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, I 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, but 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 except
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 except 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 that 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 school 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 Copenhagen 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 from 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
