West Texas Marine killed in Iraq

By Jared Schroeder / San Angelo Standard-Times
April 11, 2004

A Concho Valley family is mourning the loss of a son this Easter.

Veribest native Elias Torres III, a Marine lance corporal, was killed during fighting in Fallujah, Iraq, Friday.

He is the son of Elias Torres Jr. of Veribest and Veronica Norris of San Angelo.

Two Tom Green County sheriff’s deputies helped a pair of Marines find the Torres home outside Veribest early Saturday morning. It was then the family learned of Torres’ death.

Rigo Ramirez said his half-brother called Thursday and left a message saying he was OK and that his unit was going out on patrol.

"Everything was fine," Ramirez remembered Torres’ message saying. "He was fine and then this morning these people show up and tell us he’s gone, and he’s passed away in combat.

"The whole family misses him already."

Torres, 21, was wounded while fighting in the 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines in Fallujah and pronounced dead about an hour and a half later in Baghdad, said Gilbert Martinez, a spokesman for Torres’ father’s family.

Torres was part of an anti-armor platoon based in Camp Pendleton, Calif.

He was a 2001 graduate of Veribest High School, where he played football. Ramirez said some of his fondest memories of Torres came from watching him play football.

Torres joined the Marines Sept. 10, 2001 and was involved in the war in Iraq from the beginning, Martinez said. Torres last visited his family during Christmas, and then went back to his unit in Kuwait, before returning to Iraq in February.

Ramirez said he last spoke to Torres about a month ago.

He said his half-brother was a hard worker.

"He was very proud of what he had done in the Marine Corps," Ramirez said. "He was a driven person. He was trying to better himself. He wanted to be someone his parents were proud of."

Complete information about Torres’ service was not available from the Department of Defense at press time. A spokesman at Camp Pendleton said it is the department’s policy to give the family 24 hours to mourn before releasing information about casualties.

Funeral arrangements for Torres are pending with Johnson’s Funeral Home, but services are not expected until late next week, said Martinez.

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Concho Valley mother recalls fallen Marine
By Aubrey Hovey / San Angelo Standard-Times
April 14, 2004

GRAPE CREEK — With his feet propped up on a desk that once belonged to Saddam Hussein, Marine Elias Torres sat smiling — a rifle in his hand and baggy fatigues draped over his young body.

The image was one of several pictures that Torres, 21, sent his mother, Veronica Norris, to show her he was OK in Iraq.

Monday, the image lay on Norris’ couch in Grape Creek, mixed in a pile of pictures and photo albums and a scrapbook.

Torres, a Marine lance corporal, was killed Friday in Iraq. He died of a gunshot wound to the head while fighting in the 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines in Fallujah.

The Marine Norris calls "her baby" left for boot camp Sept. 10, 2001, just months after graduating from Veribest High School.

Norris said she braced herself for the worst the day after Torres left — when pictures of the collapsing World Trade Center towers filled the airways and newsstands all over the country.

"At that instant, when I saw that happen, I thought ‘Dear God, what is going to happen?’" she said. "I kind of started preparing from that day."

Shortly after midnight Friday, the news she dreaded made its way into her living room.

"I saw these two big Marines standing there with the sheriff, and I knew it wasn’t good news," she said, trying to maintain a steady voice. "I was hoping so bad they’d say he was wounded. When they said he passed away, I think I just fell to my knees, and I begged them to tell me it wasn’t true."

Torres, known as "E.T." to his friends and family, Norris said, was a happy guy who brought energy and laughs to all of the family.

"My baby was so funny," Norris said. "He was a nut."

Monday at Norris’ house, Torres’ young cousins helped other relatives in transforming a "Welcome Home" banner into a sign for the house that would soon read "God Bless E.T."

Meanwhile, Norris sorted through pictures and then walked to the answering machine to play the last message Torres left his family.

"Is anybody home? It’s me, E.T," a voice from countries away said. "I miss ya’ll very much. ... I’m doing real well. ... I love ya’ll."

Norris said she was at work when Torres left the message on April 6. She spoke to him when he called her at work later that day.

"The last thing he wanted was for me to worry," she said.

Contact San Angelo Standard-Times staff writer Aubrey Hovey at ahovey@sastandardtimes or (325) 659-8254.

