It is a historical constant that as a man’s age increases, so too does his list of those for whom he mourns. By the law of averages, someone at age 50 is missing lost grandparents, parents, and old friends. A 60-year-old has lost more people.
When I enlisted in the Army National Guard, I accepted the increased risk to myself, and training for reacting to direct and indirect fire, assaulting a fixed position, and breaching a wire obstacle further prepared me for the possibility that I might be killed in the service. Nobody prepared me for the burden of losing good soldiers with whom I served.
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Sgt. Seth Garceau was a heavy equipment operator in my combat engineer company. I didn’t train with him much, but one summer he and I drove a big Army truck from Fort Riley, Kansas, back to Davenport, Iowa. I was nervous about handling the thing, especially in civilian traffic. But Garceau helped me. He had this great “aw shucks” smile. Everybody liked him. In late February 2005, while I was looking forward to returning home from Afghanistan, Garceau’s vehicle was blasted by an IED in Iraq. He held on for a few days, but finally died in a hospital in Germany.
Staff Sgt. LeRoy Webster was part of the mortar squad on our outpost in western Afghanistan in 2004 and 2005. He had been on deployment, guarding a nerve gas destruction operation in Indiana. Less than six months later, he volunteered for our deployment. Webster and his guys would fire these loud mortars. They loved sending rounds downrange. They covered guard shifts and patrolled the province too. I didn’t serve very closely with Webster, but he was a good guy.
“He was always happy-go-lucky,” said Staff Sgt. Clabaugh, one of the mortar men. “Not one to get mad about everything. He kept his service near to his heart.”
Webster loved the service so much that he switched from the guard to active duty after our deployment. Four years later, he was shot and killed on his second tour in Iraq.
Sgt. Eric McArthur was a close friend of mine in our combat engineer company. We were in the same squad, running battle drills, working on trucks, and freezing all night during those horrible March field training exercises. We were the same age, so we partied together and talked about everything. He served tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. He was a police officer. He died of an unexpected heart attack last September.
I’m writing this on the first Memorial Day since we lost him. McArthur’s wife posted a photo of one of his young daughters sitting next to his grave.
“Please tell her that everybody in the whole company liked and respected Sergeant McArthur,” I commented. “He was a great man.” It’s true, for what my words are worth.
I was talking about McArthur with another old Army buddy, retired Staff Sgt. Jacob Pries. “I love and hate this holiday weekend,” he said. I know what he means.
We who served have a duty to remember “our guys.” We post photos and share memories of those soldiers we’ve lost. We owe it to them to help make sure they’re remembered. It’s a burden and an honor.
The Army tried to prepare us for the possibility of not making it home, encouraging us to buy life insurance and update our wills. I remember an angry lecture from a drill sergeant about how being a soldier meant enduring fear and physical discomfort. But the Army never warned us about spending the rest of our lives keeping a vigil for the memory of our fallen comrades.
Everyone misses more and more people as they age, but the members of America’s military miss more people than others. We carry the weight of loss more than we owe. And yet we have to continue to invoke the memory of those we’ve lost because we owe them so much.
Trent Reedy, author of several books including Enduring Freedom, served as a combat engineer in the Iowa Army National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
*Some names and call signs in this story may have been changed due to operational security or privacy concerns.
