When I was first approached about writing this weekly column, I doubted I could do it, in part because, although I did my Army job well years ago, I never enthusiastically embraced the soldier identity or felt connected to the military and veteran community.
That’s been changing.
I wore my 834th Engineer Company hat to my local hardware store. There, I talked to Jeff Pierce about a new weed trimmer.
“I notice the engineer cap,” he said. “Did you serve?”
I told him I had, years ago, back in Iowa and for a year in Afghanistan.
“I was 26 years in the Navy. My first ship was the USS Iowa.”
I remembered the Iowa had once suffered an accidental explosion.
“I was aboard that day.”
I mentioned my column and offered to buy Jeff a beer if he’d share a story.
Not for the first time, I felt inadequate to my mission. I was only a corporal in the National Guard who had enlisted for college money. Jeff retired as a chief warrant officer 4 with decades of experience. What right had I to ask him to tell me his story?
Jeff had recently attended the 30th anniversary memorial for the 47 sailors killed in the explosion in USS Iowa’s gun turret 2 on April 19, 1989. He had been deeply moved by Iowa Governor Kim Reynolds’ speech honoring the Iowa, her crew, and the fallen sailors.
“Why did she speak?” I asked. The Iowa was the first of four Iowa-class battleships, all of which were named after states. “It’s just a name, right? Iowa is about as far as possible from the Navy.”
“There’s a deep connection between the ship and Iowa,” Jeff explained. “The state of Iowa furnished the metal for the ship’s bell and for the officers’ table settings. When she was decommissioned, that was returned to Iowa. When she became a museum, Iowa sent it all back. Gov. Reynolds talked about the scale model of the USS Iowa on display outside her office and never truly understanding the ship’s importance until she was aboard with all of us.”
During the memorial, the ship’s bell rang for each of the 47 sailors killed in the accident. Jeff had the solemn duty and honor of reading three of the names.
He told me the story of what happened that day, pausing occasionally to regain emotional control. We talked for two hours, and finally, he apologized as his control broke.
“It’s OK,” I said. “I get it. We leave the service, but parts of it stay with us. I’ve struggled, too. When we talk about the hard stuff, it’s tough to keep it together.”
I told him I’d spent some time at the VA talking about emotional troubles resulting from my service. “Growing up, I had never believed in counseling, but our challenges are real, and we need to let our brothers in arms know they’re not alone, that it’s OK to seek help.”
This he strongly agreed with, and when it was time to go, though we don’t know each other well, we said goodbye with a quick bro-hug.
He was raised in California and served on a ship named after the state where I grew up and served in the Army National Guard. Years later, we met in a hardware store just outside Spokane, Washington, in a town we’d both come to live in. We share a connection as unlikely as that between my old home state and her namesake battleship.
But it’s an important connection. Jeff had been reluctant to tell his story of the deadly disaster aboard the USS Iowa. Perhaps he wouldn’t have shared it with me at all if I had not also served.
For years, I never quite understood what it meant to be a veteran. But in trusting me with his story, Jeff Pierce helped to validate my membership in the veteran community, in this family with so many stories to share.
Trent Reedy served as a combat engineer in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.