Stann rarely spoke about his gallantry in combat and consistently refused to take any credit, even after receiving the military’s third-highest honor. He had told Travis about those hellish events, however, to help prepare his friend for what he would soon encounter in Iraq.
The Marine officer had endured the loss of Naval Academy friends, explained to weeping mothers that sons under his command weren’t coming home, and seen the limbs of fellow Marines blown off by roadside bombs. But when Stann arrived at the Reed-Steinbach Funeral Home in Doylestown, he felt lost.
As the Iraq war hero waited in a long line that stretched outside the funeral home, he turned to his wife, Teressa. During his first deployment, Travis had e-mailed Stann from Iraq to congratulate Brian and Teressa on their engagement. He couldn’t wait to see them again upon returning from his second deployment.
Shaking his head, Stann said to his wife, “I can’t believe Travis is gone. I can’t believe it.”
As Stann waited, he saw everyone from Naval Academy buddies and fellow Marines to Travis’s high school friends and grieving relatives. Police officers and firefighters were everywhere, and the Patriot Guard Riders, pledging to protect the fallen hero’s farewell from any potential protests, surrounded the premises with Harley Davidson motorcycles and American flags. Though Stann could hardly bear the day’s emotions, it was heartening to see the solemn event being handled with so much dignity. The patriotism was palpable.
Stann recalled how, after returning from Iraq, he would calmly and patiently listen when Travis called from Fallujah during his first deployment to voice frustrations about not being able to leave his base to go outside the wire on a daily basis. While Stann knew how much it hurt Travis to be stuck mostly on the sidelines, he had encouraged the young Marine in the same way Travis had inspired him to push toward becoming a professional mixed martial arts fighter.
“Keep after it, Trav,” Stann often repeated.
The tragedy wouldn’t seem real to Stann until he saw Travis’s body for himself. He was sick to his stomach upon seeing the buttons, ribbons, and medals on his buddy’s uniform. The sight of Travis, with his “wrestler ears” and closed eyes, made grief’s cold hands grab Stann by the throat like an opponent’s crushing head-lock. He broke down.
“Travis wanted a family someday,” Stann said through tears. “Travis wanted a wife and children.”
As his wife consoled him, Stann quickly pulled himself together before going to speak to Tom, Janet, Dave, and Ryan. They were standing next to Krista, who was keeping the line organized and making sure the family had everything they needed.
Upon greeting Krista at the front of the line, Stann extended his hand to the steely, composed colonel, who was determined to put on a brave face to honor his son.
“Sir, I just want you to know how much Travis meant to me and how sorry I am,” Stann said. “I’ll spend every day of my life trying to be like him.”
Tom hugged his son’s friend and thanked him. Stann’s condolences meant a lot. After Stann told Janet how sorry he was for her loss, she also expressed her gratitude.
Janet took solace in the endless stream of well-wishers. During an earlier, private viewing she had sobbed uncontrollably.
When she first saw Travis, Janet held her son’s hand, kissed him, and finally got to give Travis the hug she had been longing for since receiving the painful news.
“I love you,” Janet told Travis, whose eyes were closed just like when he was a baby. “I am so proud of you.”
Before the public viewing started, Janet said a prayer, as she often did in difficult situations.
“Lord, help me to remember that nothing is going to happen today that you and I together can’t handle,” she whispered. Even with her son’s casket just steps away, Janet managed to compose herself and hug every single mourner.
Ryan took intermittent breaks after becoming panic stricken during the private viewing. After rubbing his head, much like when they were little kids, Ryan secretly hoped Travis would wake up, then realized that he never would. Without Dave and Krista at her side and the relatives who had volunteered to watch Maggie, Ryan, who told Stann she couldn’t believe Travis was gone, never would have made it through the morning viewing and early afternoon funeral services.
As Stann stood over his friend’s body, he thought of all the times Travis had been there for him, starting with the night at the Naval Academy when they watched Vanilla Sky and were the only two guys who admitted that they liked the occasionally sappy film.
“Isn’t that what being young is about? Believing secretly that you would be the one person in the history of man that would live forever?” says the movie’s main character, played by Tom Cruise.
Few possessed a better understanding of mortality than Captain Brian Stann. But in that moment, as he again marveled at a line that stretched well outside the funeral parlor’s front door, Stann realized that Travis had died doing exactly what he had written as they flew to their mutual friend’s funeral: standing for what was right.
“You earned it, man,” Stann said, channeling one of his and Travis’s favorite Saving Private Ryan quotes. “Good-bye, Trav.”
Though too humble to admit it, Stann, like many of his classmates and fellow warriors, had also earned it. Just over a year before his death, Travis had been ecstatic when his friend was singled out for some well-deserved praise.
“I appreciate the service of people like Marine 1st Lt. Brian Stann, a former Navy linebacker who was awarded the Silver Star last month for his actions and his bravery in Iraq,” President Bush had said on April 25, 2006.
After serving as a pallbearer at Travis’s funeral, Brian Stann would become a champion mixed martial arts fighter, television analyst, author, and president of Hire Heroes USA, which helps veterans find employment. Before and after Travis was killed, Stann knew he would always be in his corner.