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The Moose Lake Marines: 'This cannot be'
Jill Burcum, Star Tribune
April 18, 2004



Moises (Moy) Langhorst, left, stands with friends Derek Haugen, and Matthew Milczark of Kettle River. Milczark and Langhorst both have died in the Iraq war. Tom Wallace

MOOSE LAKE, MINN. -- They were a band of brothers, these three young men who grew up tall and strong in the northern Minnesota countryside.

Bound by their common dream of becoming Marines, Matt, Moy and Derek started donning camouflage in kindergarten, filling backyards and back roads with the "BAM!" and "BANG! BANG!" sounds of little boys' war games. They stayed close all those years and, after graduating from Moose Lake High School in 2003, they enlisted together.

Now, just one remains.

During the Vietnam War, Moose Lake High lost a single graduate. In the past month, the Iraq war has taken two.

Pfc. Moises (Moy) Langhorst, 19, known for his wide grin and quick mind, was killed April 5 by hostile fire near Fallujah, one of the war's bloodiest hot spots. He was one of three Minnesotans to die in Iraq that week. Pfc. Matthew Milczark, 18, who'd been Moose Lake's easygoing homecoming king, died in a noncombat shooting inside a military chapel in Kuwait last month.

Derek Haugen, 19, is a college student and Marine reservist. Derek is the one who stayed behind and said goodbye to his closest friends. He is the one who struggles every day to understand how their dream ended so tragically -- and so soon.

The same is true for many others in Moose Lake, a town of 2,200 people still dealing with the 1999 kidnapping and murder of convenience store clerk Katie Poirier, 19.

"A lot of people are saying 'This cannot be,'" said Tim Caroline, Moose Lake's superintendant of schools.

Still, many are taking comfort in the belief that the two Marines' deaths in the Middle East forever cemented their bond and that, wherever they are, they've found each other once again.

"We've been talking about that a lot over the past few days," said George Langhorst, Moy's dad and an ex-Marine. "Moy and Matt are together now. ... For some reason, God needed the two boys in heaven now."

Letters from Moy continue to arrive in the family's mailbox. Word of Matt's death had reached Moy near Fallujah. Though saddened and worried about his hometown, Moy wrote that he had to stay focused.

"He said Matt was always on his mind, but that he was still on his mission and he knew he couldn't dwell on that," George Langhorst said.

Marine officials didn't respond to a reporter's requests for information about Milczark's death.

Games to reality

Since the solemn Marines arrived to inform Moy's parents of his death, friends and family have filled the Langhorsts' home outside Moose Lake, which is 40 miles south of Duluth. The Langhorsts have found solace in their Christian faith. They rejoiced in Moy's strong relationship with God as they prepared for his funeral Friday morning.

"Maybe it was Moy because he was ready to go," George Langhorst said. "Maybe he took the place of someone who wasn't."

Moy and Derek Haugen had hung out with Matt, who lived in nearby Kettle River, since grade school, after the boys discovered their mutual love of the Marines. They would explore the surrounding marshes and woods, reenacting famous battles and creating some of their own.

As they grew older, they'd talk military history and watch war movies. "Platoon" and "Full Metal Jacket" were their favorites. The three of them could often be found in the high school parking lot, hanging out near Moy's camouflage-painted Chevy Blazer and delivering key lines from those movies.

So intense was Moy's desire to be a Marine that he already sported a military buzz cut.

"As they got older, it was no longer a game to them," said Ann Haugen, Derek's mother. "It wasn't about glory. It was about something they believed in and serving their country."

'A job to do'

Dave Waechter, Moy's Math League and Knowledge Bowl coach, had especially encouraged Moy to think of college first and brought it up often during the long car rides around the state to academic competitions. Moy could get an education, Waechter said, and then serve in his beloved Corps as an officer.

In his polite and patient way, Moy would listen to the teacher and then explain why he was so determined to enlist.

Officers, he said, need to learn how to fight first.

And besides, "He wanted to be a grunt. He wanted to be on the front lines," Waechter said.

Among the teenagers, Derek explained that the "why" of becoming Marines never really came up. It was just understood they were going to do it.

For Moy, "he always had a strong sense of duty and a strong desire to serve his God, his country and the Marines," Derek said.

For Matt, the Marines offered "an adventure and a way to challenge and improve himself."

Though Moy and Matt pursued different activities at Moose Lake's consolidated high school -- Moy excelled in everything from football to the Knowledge Bowl while Matt concentrated on hockey and his ever-widening circle of friends -- they chose to start the next part of their young lives together. Moy, Matt and Derek enlisted under the Marines' "buddy system," which allows friends to stay together through boot camp and some initial training.

