|
click above for details
VA Watchdog Stuff...
cups, hats, shirts...
click on item to order
and support the site.
Be sure to get all four
VA Watchdog dot Org
RSS feeds --
Daily VA
News Flashes
House CVA
Veterans' News
Senate CVA
Veterans' News
VA Press
Releases
Download your
free copy of the
2008 VA benefits
handbook here...
|
Printer-Friendly Version
VIDEO: HBO FILMS PRESENTS "TAKING CHANCE"
STARRING
KEVIN BACON -- The story of a Marine Officer who
accompanied the body of a young Marine killed
in Iraq to his final resting place in Wyoming.
Your comments accepted at bottom of
page.
Share story/email link.
-------------------------
We have a video trailer from
HBO films, and an article from CBS News.
---------------
Story here...
http://www.cbsnews.
com/stories/2007/04/12/sunday/main2677251.shtml
Story below:
---------------
A Soldier's Story: "Taking
Chance"
NEW YORK, (CBS) After they
are brought to Dover Air Force Base, all fallen soldiers, Marines, airmen,
and sailors are escorted home to their families and loved ones by a
uniformed member of the U.S. armed forces. In mid-April 2004, 38-year-old
U.S. Marine Lt. Col. Michael R. Strobl, a manpower analyst assigned to the
Combat Development Command in Quantico, Va., accompanied the body of a
young Marine killed in Iraq to his final resting place in Wyoming. Strobl
wrote the following description of his journey to Wyoming in a small,
spiral notebook on his way back to Virginia.
"Taking Chance"
A personal narrative by
Lieutenant Colonel Michael R. Strobl
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. 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 tough ones 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 as Clifton, Colorado — which is near
where 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. I called the major who had the task of informing Phelps’
parents of his death. The major
 said
that the funeral was going to be in Dubois, Wyoming. (It turned out that
PFC Phelps only lived near my hometown during 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 didn't know anything about Chance Phelps; not even what he looked like.
I wondered about his family and what it would be like to meet them. I did
push-ups 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 and the proper handling of the
remains, and 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 PFC Phelps’ parents were divorced.
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 branch, stop work and form up along the driveway
to render a slow ceremonial salute as the hearse departs. On this day,
there were also 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 master
gunnery sergeant in charge of the Marine liaison there came to see me. He
had a pouch with Chance Phelps’ 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 the Saint Christopher medal, which was on a silver
chain. Although we had been briefed that we might be carrying some
personal effects of the deceased, I was taken 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 into 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', and
then they pushed him the rest of the way in and we left. Now it was PFC
Chance Phelps’ 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 contribute to getting
Chance home. He offered his sympathy to the family. I was glad finally to
be moving, yet I was apprehensive about what things would be like at the
airport. I didn't want this container to be treated like ordinary cargo,
but I knew that the simple logistics of moving around something this large
would be difficult.
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 thanked me for my service. She
upgraded my ticket to first class.
After clearing security, I was met by another Northwest Airlines employee
at the gate. She told me a representative from cargo would be arriving 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 said that he was sorry for my loss. 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 when they gave
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 forty-five 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. I then 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 I had 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 10-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 airport is a lieutenant colonel in the Marine Corps Reserve. 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 and wanted to see the
shipping container where I had left it for the night.
The next morning, the lieutenant colonel drove me to the airport, and 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 about 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 would
be a while before the luggage was loaded, so the pilot took me up to 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 telling me about 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. 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, and it was now 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 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 (CACO). It had been his
duty to inform the family of Chance's death, and I knew he had been
through 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 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 make certain 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 more than 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 and into
the gym. A Marine sergeant, the command representative from Chance's
battalion, met me inside. 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 flyer 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 have walked; you
could walk to just about anywhere in Dubois in 10 minutes. I wanted to
find a quiet room where I could take Chance's 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 possibility anything could have fallen out. Each
time, the two chains had been quite intertwined. I didn't want to be
fumbling around trying to separate them in front of his parents. Our
meeting, however, didn’t go as expected.
I practically bumped into Chance's stepmom accidentally and our
introductions began in the noisy hallway outside the gym. In short order I
met Chance's stepmom and father, followed by his stepdad 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. 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 to pay respects to
Chance and to 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
.50caliber machine gun in the turret of the leading vehicle in a convoy.
The convoy came under intense fie but Chance stayed true to his post and
returned fie with the big gun, covering the rest of the convoy, until he
was fatally wounded.
After the admiral spoke, 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.
All along the route, 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 how enormous the procession
was. 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
pallbearers and the family waited until the men of the VFW and Marine
Corps league were formed up and the school buses 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 placed him at 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 the mission 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 removed 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. 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 earlier at the gym but the place was packed.
The largest room in the post was a banquet/dining/dancing area and it was
now being renamed "The Chance Phelps Room." Above the entry were two
items: a large portrait of Chance in his dress blues and a wooden carving
of the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor, the Marine Corps emblem. 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. Above it
all was a television that was playing a photomontage of Chance's life from
small boy to proud Marine.
As had been happening all day, indeed all week, people were thanking me
for bringing Chance home. I talked with the men who had handled the horses
and horse-drawn carriage and 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 room was christened.
Later, 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 to tell it,
but now he'd had enough beer to overcome his usual modesty. As the lance
corporal started to talk, an older man joined our circle. He wore a
baseball cap that indicated that 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. At that moment, in this circle of current and
former Marines, the differences in our ages and ranks dissipated — we were
all simply Marines. The young lance corporal began to tell us his story.
His squad had been on a patrol through a city street. They had taken
small-arms fire and had literally dodged a rocket-propelled grenade that
sailed between two Marines. At one point they received fire from behind a
wall and had neutralized the sniper with a SMAW (shoulder-launched
multipurpose assault weapon) round. The back blast of the SMAW, however,
kicked up a substantial rock that hammered the lance corporal in the
thigh, missing his groin only 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 fallen 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.
The staff sergeant finished the story. He told 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 medevac'd.
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 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 who 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 is on the high ground overlooking his town.
I miss him.
-------------------------
posted by Larry Scott
Founder and Editor
VA Watchdog dot Org
-------------------------
-------------------------
Please post your comments below on Google
Friend Connect. You must sign in. For larger view and work
area, click blue "expand" button in upper right corner of comment box.
-------------------------
Don't forget to read all of today's VA
News Flashes (click here)
Click here to make VA Watchdog dot Org your homepage
(go back to VA Watchdog dot Org Home
Page) |
Military
Medical Malpractice
Legal
Network
VA Watchdog Stuff...
cups, hats, shirts...
click on item to order
and support the site.
|
