More than 5,000 visitors will head to Arlington National Cemetery on Thursday to honor the nation’s fallen military heroes on Veterans Day.
Maureen and Kevin Looney will not be among them.
The Silver Spring couple’s oldest son, Lt. Brendan Looney, was killed 51 days ago, when his Black Hawk helicopter crashed in southern Afghanistan. It’s been seven weeks since the 29-year-old Navy SEAL arrived home in a flag-draped coffin.
But Kevin will be out of town for Veterans Day, selling computer parts. Maureen will be working in the development office at DeMatha Catholic High School in Hyattsville.
They think they’ll drive to Arlington to visit Brendan later, maybe next week.
They don’t need a calendar, or even a headstone, to remember their son. Every day, they remember his concern that his sisters’ dresses were too short. And his hope that boys would treat them well.
They remember the face he’d make when he thought you were being ridiculous — cheeks puffed out and eyes rolled up to the heavens — and even more they remember his expression when he was really proud of you.
Brendan was one of three sons who went to the Naval Academy, but Kevin doesn’t consider the Looneys a “military family,” despite their education, or the blue shutters and red front door set against his home’s white paint.
He just considers them a regular family whose six children would pile into a wooden toboggan and plow down a hill straight at the woods and a creek.
“How do you stop?” neighbors would ask. And the kids would say, “We wait for Brendan to yell, ‘Bail!’ ”
He always got the timing right.
Brendan was a natural athlete who couldn’t stop smiling when the Looneys moved from Charles County to Calvert County, where the 6-year-old was old enough to play football.
He was humble even then, hiding away his field day ribbons, stuffing good grades at the bottom of his backpack.
Brendan went to DeMatha, like his father, Kevin’s father, and Maureen’s two brothers. He played football, baseball and basketball, zeroing in on football as he got closer to graduation. The Naval Academy offered him a strong academic program and a chance at getting playing time in football. He started classes as his family moved to Silver Spring.
Brendan completed tours in Korea and Iraq before becoming a SEAL; he dedicated his training to his academy roommate, Travis Manion, who was killed in Iraq in 2007.
Brendan loved being a SEAL. He couldn’t talk about his missions, but after he died, Maureen found out how much his platoon looked up to him. How they always wanted to do as many push-ups as Brendan did. How if they saw Brendan eating tuna, they’d ask their girlfriends to send the same brand.
In March, Brendan headed to Afghanistan. It could have been his last official deployment, but he volunteered for five more years. Kevin wasn’t surprised; they all understood. “He felt like he was helping the cause to keep us safe, and keep the fight over there. He believed in his mission.”
He was supposed to be home by Oct. 2, for six months at least. They’d have Christmas together.
On Oct. 4, the 3,500 seats at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception overflowed for Brendan’s funeral. Manion’s tomb was moved to Arlington so they could rest side by side.
Maureen thinks sometimes of the last words she ever said to Brendan, who called two days before he died, while she was painting the upstairs. It was the fourth day in a row he had called, and they’d already talked about Thanksgiving and the family trip they wanted to take to Ireland. So after chatting for a little while, it was time to go, and Maureen told her son:
“Stay safe. Don’t do anything stupid. I only have a few days before you’re home. I love you.”
And they said goodbye.