A knee injury kept Derek in Minnesota, but Moy and Matt grew closer as they trained in San Diego and took in the sights and whatever hurdles boot camp threw at them. One time, they were reprimanded for talking to each other, said Derek, who kept up with their adventures from home.

"They did comment on how difficult it was and how it could be very demanding," Derek said. "But at the same time, they seemed very satisfied and proud."

Even though they were sent off in separate units, their deployment to the Middle East last February also satisfied their drive for adventure and desire to be in the middle of the action.

Derek heard from both before they left. Though the conversations didn't get too deep, he felt they realized the risks.

"I think they understood it as well as anybody can. I don't think anybody could view it as a game after graduation from basic training," he said. "They had a very professional attitude ... and were aware they had a job to do."

Having a job to do never stopped Moose Lake's Marines from talking about what they would do when they got home. Moy especially was upbeat.

"One of the first things he was going to do was buy a classic car," Haugen said. "He liked the muscle cars, and I think he had one picked out."

Now Haugen will never drive the roads around Moose Lake again with his friends, stereo blaring and the wind in their hair. In his dorm room at the College of St. Scholastica in Duluth, Derek thinks often of his dead friends.

"To be honest, it really hasn't hit me yet," he said shakily. "It's more of a sense of emptiness than anything. ... I don't think anyone expects that they'll have to lose their friends."

It's too hard for him to say any more.

Images and memories

Shortly after high school graduation, the three posed for photos in their graduation caps and gowns. They wore stoic expressions and adopted tough stances worthy of Marines.

Ann Haugen often thinks of "The Three Marines" snapshot. Tears are impossible to hold back. Her son's youthfulness has been shattered by seeing two friends come home in caskets. She aches for Moy and Matt and their families.

The boys were often at her home. Inside her head, she can still hear the sounds they made as they played soldier outside.

The young men who grew up before her eyes weren't afraid to die for their country, Ann Haugen said. They wouldn't have had regrets. Derek still shares that devotion to the Marines and his country. He could be called to duty in Iraq. She is proud that he could serve his country, too.

At the same time, she's frightened of the desert's dangers and the hatred of some who live there.

"I'm a mother. I'm selfish. I want my son," she said, wiping tears from her eyes.

Soon, photos of Moy and Matt will join a display in Moose Lake High School's media center featuring Merrel Sarvela, class of 1967, the town's sole Vietnam fatality.

Many of the kids who walk the school's terra cotta-tiled hallways, where Moy and Matt confidently strode less than a year ago, wear buttons showing the two in their combat uniforms.

"I think about Matt a lot. Actually, all the time," said Derek Syrett, a senior who was a close friend of Matt's and shared his love of practical jokes. "It doesn't seem like he's gone."

Like many students, Syrett has a hard time talking about his friends and turned away to hide his pain.

Students have stopped being overtly emotional, according to Trista Bailey, 14, a ninth-grader. But many are hurt and angry that Moose Lake lost two of its own.

"They fought for us, and that's really cool," said Bailey, who rode the bus with Moy. "I guess the lesson is that there are risks in war, but it still hurts when you lose someone and then it happens again so soon."

Moose Lake seniors will soon suit up again in caps and gowns. After graduation, Syrett and three others are headed to the military.

That brought a wistful expression to Dave Louzek's face. Louzek coached Moy and Matt in football and stood outside the school watching Syrett and the rest of the track team practice in last week's spring sunshine.

Last year, it was Moy running the 800- and 1,600-meter races for the team, his intensity and stamina perfect for the events. Matt would have been nearby, probably at the center of a cluster of kids hanging out near the track.

Louzek knows his students have to leave Moose Lake High's green practice fields. But there's a part of him that wishes they could stay forever young and under his watchful eye.

"Before, when they were joining the military, you used to shake their hands and say 'good luck,'" Louzek said. "Now, I worry about them a lot more. They're going out in the world. We realize they're putting themselves in some dangerous places.

"It's gotten a lot harder to let go."
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I post DoD Casualty Notices on other sites... My heart aches for these men and their families every day...

That list is just to long.

But i pray for all the family and for those that have given there life for this country.

May they rest in peace.

Marines, here with us and those that are waiting in Heaven. I am proud of you. Thank you for sacrifice, your time, and your service.

God Bless you all.

Ray

Robert Franklin, Star Tribune
April 21, 2004

CLOQUET, MINN. -- They came early to the church on the hill above Cloquet, family and friends, young Marines and old veterans, to commemorate the life and death of Marine Lance Cpl. Levi Angell.

