By U.S. Marine Corps Lieutenant Colonel Michael Strobl
When we arrived at Billings, I was the first off the plane. The funeral director had driven five hours up from Riverton, Wyoming, to meet us. He shook my hand as if I had personally lost a brother.
I picked up my rental car and followed Chance for the five hours back to Riverton. During the long trip I imagined how my meeting with Chance's parents would go. I didn't know anything about Chance Phelps; not even what he looked like. I wondered about his family and what it would be like to meet them. I was very nervous about that.
When we finally arrived at the funeral home, I felt I needed to inspect Chance's uniform to ensure everything was proper.
Earlier in the day I wasn't sure how I'd handle this moment. Suddenly, the casket was open and I got my first look at Chance Phelps. His uniform was immaculate—a tribute to the professionalism of the Marines at Dover. I noticed that he wore six ribbons over his marksmanship badge; the senior one was his Purple Heart. I had been in the Corps for more than seventeen years, including a combat tour, and was wearing eight ribbons. This private first class, with less than a year in the Corps, had already earned six.
The next morning, I wore my dress blues and followed the hearse for the trip up to Dubois, population about 900, some ninety miles away. This was the most difficult leg of our trip for me. I was bracing for the moment when I would meet his parents and hoping I would find the right words as I presented them with Chance's personal effects. We got to the high school about four hours before the service was to begin.
In short order I met Chance's step-mom and father, followed by his step-dad and, at last, his mom.
I told them about our trip. I told them how, at every step, Chance was treated with respect, dignity, and honor. I didn't know how to express to these people my sympathy for their loss and my gratitude for their sacrifice. Now, however, they were repeatedly thanking me for bringing their son home and for my service. I was humbled beyond words.
The service was a fitting tribute to this hero. When it was over, we stood as the casket was wheeled out with the family following. The casket was placed onto a horse-drawn carriage for the mile-long trip from the gym, down the main street, then up the steep hill to the cemetery. I stood alone and saluted as the carriage departed the high school.
All along the route, people had lined the street and were waving small American flags. The flags that were otherwise posted were all at half-staff. For the last quarter mile up the hill, local boy scouts, spaced about twenty feet apart, all in uniform, held large flags. At the foot of the hill, I could look up and back and see how enormous the procession was. I wondered how many people would be at this funeral if it were in, say, Detroit or Los Angeles—probably not as many as were here in little Dubois, Wyoming.
The carriage stopped about fifteen yards from the grave. Once the entire crowd was in place, the pallbearers came to attention and began to remove the casket from the caisson. As I had done all week, I came to attention and executed a slow ceremonial salute as Chance was being transferred from one mode of transport to another.
From Dover to Philadelphia, Philadelphia to Minneapolis, Minneapolis to Billings, Billings to Riverton, and Riverton to Dubois, we had been together. Now, as I watched them carry him the final fifteen yards, I was choking up. I felt that, as long as he was still moving, he was somehow still alive. Then they positioned him over his grave. He had stopped moving.
Now, he was home to stay and I suddenly felt at once sad, relieved, and useless. It had been my honor to take Chance Phelps to his final post. Now he is on the high ground overlooking his town.
I miss him.
Gisteravond heb ik gekeken naar de documentaire Operation Homecoming van Richard Simmons. Ik werd meegenomen in de hoofden van mannen en vrouwen die vochten in Irak.
Vandaag keek ik vanuit lokaal 108 naar samenpakkende duistere wolken. Ik moest denken aan Chance Russel Phelps. Rouwcentrum, uniform check, gymzaal en graf. Zijn 'thuiskomst' zit nu in mijn hoofd.
Een half uur voor de wekker. Job staat naast bed en moet plassen. We lopen naar het toilet. Job kleedt zich uit en gaat uitgebreid zitten. Hij is wakker, ik niet. Hij begint een heel gesprek. Omdat iedereen nog slaapt zeg ik hem dat hij zachtjes moet praten. Ondanks het tijdstip zet Job hoog in en fluistert; 'Pappa weet je wel wat onderwijs is?'
