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.

Matters of necessity

Okay, I’ve noticed a whole lot of hoo-ha about the apparent sanctity of the public loos in this country. You know—what birth infrastructure you should be able to display in order to use the door labeled either Ladies or Gentlemen. (Or variants thereof.)

Yes, I understand there are some serious economic issues involved in regulating how businesses provide “restrooms”. Just as there were when the Americans with Disabilities Act required businesses to make their facilities wheelchair accessible. I also understand that it’s disconcerting to be in the process of taking care of private physical needs and unexpectedly discovering a person in that small space whose appearance doesn’t mirror yours.

But there’s something else that’s bothering me a whole lot more than which set of birth-genitalia might or might not still be on the person walking through a specific door. It’s that—in a building full of people engaged in the support of scientific inquiry, the preponderance of whom are highly educated—it’s become apparent that some fair number of them are not washing their hands after using the toilet. I hear the flush, and then the sound of the door opening and closing. No intervening use of the washbasin.

In a word: euw.

As far as I’m concerned, if you use the facilities for the intended purpose, aren’t yapping continuously on your mobile phone, don’t toss trash around the place, and exhibit basic standards of hygiene, you can pee next to me whenever the necessity prompts you.

The rest of you can basically go piss up a rope.

Feeling lucky?

You know, sometimes those guys at Google are just so quick to provide you answers, they can’t even be arsed to wait until you tell them what it is you’re looking for.

They remind me of a dog so excited by the thought of you throwing the ball that it just wiggles in anticipation.

Viz.:

Here’s the thing: since I took that screenshot I can’t recall what it was I was searching for. But it wasn’t any of the possibilities that Google threw up.

Belief systems

There’s just so much to wonder about when you come across something like this:

I guess I can understand why a state that still hasn’t reconciled itself to union with the likes of Minnesota, California and Vermont would choose to display “In God we trust” on license plates instead of “E pluribus unum”.

Evidently the Commonwealth, in its quest to dislodge citizens from their money, offers “more than 200 unique plates” that allow vehicle owners to flaunt affiliations with colleges, military branches and special interests. You can even get your company logo slapped up on a license plate. For the right emollient.

This anything-for-a-buck mindset must be the explanation for the “Don’t tread on me” plate, in 1950s oxidized mustard background with the coiled rattlesnake on it.

The Old Dominion has clearly descended from the environment of Madison, Marshall and Lee to the stomping ground of Tea Partiers.

But back to the Godly plate. What I wonder is, what, exactly, is the driver trusting the Almighty to do? Protect him/her from other drivers? Clear a path through Beltway traffic? Jam the State Police’s radar? Produce parking spots on demand?

This is a heavy burden for any deity.

Summer of no love

Oh, deep joy—I’ve just discovered that the condo pool hours (for the pool that’s directly below the only windows in this flat) are 0800-2100, every day (except Saturday, when it's open until 2200), from Memorial Day weekend to Labor Day.

For the past week I’ve been listening to the lifeguards train daily. Although they’re not splashing or shouting, if I have any window open at all they sound like they’re in my living room.

That’s my entire summer spent with no access to fresh air, then.

And now I understand why the owners have left the country.

Gratitude Monday: "Jesus, take the wheel."

It is not exactly a stop-the-presses moment if I say that the innovators who brought us the ability to produce and share online selfie videos from our smart phones have a lot to answer for. Because there is way, way too much of that dreck on the Interwebs.

However, there is cream in this ocean of souring milk, and sometimes it does rise to the top. Two examples I particularly like:

Last week a Texas woman named Candace Payne made an impulse purchase and was so tickled by it that she shared her delight on Facebook before she could even leave the parking lot:

The woman practically single-handedly broke the Internet, with her video going so viral it left Zika in its dust.  

As you might imagine, Payne has been blitzed with all manner of offers to monetize the video; she may end up with her own talk show. But she told NPR’s Rachel Martin that people have also reached out to her to say that her video with her truly infectious joy lifted their spirits at a point when they didn’t think that was possible.

And that’s a tremendous gift.

My other example is from last July, when a Tennessee woman named Veronica-Pooh Nash Poleate was troubled by reports of people being killed by sharks off the North Carolina coast. The spirit moved her on her way to church to fire up her video and remind us that if we go into the shark’s house, we can expect to be eaten.

I happen to think that “Watch the ocean from a distance” is excellent advice. Especially during shark season. Or, in the Chesapeake Bay, during jellyfish season.

One major commonality of these two videos is that both women talk about and embody joy. “It’s the simple joys.” “Let us rejoice.” This is something that it’s very easy for us to lose here in the reality of the 21^st Century. Sometimes it’s particularly easy for us to lose as we wade through the massive universe of vicious, ignorant, manipulative and fatuous user-generated content that the Web has made possible. Especially during an election season.

So today I’m grateful for Payne and Poleate, and others like them, who pop up occasionally online and remind me to look for that joy, even in places where I don’t think it could possibly be found.