Streets around Our Redeemer Lutheran Church filled up with cars, including a white Lumina with "We Remember Levi" written on the back window.

Inside the flower-bedecked sanctuary, below a banner proclaiming "Christ Is Risen," lay the casket of the 20-year-old Marine, killed April 8 when his military vehicle was hit by a rocket-propelled grenade in Iraq.

An organist played "My Faith Looks Up to Thee," and attendants gently closed the casket and pulled the flag over its full length. Then the funeral began, a tribute to faith and freedom, to a young man's service to country and to God.

There were familiar readings: the 23rd Psalm, Romans 8 ("If God is for us, who can be against us?"), and prayers for comfort and strength.
Gov. Tim Pawlenty was there. The family had received condolences from around the world. Visitors to a funeral Web site had called Angell a hero.

In a 17-minute sermon, the Rev. Thomas Brinkley talked about the broader meaning of freedom, as well as "a wonderful, faithful young man," one who could put on a tie to sing in a school choir but "was kind of a T-shirt guy."

Angell was one of three Carlton County servicemen to be killed in Iraq. He was an avid deer hunter, a schoolboy athlete, a chess player, a worker in the family house-moving business. Brinkley said he had a sense of joy and could "go through any situation and make us smile."

He knew the danger of military service, but in 2002 "when he put that Marine uniform on, he was as proud as he could be," the pastor said. And yet, with a sense of urgency, he wanted to be reassured "that Jesus loves me."

Levi's death took a son from his parents, Gordon Jr. and Loretta Angell, a brother from his siblings, Brinkley said. "This community sacrificed one of their young men."

In gratitude, he said, "we must never forget that the freedom we cherish today is not free."



Lila Angell wept for her grandson, Marine Lance Cpl. Levi Angell, during Wednesday's funeral in Cloquet. At right is Cindy Liimatainen. "This community sacrificed one of their young men," said the Rev. Thomas Brinkley.

Amanda Odeski Duluth News Tribune Via Associated Press

Then soloist Elizabeth Jaakola sang the soaring notes of the Lord's Prayer. There were prayers and a committal liturgy. The congregation sang "Onward Christian Soldiers." And a Marine honor guard took the casket outside, near a line of veterans from the Herbert-Kennedy VFW Post and the Carl Anderson American Legion Post.

As the mourners gathered under an overcast sky, the Marines fired a 21-gun salute. Gordon Angell, wearing a button with Levi's photo and his son's Purple Heart insignia, dabbed at his eyes. He's lost other family members, Gordon said later, but it's so hard to lose a son.

The Marines lifted the flag from Levi's casket, carefully folded it and gave it to his mother. Young civilians lifted his body into a hearse to be transported for burial at Fort Snelling today. ("He was my best friend," said one of them, Robert Hansen III. "He was always there for me.")

The flag presentation followed the sounds of taps and muffled sobs.
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Sorry, I have yet to locate this Marine's picture...

Rest in peace, Marines. God bless you all.

A pix of LCpl Angell, before he became one of the Few, The Proud, The Marine(s)!

quote:

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Originally posted by fontman:
A pix of LCpl Angell, before he became one of the Few, The Proud, The Marine(s)!

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Thanks Mark. I met a young man the other night who knew Levi and attended his services. I have a tough time at Military Services, so I did not attend...

quote:

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Originally posted by topgunny:
Marine Pfc Chance R. PHELPS, 19, of Clifton, Colorado; died Friday, 09 April, from hostile fire in Anbar province; assigned to 3d Bn, 11th Marines, 1st MarDiv, 1 MEF, Camp Pendleton.

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Taking Chance

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 stop working and place their hard hats over their hearts. This was my first sign that my mission with PFC Phelps was larger than the Marine Corps and that his family and friends were not grieving alone.

Eventually I was the last escort remaining in the lounge. The Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant in charge of the Marine liaison there came to see me. He had Chance Phelps's personal effects. He removed each item; a large watch, a wooden cross with a lanyard, two loose dog tags, two dog tags on a chain, and a Saint Christopher medal on a silver chain. Although we had been briefed that we might be carrying some personal effects of the deceased, this set me aback. Holding his personal effects, I was starting to get to know Chance Phelps.

