was in the building. He sat down, kind of stunned, and said, "We're at war. This is war. And we are going to be the ones who fight it." There was discussion about a draft, would they have to go from high school to the war?

I sat in the chemistry room as the towers fell, the teacher sobbing at her desk. It was the worst feeling, like the world no longer made sense. The adults could offer no comfort as they struggled to comprehend the day themselves.

In my memory, the day is a blur of tv coverage, snippets of conversations, and emotions- fear, sorrow, confusion. My grandfather picked me up from school that day and said we were going to his house, he wasn't dropping me off to be alone in mine. I resisted this. I wanted to go home. I remember feeling that if only I could get home, everything would be normal again, like it was when I left it. But he was adamant that I not be alone. So I went to the grandparent's house and we sat in front of the tv, watching the latest news together until my parent's got off work. My grandparent's couldn't fathom who would have such hatred in their hearts to do such a thing either. But they were clear that the nation was going to war.

Seeing the time 9:11 on a clock still gives me pause.

I had a history teacher, who on the one year anniversary, said he'd like to fast forward 10 years and see how this changed our (the students) lives.

It changed the way I look at the world. It led to an interest in politics and world affairs that I took to college. It put many of my friends on the path to military service. Many of them are in Iraq and Afghanistan today. Many more are veterans of one or both wars. I joined Soldiers Angels in Feb. of 2004 because if felt like a way to do something- to make a difference- and to help those doing the fighting.

One of the students in the school the day that teacher was pondering our future is no longer with us. He was killed fighting a war; the path was set in motion on 9/11.

We must NEVER FORGET.

God Bless the families of the fallen, those who live with injuries suffered that day, and those who struggle with the memory of the horrors they witnessed.

9/11/01- Eight years on.

Coming Together

Yesterday was the two year anniversary of Cpl. Will Powell's death in Iraq. Amidst the grief, loss, and shock I learned something important.

Communities have a remarkable capacity for uniting in the face of a crises.

The community responded when Will's family asked people to come out and show their support. People lined the streets from the airport to the funeral home when his body was returned. They lined the streets around the church the funeral was held at. They lined the streets as the funeral procession headed to the burial site. Firefighters, construction workers, EMTs, and police officers lined the intersection and saluted the hearse as it went by. Old men from the VFW stood with flags. One old man looked into each car as we slowly drove by and nodded at the occupants inside, his eyes shining. It was as if he was saying, "I know."

It was a powerfully moving sight.

I went to the airport when Will's body was returned. I went to the funeral home and I went to the funeral. People whose only connection was knowing Will were able to draw comfort from each other.

I took friends with me when I went to these places. Some knew Will, a couple only went to provide moral support for the rest of us. One of those people was so impressed, so moved by the way the community came together, he said somebody should document it. He didn't know Will, so he had a level of detachment the rest of us didn't have. Respectfully and discreetly, he took a few pictures. I looked at them for the first time just a few days ago. They confirm what I remember and speak to the goodness of people when they come together.

These are the pictures he took.

2 Years

Lest I continue my complacent way,
Help me to remember that somewhere,
Somehow out there
A man died for me today.
As long as there be war,
I then must Ask and answer
Am I worth dying for?
~prayer carried by Eleanor Roosevelt

It has now been two years since Will was killed in the war. I was at work when I found out. Remember Cpl. Willard M. Powell.


Here are some links to news articles that will tell you more about Will.


Tri-State Soldier Killed in Iraq


Female insurgent among 13 killed in battle on Baghdad outskirts


Reitz Graduate Killed in Iraq


Unit Losses Now at 19


Soldier's Body Arrives Back Home


Family Asks City to Honor Soldier


Stryker Brigade News: Cpl. Willard M. Powell


Final Respects Paid


Ft. Lewis pays respects to 2 killed Strykers


Honor the Fallen: Cpl. Willard M. Powell

Meet Cpl. Willard M. Powell

August 15, 20007 was Cpl. Willard M. Powell's last day on this earth.

He joined the Army in Feb. of 2006. He was assigned to the 4th Battalion, 9th Infantry Regiment, 4th Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division (Stryker Brigade Combat Team), Fort Lewis, Wash. and died Aug. 16 in Balad, Iraq, of wounds sustained when the enemy attacked using small-arms fire during combat operations in Taramiyah, Iraq. He was posthumously awarded the Combat Infantryman’s Badge, Bronze Star, Purple Heart, Army Commendation Medal and Good Conduct Medal.

This was a man who grew into a hero, but I knew him best as Will, a super-competitive kid who often annoyed the crap out of me in 3rd-4th grade. I was a super-competitive kid too. We had many battles before and after school in daycare. Recesses were also fair game. We played on competing soccer teams in the school league. I took great pleasure in beating him. At anything.

Whatever it was-basketball, soccer, checkers, the card game War with Uno cards, redlight-greenlight, or heads up seven up- we seemed to face off. He didn't want me on his teams much, as I was a just a girl, and a small one at that. That just made me angry and all the more determined to beat the living daylights out of him.

One day in childcare, we were playing basketball. I was on the opposing team, the only girl. He gave me crap the whole game, wouldn't shut up. I ended up with the ball as the teacher was calling everyone in. It was the last shot and the score was tied. I got a shot away- while being knocked down by one the boys- and ended up with two bloody knees and a bloody elbow. But I made the basket. My team won. My mom wasn't happy with another pair of torn pants, but my team won.
As I was picking the gravel out of my knee and contemplating a trip to the nurse for some bandaids, Will offered me a hand up and said, "you can play." That day, we went from being rivals to friends. We recognized in each other a certain fight, a stubborn determination. After that, we teamed up together a couple of times. We never lost.

Will transfered schools at some point, maybe a year later. It seemed like one day he was there and the next he was gone. He was going through some family stuff, and that probably had something to do with it. The playground wasn't quite as frustrating without him, or as fun.

I was walking down the hallway at my high school, I believe at the beginning of the year, turned a corner and almost walked into him. This was a surprise, not many kids from our small Christian school went to this high school, ever. It took us a second to recognize each other and from where. We caught up, laughed, and then rushed off to make it to class before the bell rang.

We saw each other in the halls often after that. I had a class or two with him, and we were friendly. Didn't really run around with the same people though, after classes. But he always had a smile for me in the hall. We joked around about teachers and assignments. Sometimes even about those games on the playground when I kicked his butt (or he kicked mine). He never failed to notice if I looked sad or upset. He'd crack a grin and tell me to cheer up.

Will is one of the last people I saw before I left the building the final time on the last day of school as a senior. I was in the business hallway, and he was too. He was at a locker, his or someone elses, just standing around. He flashed a giant last-day-of-school smile and said "Good luck, have a good summer. I'll see ya around."

We went our separate ways after that. I regret not keeping in better touch. I guess I thought we would fall back into each others lives at some point, as childhood friends seem to do. That image- of Will holding onto a locker at the end of the hall, rocking jeans and a white shirt, huge grin plastered on his face- is the memory I hold onto.

Cpl. Will Powell is a hero who gave his life looking out for other people. It will be two years tomorrow. His story should be told. He deserves to be remembered.

RIP Will.