I heard this letter read on the air today on a radio show as i was driving home, thought that some of you would like to read it. so i emailed the host of the show and asked if i could have a copy of the letter.I would like to thank that radio show host for the fast response. thanks Rusty Humphries.
PLEASE pass this story around and thank those who have served and sacrificed
for our freedoms and country
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 stoop working and place their hard
hats over their hearts. This was my first sign that my mission with PFC Phelps
was larger than the Marine Corps and that his family and friends were not
grieving alone. Eventually I was the last escort remaining in the lounge. The
Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant in charge of the Marine liaison there came to
see me. He had Chance Phelps s personal effects. He removed each item; a large
watch, a wooden cross with a lanyard, two loose dog tags, two dog tags on a
chain, and a Saint Christopher medal on a silver chain. Although we had been
briefed that we might be carrying some personal effects of the deceased, this
set me aback. Holding his personal effects, I was starting to get to know
Chance Phelps.Finally we were ready. I grabbed my bags and went outside. I was
somewhat startled when I saw the shipping container, loaded three-quarters of
the way in to the back of a black Chevy Suburban that had been modified to
carry such cargo. This was the first time I saw my cargo and I was surprised at
how large the shipping container was. The Master Gunnery Sergeant and I
verified that the name on the container was Phelps s then they pushed him the rest
of the way in and we left. Now it was PFC Chance Phelps s turn to receive the
military and construction workers honors. He was finally moving towards
home.As I chatted with the driver on the hour-long trip to Philadelphia, it became
clear that he considered it an honor to be able to contribute in getting
Chance home. He offered his sympathy to the family. I was glad to finally be
moving yet apprehensive about what things would be like at the airport. I didn t
want this package to be treated like ordinary cargo yet I knew that the simple
logistics of moving around a box this large would have to overrule my
preferences. When we got to the Northwest Airlines cargo terminal at the
Philadelphia airport, the cargo handler and hearse driver pulled the shipping container
onto a loading bay while I stood to the side and executed a slow salute. Once
Chance was safely in the cargo area, and I was satisfied that he would be
treated with due care and respect, the hearse driver drove me over to the
passenger terminal and dropped me off.As I walked up to the ticketing counter in my
uniform, a Northwest employee started to ask me if I knew how to use the
automated boarding pass dispenser. Before she could finish another ticketing agent
interrupted her. He told me to go straight to the counter then explained to
the woman that I was a military escort. She seemed embarrassed. The woman
behind the counter already had tears in her eyes as I was pulling out my
government travel voucher. She struggled to find words but managed to express her
sympathy for the family and thank me for my service. She upgraded my ticket to
first class.After clearing security, I was met by another Northwest Airline
employee at the gate. She told me a representative from cargo would be up to take
me down to the tarmac to observe the movement and loading of PFC Phelps. I
hadn t really told any of them what my mission was but they all knew.When the
man from the cargo crew met me, he, too, struggled for words. On the tarmac,
he told me stories of his childhood as a military brat and repeatedly told me
that he was sorry for my loss. I was starting to understand that, even here in
Philadelphia, far away from Chance s hometown, people were mourning with his
family. On the tarmac, the cargo crew was silent 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
PLEASE pass this story around and thank those who have served and sacrificed
for our freedoms and country
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 stoop working and place their hard
hats over their hearts. This was my first sign that my mission with PFC Phelps
was larger than the Marine Corps and that his family and friends were not
grieving alone. Eventually I was the last escort remaining in the lounge. The
Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant in charge of the Marine liaison there came to
see me. He had Chance Phelps s personal effects. He removed each item; a large
watch, a wooden cross with a lanyard, two loose dog tags, two dog tags on a
chain, and a Saint Christopher medal on a silver chain. Although we had been
briefed that we might be carrying some personal effects of the deceased, this
set me aback. Holding his personal effects, I was starting to get to know
Chance Phelps.Finally we were ready. I grabbed my bags and went outside. I was
somewhat startled when I saw the shipping container, loaded three-quarters of
the way in to the back of a black Chevy Suburban that had been modified to
carry such cargo. This was the first time I saw my cargo and I was surprised at
how large the shipping container was. The Master Gunnery Sergeant and I
verified that the name on the container was Phelps s then they pushed him the rest
of the way in and we left. Now it was PFC Chance Phelps s turn to receive the
military and construction workers honors. He was finally moving towards
home.As I chatted with the driver on the hour-long trip to Philadelphia, it became
clear that he considered it an honor to be able to contribute in getting
Chance home. He offered his sympathy to the family. I was glad to finally be
moving yet apprehensive about what things would be like at the airport. I didn t
want this package to be treated like ordinary cargo yet I knew that the simple
logistics of moving around a box this large would have to overrule my
preferences. When we got to the Northwest Airlines cargo terminal at the
Philadelphia airport, the cargo handler and hearse driver pulled the shipping container
onto a loading bay while I stood to the side and executed a slow salute. Once
Chance was safely in the cargo area, and I was satisfied that he would be
treated with due care and respect, the hearse driver drove me over to the
passenger terminal and dropped me off.As I walked up to the ticketing counter in my
uniform, a Northwest employee started to ask me if I knew how to use the
automated boarding pass dispenser. Before she could finish another ticketing agent
interrupted her. He told me to go straight to the counter then explained to
the woman that I was a military escort. She seemed embarrassed. The woman
behind the counter already had tears in her eyes as I was pulling out my
government travel voucher. She struggled to find words but managed to express her
sympathy for the family and thank me for my service. She upgraded my ticket to
first class.After clearing security, I was met by another Northwest Airline
employee at the gate. She told me a representative from cargo would be up to take
me down to the tarmac to observe the movement and loading of PFC Phelps. I
hadn t really told any of them what my mission was but they all knew.When the
man from the cargo crew met me, he, too, struggled for words. On the tarmac,
he told me stories of his childhood as a military brat and repeatedly told me
that he was sorry for my loss. I was starting to understand that, even here in
Philadelphia, far away from Chance s hometown, people were mourning with his
family. On the tarmac, the cargo crew was silent 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