Finally we were ready. I grabbed my bags and went outside. I was somewhat startled when I saw the shipping container, loaded three-quarters of the way in to the back of a black Chevy Suburban that had been modified to carry such cargo. This was the first time I saw my "cargo" and I was surprised at how large the shipping container was. The Master Gunnery Sergeant and I verified that the name on the container was Phelps's then they pushed him the rest of the way in and we left. Now it was PFC Chance Phelps's turn to receive the military-and construction workers'-honors. He was finally moving towards home.

As I chatted with the driver on the hour-long trip to Philadelphia, it became clear that he considered it an honor to be able to contribute in getting Chance home. He offered his sympathy to the family. I was glad to finally be moving yet apprehensive about what things would be like at the airport. I didn't want this package to be treated like ordinary cargo yet I knew that the simple logistics of moving around a box this large would have to overrule my preferences.

When we got to the Northwest Airlines cargo terminal at the Philadelphia airport, the cargo handler and hearse driver pulled the shipping container onto a loading bay while I stood to the side and executed a slow salute. Once Chance was safely in the cargo area, and I was satisfied that he would be treated with due care and respect, the hearse driver drove me over to the passenger terminal and dropped me off.

As I walked up to the ticketing counter in my uniform, a Northwest employee started to ask me if I knew how to use the automated boarding pass dispenser. Before she could finish another ticketing agent interrupted her. He told me to go straight to the counter then explained to the woman that I was a military escort. She seemed embarrassed. The woman behind the counter already had tears in her eyes as I was pulling out my government travel voucher. She struggled to find words but managed to express her sympathy for the family and thank me for my service. She upgraded my ticket to first class.

After clearing security, I was met by another Northwest Airline employee at the gate. She told me a representative from cargo would be up to take me down to the tarmac to observe the movement and loading of PFC Phelps. I hadn't really told any of them what my mission was but they all knew.

When the man from the cargo crew met me, he, too, struggled for words. On the tarmac, he told me stories of his childhood as a military brat and repeatedly told me that he was sorry for my loss. I was starting to understand that, even here in Philadelphia, far away from Chance's hometown, people were mourning with his family.

On the tarmac, the cargo crew was silent expect for occasional instructions to each other. I stood to the side and saluted as the conveyor moved Chance to the aircraft. I was relieved when he was finally settled into place. The rest of the bags were loaded and I watched them shut the cargo bay door before heading back up to board the aircraft.

One of the pilots had taken my carry-on bag himself and had it stored next to the cockpit door so he could watch it while I was on the tarmac. As I boarded the plane, I could tell immediately that the flight attendants had already been informed of my mission. They seemed a little choked up as they led me to my seat.

About 45 minutes into our flight I still hadn't spoken to anyone expect to tell the first class flight attendant that I would prefer water. I was surprised when the flight attendant from the back of the plane suddenly appeared and leaned down to grab my hands. She said, "I want you to have this" as she pushed a small gold crucifix, with a relief of Jesus, into my hand. It was her lapel pin and it looked somewhat worn. I suspected it had been hers for quite some time. That was the only thing she said to me the entire flight.

When we landed in Minneapolis, I was the first one off the plane. The pilot himself escorted me straight down the side stairs of the exit tunnel to the tarmac. The cargo crew there already knew what was on this plane. They were unloading some of the luggage when an Army sergeant, a fellow escort who had left Dover earlier that day, appeared next to me. His "cargo" was going to be loaded onto my plane for its continuing leg. We stood side-by-side in the dark and executed a slow salute as Chance was removed from the plane. The cargo crew at Minneapolis kept Phelps's shipping case separate from all the other luggage as they waited to take us to the cargo area. I waited with the soldier and we saluted together as his fallen comrade was loaded onto the plane.

My trip with Chance was going to be somewhat unusual in that we were going to have an overnight stopover. We had a late start out of Dover and there was just too much traveling ahead of us to continue on that day. (We still had a flight from Minneapolis to Billings, Montana, then a five-hour drive to the funeral home. That was to be followed by a 90-minute drive to Chance's hometown.)

I was concerned about leaving him overnight in the Minneapolis cargo area. My ten-minute ride from the tarmac to the cargo holding area eased my apprehension. Just as in Philadelphia, the cargo guys in Minneapolis were extremely respectful and seemed honored to do their part. While talking with them, I learned that the cargo supervisor for Northwest Airlines at the Minneapolis airport is a Lieutenant Colonel in the Marine Corps Reserves. They called him for me and let me talk to him.

Once I was satisfied that all would be okay for the night, I asked one of the cargo crew if he would take me back to the terminal so that I could catch my hotel's shuttle. Instead, he drove me straight to the hotel himself. At the hotel, the Lieutenant Colonel called me and said he would personally pick me up in the morning and bring me back to the cargo area.

