Beloved fathers, husbands, brothers and sons

A couple of days ago I wrote of some group markers clustered in Section 60 of Arlington National Cemetery. Men who had been killed in a single action were memorialized together, whether or not they were actually buried there.

As I was walking along one row of graves in that section, I found something a little different: an individual headstone that did not show anyone’s name:

I paused not only because it was a group commemoration, but an individual stone, but also because of the wreath beside it, and the extra flowers and flag in front of it. And the plastic cup that held the contents of the empty mini of Black Jack.

As I was maneuvering to get the close-up, a woman came by, dropping flowers at the graves alongside, as well as this one. She told me that the incident on 6 August 2011 was the shooting down of a helicopter carrying Navy SEALs, flown by members of the Colorado Army National Guard. She herself is from Colorado, so she was making a point of leaving flowers for them all. It was a bad crash, she said; I could look it up.

I glanced up and down the row. “Survivors, none?” I asked. She shook her head and moved down the line.

So I did indeed look it up. Extortion 17 (one-seven) was one of two Chinooks (accompanied by a couple of Apache attack helicopters) engaged in a night operation in Wardak Province, Afghanistan. They were supporting Army Rangers who were in pursuit of a senior regional Taliban leader. The craft was carrying 15 members of SEAL Team 6, two SEALs from another unit, seven Afghan National Army Commandos, five Naval Special Warfare support personnel, three US Army Reserve members, two pilots from the Colorado Army National Guard, two USAF pararescuemen, one USAF combat controller, an Afghan civilian interpreter and a military dog.

As the helicopter flew low and slow to the landing zone, it was struck by an RPG and crashed. “Angel down,” radioed one of the Apaches.

Survivors, none.

Extortion 17 was the deadliest helicopter crash in the history of US special operations, and the single greatest loss of American life in the Afghan war. Thirty-eight men, 30 of them Americans from three service branches, and the dog.

There have been conspiracy theories floated about how such a disaster could happen to such elite forces. There had to be some kind of chicanery involved in the downing. But in a story last year in Air & Space Magazine, a man who could be considered an expert in such matters (senior watch officer for USMC air ops in southern Afghanistan) said, “There are a lot of bullets out there that say ‘To whom it may concern’…As we’ve seen a number of times, there’s a point that a lucky shot is going to get you.”

The Colorado woman told me that the pilot is buried out there, and others are elsewhere. But after she left, I walked up and down the row, taking photos of all Extortion 17 graves there, 16 of them.

I wanted to be sure to remember their names.

Sharing the water of life

I mentioned that on Memorial Day Arlington National Cemetery was the scene of many gatherings of the living and the dead. In many ways they weren’t too different from picnics and barbecues taking place in backyards all around the country. (Except I didn’t notice anyone breaking out the grills.)

However, one group was breaking out something just as good.

Two young men and a young woman were chatting by a row of graves:

Then I noticed that one was anointing several of them from a 750-liter bottle of something, which turned out to be Glenmorangie.

It wasn’t evident to me what the connection between the several graves might be—they all were killed in late 2003 in Iraq, but in separate actions. They ranged in rank from field grade to private.

Charles Buehring was killed on 26 October in an RPG attack on the Al-Rasheed Hotel in Baghdad.

Cornell Gilmore died when his Black Hawk helicopter was shot down in Tikrit on 23 October.

John R. Teal died of wounds sustained on 23 October when an IED hit a convoy he was riding in near Baqubah.

Jonathan Falaniko was near the Al Khadra police station on 27 October in Baghdad when an RPG struck, killing him and several others.

As I was passing, the man pouring said, “You’ll be feeling good today, buddy.” And since the aroma of the Glenmorangie spread several rows out, I called back, “Everyone around here’s going to be feeling good today.”

I have to say that, as gestures go, emptying a fifth of fine single-malt whisky over four headstones is as grand as it gets. I’m glad I had the opportunity to share in it, even in an ancillary way.

Set 'em up

On Memorial Day, when I was walking through Section 60 of Arlington National Cemetery, I started paying attention to the non-floral items left at graves. And I came across these four headstones, all with additional flowers and bottles of Yuengling lager:

It turns out that these four Marines were part of a training exercise off Eglin Air Force Base in Florida on 10 March 2015. Their Black Hawk helicopter crashed in dense fog, killing all on board—seven Marines of the USMC Special Operations Command (MARSOC) and four Louisiana National Guardsmen.

Not a one of them old enough to run for President, but every one of them having already served in both Iraq and Afghanistan. (Saunders’ inscription doesn’t mention it, but you can look him up.)

I’d certainly like to know the story behind the Yuengling. And who left it. Because it felt a little like I'd walked into the local pub, where I could have bumped into these guys letting off steam.

Comrades in death

On my Memorial Day walk through Arlington NationalCemetery yesterday, I came across something I’d not seen before: monuments for multiple deaths in a single incident. The dead may not all actually buried there—some are elsewhere in ANC, and some lie in their home states—but many are united at Arlington as they were in the last moments on earth.

A couple are from Afghanistan:

This one, from the Korean War, does guard some of the remains of the men whose names are carved on the stone. The five had been thought to be MIA (which of course covers those who’ve been killed leaving no identifiable remains) in 1950. But in 2000 their remains were found on a site overlooking the Kuryong River, where they were last seen.

Although the monument dates their deaths as December 1953, that’s actually when their status was changed to presumed KIA. The action in which they probably died was on 27 November 1950. They were buried in various places in 2009, when this monument was erected.

Moving to another war, the men buried here died in 1971 when their helicopter was shot down. “Southeast Asia” in this instance means Cambodia. Their remains were only recovered in 2002, and they lie together as they served.

In a row of temporary grave markers, I noticed a cluster lined up next to a carved-out space in the grass.

Yes, there is another monument coming. Rainer S. Ramos, James L. Phipps, Warren Newton and Fred J. Secrist were shot down in a UH-1C gunship in Quang Tin province, South Vietnam, on 9 January 1968. Secrist’s was the only body found at the time, but in August 2011, human remains and personal effects were recovered from the site. They were eventually identified and rejoined Secrist in a group grave last June.

Perhaps next time I visit, their stone will be in place.

Gratitude Monday: Decoration Day

I spent this morning at Arlington National Cemetery. I thought Memorial Day might be a good time to check in; I last visited on Easter.

I’ve never actually been here for Memorial Day; it was quite surprising, and rather an emotional overload.

I’ve seen the graves decorated with wreaths for the holidays, but there is something about looking across row upon endless row of small American flags next to the headstones that just grips my throat.

Any way you look at it—across or through—not one person was left behind. All were remembered.

Same thing with flowers. As you walked into the visitor center there were young folks offering you flowers—roses, chrysanthemums, lilies—to lay on a grave. And yet—every grave I passed already had at least one flower on it.

Not even those without headstones were neglected: every grave I saw with a temporary marker also had a flag and a flower.

ANC was also a place for gatherings today. Folks brought out their camp chairs and umbrellas, spread blankets and settled in to spend some quality time with a friend or family member.

Many a headstone was decorated with an (empty) beer can or mini-bottle of scotch or bourbon. And there were items that are often found at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, too.

You know what—this is all I can manage after walking through these acres of sacrifice. But I’m deeply grateful for the men and women who have traded their lives for ours, and who rest in places like ANC around the world. And I’m also grateful for the people who honor them today and every day.