I wanted to take the time to remind folks about the real meaning of tomorrow.  These days, it’s about well-earned time off and perhaps some great discounts shopping.  But there’s more to Memorial Day than this.  The excerpt below isn’t meant to be a downer, it’s meant to see if you can read it without getting a tear in your eyes.  I’ve seen the movie and these “trip notes” have been turned into a book, but they’re worth your 10 minutes of reading time just to keep in mind what’s tomorrow’s really about.  It’s not about “thanking” anyone, it’s about remembering WHY we go to war in the first place.  This country has freedom’s that other peoples and countries only dream about.  Next time you drive as a female, drive across a state line without a special pass, go to the supermarket (with no shortages of food) or go to the bathroom with running water and 24-hour power,,,,remember the story that’s below-

Take the time to read it all-

Re-published in honor of Memorial Day.

Taking Chance

By LtCol Michael Strobl

EDITOR’S NOTE: PFC Chance Phelps, 19, died April 9, 2004 from hostile fire
in Al Anbar Province, Iraq. He was assigned to 3rd Battalion, 11th Marine
Regiment, 1st Marine Division. He was buried in Dubois, Wyoming on April 17,
2004

The below story was written by LtCol. Mike Strobl, assigned to Manpower
Management Officer Assignments at Quantico, who volunteered to be the escort
officer for PFC Phelps during his journey home. LtCol Strobl’s mission as
escort officer was to ensure PFC Phelps arrived home with dignity and honor
and in a professional and timely manner.

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, 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