Before leaving the airport, I had told the cargo crew that I wanted to come back to the cargo area in the morning rather than go straight to the passenger terminal. I felt bad for leaving Chance overnight and wanted to see the shipping container where I had left it for the night. It was fine.

The Lieutenant Colonel made a few phone calls then drove me around to the passenger terminal. I was met again by a man from the cargo crew and escorted down to the tarmac. The pilot of the plane joined me as I waited for them to bring Chance from the cargo area. The pilot and I talked of his service in the Air Force and how he missed it.

I saluted as Chance was moved up the conveyor and onto the plane. It was to be a while before the luggage was to be loaded so the pilot took me up to the board the plane where I could watch the tarmac from a window. With no other passengers yet on board, I talked with the flight attendants and one of the cargo guys. He had been in the Navy and one of the attendants had been in the Air Force. Everywhere I went, people were continuing to tell me their relationship to the military. After all the baggage was aboard, I went back down to the tarmac, inspected the cargo bay, and watched them secure the door.

When we arrived at Billings, I was again the first off the plane. This time Chance's shipping container was the first item out of the cargo hold. The funeral director had driven five hours up from Riverton, Wyoming to meet us. He shook my hand as if I had personally lost a brother.

We moved Chance to a secluded cargo area. Now it was time for me to remove the shipping container and drape the flag over the casket. I had predicted that this would choke me up but I found I was more concerned with proper flag etiquette than the solemnity of the moment. Once the flag was in place, I stood by and saluted as Chance was loaded onto the van from the funeral home. I was thankful that we were in a small airport and the event seemed to go mostly unnoticed. I picked up my rental car and followed Chance for five hours until we reached Riverton. During the long trip I imagined how my meeting with Chance's parents would go. I was very nervous about that.

When we finally arrived at the funeral home, I had my first face-to-face meeting with the Casualty Assistance Call Officer. It had been his duty to inform the family of Chance's death. He was on the Inspector/Instructor staff of an infantry company in Salt Lake City, Utah and I knew he had had a difficult week.

Inside I gave the funeral director some of the paperwork from Dover and discussed the plan for the next day. The service was to be at 1400 in the high school gymnasium up in Dubois, population about 900, some 90 miles away. Eventually, we had covered everything. The CACO had some items that the family wanted to be inserted into the casket and I felt I needed to inspect Chance's uniform to ensure everything was proper. Although it was going to be a closed casket funeral, I still wanted to ensure his uniform was squared away.

Earlier in the day I wasn't sure how I'd handle this moment. Suddenly, the casket was open and I got my first look at Chance Phelps. His uniform was immaculate-a tribute to the professionalism of the Marines at Dover. I noticed that he wore six ribbons over his marksmanship badge; the senior one was his Purple Heart. I had been in the Corps for over 17 years, including a combat tour, and was wearing eight ribbons. This Private First Class, with less than a year in the Corps, had already earned six.

The next morning, I wore my dress blues and followed the hearse for the trip up to Dubois. This was the most difficult leg of our trip for me. I was bracing for the moment when I would meet his parents and hoping I would find the right words as I presented them with Chance's personal effects.

We got to the high school gym about four hours before the service was to begin. The gym floor was covered with folding chairs neatly lined in rows. There were a few townspeople making final preparations when I stood next to the hearse and saluted as Chance was moved out of the hearse. The sight of a flag-draped coffin was overwhelming to some of the ladies.

We moved Chance into the gym to the place of honor. A Marine sergeant, the command representative from Chance's battalion, met me at the gym. His eyes were watery as he relieved me of watching Chance so that I could go eat lunch and find my hotel.

At the restaurant, the table had a flier announcing Chance's service. Dubois High School gym; two o' clock. It also said that the family would be accepting donations so that they could buy flak vests to send to troops in Iraq.

I drove back to the gym at a quarter after one. I could've walked-you could walk to just about anywhere in Dubois in ten minutes. I had planned to find a quiet room where I could take his things out of their pouch and untangle the chain of the Saint Christopher medal from the dog tag chains and arrange everything before his parents came in. I had twice before removed the items from the pouch to ensure they were all there-even though there was no chance anything could've fallen out. Each time, the two chains had been quite tangled. I didn't want to be fumbling around trying to untangle them in front of his parents. Our meeting, however, didn't go as expected.

