TINA L. SCOTT
EDITOR
Imagine if you will … if you have not already actually lived this … that you have a child, or a spouse, or a parent, or a sibling, who is serving in the military. You are proud of your soldier. Very proud. Your soldier has gone through training to become strong, is patriotic and loves this country, and will do whatever it takes to protect our freedoms, and even the freedoms of people in other countries that are being trampled upon.
You’ve seen your soldier off … quite some time ago now. You worry all the time; you just can’t help it, but you keep up a brave face. You smile. You talk about your soldier with others who ask. You speak with pride about your soldier’s accomplishments, strength, heart, and bravery. You hope and pray for your soldier’s safe return.
Yet intermingled with the pride and patriotism and love for your soldier is always that niggling fear: is your soldier all right? What is happening? When will your soldier come back to you, and will they be the same person they were when they left, before they saw all the horrors of war? How will this war, or this deployment, change your soldier?
You live for the letters. They are your link to your soldier now. And if your soldier has been deployed in recent years, you sometimes get phone calls and even video chats. They are your assurance. Your lifeline to your soldier. The proof that your soldier is OK. You cling to them and they are your hope.
And then one day, as you are just going about your life, an official-looking vehicle pulls up in front of your house. You see it. And you know.
Your world crashes down around you before the uniformed officer and the chaplain even get out of the car to make their way to the door. Somehow you, or someone else in your family, makes their way to the front door to open it, to stand before the officer who says the words you have feared ever since your soldier left for basic training: “I have been asked to inform you that your … has been reported dead in … on …” The words fade in and out. That officer can’t have said the name of YOUR soldier. It’s not possible. Never coming home? Dead? NO! It can’t be. NOOOO! Whether the scream is aloud or only in your mind and heart, it is there. Gut wrenching. Ripping your heart loose from the rest of your body.
“On behalf of the Secretary of Defense, I extend to you and your family my deepest sympathy in your great loss.”
The words ring hollow. They cannot know. It feels like someone has kicked you in the stomach as hard as they can. At first you cannot even breath. You are in shock.
Disbelief. Numb.
And then the sobs come. Deep, deep wracking sobs – some silent and then some loud. You crumple … onto the floor, into a chair, to your knees … somehow.
Your world, the world as you have known it, has been destroyed. You will never see your soldier again. Never hear that voice, that laughter. Never feel that hug, that touch. Never again see the twinkle in those eyes.
Your soldier has died in the line of duty. Your soldier has given everything. Your soldier’s life … is gone.
It is a scene that has been replayed in one version or another, even coming in the form of a telegram years before in-person notifications became the norm, in more than 1.3 million homes, sometimes more than once in the same home as some families lost more than one soldier, even more than two, families that were decimated by the price of war.
Dating back to the American Revolutionary War of 1775 to 1783, more than 1.3 million American soldiers have died in combat.
In the last 21 years alone, in the War on Terror (which began in 2001), 7,075 American soldiers have died and as a result, 7,075 American families have endured something very similar to the scenario above. In these recent 21 years, those soldiers lost their lives in: Operation Iraqi Freedom: 4,431 (2003-2010, primarily in Iraq); Operation Enduring Freedom: 2,352 (2001-2014, primarily in Afghanistan); Operation Inherent Resolve: 109 (2014-present, primarily in Iraq, Syria, and Libya); Operation Freedom’s Sentinel: 109 (2014-2021, Afghanistan only); and Operation New Dawn: 74 (2010-2011, primarily in Iraq). [War on Terror data available from the U.S. Department of Defense.]
In our own small Merrill community, in Lincoln County, hundreds of families have lived through the heartbreak of such a loss.
Most recently, Merrill suffered through this grief when two Merrill soldiers died in the line of duty in 2006.
Spc. Grant Allen Dampier, age 25, of Merrill, died on Monday, May 15, 2006, in Balad, Iraq. He had lived in Merrill with his wife, Heidi, and three young daughters and also left behind parents, siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews, in-laws, grandparents, extended family members, and friends. The entire community mourned his loss. His daughters are now all grown, having grown up without him in their lives.
Then Sgt. Ryan David Jopek, age 20, of Merrill, died on Wednesday, Aug. 2, 2006, in Tikrit, Iraq, from a roadside bomb. He left behind his parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends and impacted the lives of people in this community who had never even met him. He never had the chance to marry or start a family.
The Merrill community was in shock when we lost two brave, young, selfless men in the space of less than three months. And the community mourned.
Mourning these losses … all of them collectively, and those individually that impacted each of us … is what Memorial Day is all about. Remembering the fallen. Supporting and caring for the families of fallen soldiers left behind. Being thankful for the ones who gave the ultimate sacrifice. All gave some. But some gave all.