I practically bumped into Chance's step-mom accidentally and our introductions began in the noisy hallway outside the gym. In short order I had met Chance's step-mom and father followed by his step-dad and, at last, his mom. I didn't know how to express to these people my sympathy for their loss and my gratitude for their sacrifice. Now, however, they were repeatedly thanking me for bringing their son home and for my service. I was humbled beyond words.

I told them that I had some of Chance's things and asked if we could try to find a quiet place. The five of us ended up in what appeared to be a computer lab-not what I had envisioned for this occasion.

After we had arranged five chairs around a small table, I told them about our trip. I told them how, at every step, Chance was treated with respect, dignity, and honor. I told them about the staff at Dover and all the folks at Northwest Airlines. I tried to convey how the entire Nation, from Dover to Philadelphia, to Minneapolis, to Billings, and Riverton expressed grief and sympathy over their loss.

Finally, it was time to open the pouch. The first item I happened to pull out was Chance's large watch. It was still set to Baghdad time. Next were the lanyard and the wooden cross. Then the dog tags and the Saint Christopher medal. This time the chains were not tangled. Once all of his items were laid out on the table, I told his mom that I had one other item to give them. I retrieved the flight attendant's crucifix from my pocket and told its story. I set that on the table and excused myself. When I next saw Chance's mom, she was wearing the crucifix on her lapel.

By 1400 most of the seats on the gym floor were filled and people were finding seats in the fixed bleachers high above the gym floor. There were a surprising number of people in military uniform. Many Marines had come up from Salt Lake City. Men from various VFW posts and the Marine Corps League occupied multiple rows of folding chairs. We all stood as Chance's family took their seats in the front.

It turned out the Chance's sister, a Petty Officer in the Navy, worked for a Rear Admiral-the Chief of Naval Intelligence-at the Pentagon. The Admiral had brought many of the sailors on his staff with him to Dubois pay respects to Chance and support his sister. After a few songs and some words from a Navy Chaplain, the Admiral took the microphone and told us how Chance had died.

Chance was an artillery cannoneer and his unit was acting as provisional military police outside of Baghdad. Chance had volunteered to man a .50 caliber machine gun in the turret of the leading vehicle in a convoy. The convoy came under intense fire but Chance stayed true to his post and returned fire with the big gun, covering the rest of the convoy, until he was fatally wounded.

Then the commander of the local VFW post read some of the letters Chance had written home. In letters to his mom he talked of the mosquitoes and the heat. In letters to his stepfather he told of the dangers of convoy operations and of receiving fire.

The service was a fitting tribute to this hero. When it was over, we stood as the casket was wheeled out with the family following. The casket was placed onto a horse-drawn carriage for the mile-long trip from the gym, down the main street, then up the steep hill to the cemetery. I stood alone and saluted as the carriage departed the high school. I found my car and joined Chance's convoy.

The town seemingly went from the gym to the street. All along the route, the people had lined the street and were waving small American flags. The flags that were otherwise posted were all at half-staff. For the last quarter mile up the hill, local boy scouts, spaced about 20 feet apart, all in uniform, held large flags. At the foot of the hill, I could look up and back and see the enormity of our procession. I wondered how many people would be at this funeral if it were in, say, Detroit or Los Angeles-probably not as many as were here in little Dubois, Wyoming.

The carriage stopped about 15 yards from the grave and the military pall bearers and the family waited until the men of the VFW and Marine Corps league were formed up and schools busses had arrived carrying many of the people from the procession route. Once the entire crowd was in place, the pallbearers came to attention and began to remove the casket from the caisson. As I had done all week, I came to attention and executed a slow ceremonial salute as Chance was being transferred from one mode of transport to another.

From Dover to Philadelphia; Philadelphia to Minneapolis; Minneapolis to Billings; Billings to Riverton; and Riverton to Dubois we had been together. Now, as I watched them carry him the final 15 yards, I was choking up. I felt that, as long as he was still moving, he was somehow still alive.

Then they put him down above his grave. He had stopped moving.
Although my mission had been officially complete once I turned him over to the funeral director at the Billings airport, it was his placement at his grave that really concluded it in my mind. Now, he was home to stay and I suddenly felt at once sad, relieved, and useless.

The chaplain said some words that I couldn't hear and two Marines removed the flag from the casket and slowly folded it for presentation to his mother. When the ceremony was over, Chance's father placed a ribbon from his service in Vietnam on Chance's casket. His mother approached the casket and took something from her blouse and put it on the casket. I later saw that it was the flight attendant's crucifix. Eventually friends of Chance's moved closer to the grave. A young man put a can of Coppenhagen 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

The Department of Defense announced today the death of two Marines who were supporting Operation Iraqi Freedom.

Cpl. Jason L. Dunham, 22, of Allegany, N.Y.

Cpl. Christopher A. Gibson, 23, of Simi Valley, Calif.

Gibson died April 18 and Dunham died April 22 due to injuries received from enemy action in Al Anbar Province, Iraq. They were assigned to 3rd Battalion, 7th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division, I Marine Expeditionary Force, at Twentynine Palms, Calif.

The Department of Defense announced today the death a Marine who was supporting Operation Iraqi Freedom.

Lance Cpl. Aaron C. Austin, 21, of Sunray, Texas, died April 26 due to hostile fire in Al Anbar Province, Iraq. He was assigned to 2nd Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division, I Marine Expeditionary Force, at Camp Pendleton, Calif.

Associated Press
4/30/2004

WOODLAND, Calif. - Marine Staff Sgt. Jimmy J. Arroyave loved his family, national parks and the Sacramento Kings.

He and his family visited the Channel Islands before his deployment to Iraq in March, and they wanted to see other national parks in Arizona and New Mexico when he came home.

The soldier often e-mailed his wife, Rachelle, reminding her of his love for her and his family. He also would sneak in questions about his favorite basketball team.

"I would try to go on the Sacramento Kings Web site and update him," his grieving wife said.

Arroyave, who served two missions in Iraq, died April 15 in a non-combat vehicle accident near Ar Ramdi, officials with the Department of Defense said in a statement. He was a utilities technician helping to purify the water with Combat Service Support Battalion 1, 1st Marine Expeditionary Force, and stationed at Camp Pendleton.

The military is investigating his death.

Arroyave, 30, wanted to be a soldier since he was a kid and enlisted in the Marines in December 1993 when he was 19. He was hoping to land a job as a recruiter in the United States to increase his chances of being promoted to gunnery sergeant and to be closer to his family, his wife said.

"I know in my heart he died doing what he loved to do," she said. "He was proud to be a Marine, and he loved the military."

Arroyave, born in Colombia, was a 1992 graduate of Cache Creek High School in Woodland, which is about 20 miles northwest of Sacramento.

He and his wife married in 1998 after meeting at an athletic club. They had two daughters, 6-year-old Vanessa and 2-year-old Natalia, and were expecting their third child in October.

"If it's a boy, I'll name it after his father," Rachelle Arroyave said.

Jimmy Arroyave also has an 11-year-old daughter, Katie Arroyave.

His 49-year-old mother, Carmenza Brennan, said her son had a "big heart" and took care of his family. "He's my only son. And he's not only my son, he's my best friend," she said.

Jimmy Arroyave's military assignments took him to other countries, including Japan, and he spent long periods of time away from his wife. When he couldn't call home, he sent e-mail messages.

"In his last e-mail, he said his Easter was OK. He asked how were the girls. He said he loved and missed us, and hopefully he would be home in October before the baby was born," his wife said.

Arroyave was awarded three medals and two ribbons during his 10-year service.

###

MARINE WHO SHIELDED HIS MEN MOURNED AT FUNERAL


ASSOCIATED PRESS - 1 MAY 2004 -

SCIO, New York -

Mourners filled one of Corporal Jason Dunham's favorite places Saturday - his high school gym - for the funeral of the Marine, who died in Iraq after using his own body to shield his men from an attacker's grenade.

The gym, packed with more than 1,500 people, is the largest gathering space in the upstate New York town of Scio, where Dunham grew up.

His casket rested beneath a basketball hoop.

Dunham, 22, died just over a week ago from wounds he sustained on 14 April in Iraq.

A report from the Marine Corps said Dunham was commanding a check point near Karbala when a man got out of a car and tried to flee. Dunham tackled the man, who then pulled a pin from a hand grenade. Dunham dove onto the grenade before it exploded, the Marines reported.

Two other Marines were injured.

Dunham, with K Company, 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines, was remembered in Iraq on Thursday at a service attended by more than 500 Marines, sailors and soldiers, the Marines reported.

Dunham "never judged anyone and he never judged the people over there," friend Justin Lambert said at Saturday's funeral. "He was just doing his job. He's going to be missed."

As a long procession of cars and walkers accompanied the casket to the nearby cemetery, Scio residents sat on their porches and children lined the sidewalk.

An American flag was dr