Along with Stann, Mike Bigrigg, Steve Brown, Sean Kent, Steve Kovach, Carlo Pecori, and Croft Young, Brendan was listed as a pallbearer. Not being able to pay his respects in person hurt more than any of the punishing challenges he would soon experience in BUD/S training. Instead Amy, who was also devastated by Travis’s death, attended the funeral and burial with her boyfriend’s immediate family. She had never lost a close friend and didn’t know how she would handle saying good-bye to Travis.
The procession to and from Our Lady of Mount Carmel Catholic Church was the most inspiring sight that Amy, Stann, or anyone else who witnessed it had ever seen. All along Highway 611, from Doylestown to the Pennsylvania Turnpike junction at Willow Grove, fire truck ladders joined together to hang huge American flags over Pennsylvania streets and highways. Parents, teenagers, children, and the elderly all put their hands over their hearts and waved American flags. Veterans and active duty troops stood in silence to salute a fallen brother in arms. Pennsylvania governor Ed Rendell ordered a section of the Pennsylvania Turnpike closed to support the fallen Marine’s massive procession, which included at least three hundred slow-moving vehicles.
“Look at all these people,” said Janet, who cried all the way to the church, pointing toward the seemingly never-ending stream of supporters. “This is unbelievable.”
At the church Travis’s uncle, Chris Manion, spoke about the boy, wrestler, young man, and Marine who had inspired him so much:
From wonderful parents to the sister and brother in-law that he so deeply loved and so deeply loved him, to the niece he cherished and was so protective of, to the grandparents he doted over and who doted over him, to the family he was so proud of and to the many extraordinary friends whose friendships he was blessed with, from his beloved La Salle High School, from the Naval Academy, from his Marine Corps family . . . from this great circle of love, Travis learned all that he knew and all that he was to become. And Travis learned well.
“Travis Lemma Manion was no accident,” Chris continued. “He did not just magically appear and suddenly become who he became. Look around . . . he
re in this church, in this congregation, are the family and friends and the mentors that filled his life with so much love, so much happiness, and so many fond memories.”
Chris Manion closed his speech with a call to action: “Let us not just mourn our loss today and in the days ahead. But as Tom and Janet have requested, let us cherish his memory, act with love, and celebrate his life.”
Across the country in Imperial Beach, California, Brendan sat in silence, holding his cell phone. The Navy SEAL candidate may not have heard the stirring eulogy delivered by Travis’s uncle, but he was already heeding its selfless message.
Suddenly his cell phone rang. It was Amy, and like Brendan a few days earlier, she was too hysterical to make much sense. She was overcome with emotion not only from seeing Travis’s coffin, but also after seeing Ryan spend most of the afternoon crying behind thick, dark sunglasses.
“I . . . I . . . I don’t know what to say,” she said. “Travis. . . .”
“Sweetheart, please take a deep breath and try to calm down,” Brendan said quietly. “Can you tell me how it’s going there? How are the Manions?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say,” Amy repeated. “I feel so horrible for them, Brendan.”
That was Amy’s last comprehensible sentence before she started to sob. Realizing that hearing his girlfriend’s anguish would likely make Brendan even more upset, Billy Looney gently took the phone from Amy and told his brother that though the ceremonies were very emotional, Travis was being memorialized with a perfect, fitting tribute. Brendan, who would have given almost anything to witness the day’s events, thanked his brother for being there.
First Lieutenant Travis Manion was laid to rest with full military honors. In one of the burial’s most powerful moments, uniformed US Marines presented Tom and Janet with the American flag that had covered their son’s coffin ever since he was struck down in Fallujah.
“On behalf of the President of the United States, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service,” a Marine told Tom and Janet.
Tom, Janet, Ryan, and Dave trembled when TAPS was played and shivered as a twenty-one-gun salute shattered the calmness of the spring air over Calvary Cemetery in West Conshohocken, Pennsylvania. By the end of the service, they were almost completely numb.
The Manions had considered burying their son at Arlington National Cemetery before Janet told Tom and Ryan that she wanted Travis nearby. Though West Conshohocken was about thirty-five minutes away from Doylestown, Janet could still go see him often and make sure the flowers on her son’s grave were always fresh. Amid the fog of grief that dominated the ensuing weeks, when some of Travis’s final wishes were revealed, the Manions decided to put off making a final decision about whether it would be Travis’s permanent resting place.
Brendan couldn’t see from afar that his friend’s place of rest was marked only by a simple wooden cross. After his conversation with Amy, he slowly opened the door to his room and was greeted by Rob Sarver.
“Hey buddy, are you alright?” Sarver asked.
Brendan was still shell shocked after hearing Amy’s voice. Following a brief pause and a sip of water, he managed to utter a few words.
“It’s like we said the other day,” Brendan said. “We’ve gotta go out there tomorrow and get after it.”
“I hear you,” Sarver said. “What do you say we hit the gym?”
“Let’s do it,” Brendan agreed.
After that day, Brendan rarely mentioned Travis to Sarver or any other military friends. But the words and deeds of his fellow warrior, Naval Academy roommate, and dear friend would live forever in his heart.
9
HONOR MAN
Before sunrise on the first day of BUD/S, Brendan and Sarver drove onto the island of Coronado, blasting an intentionally comical hip-hop song, Fat Joe’s “Make It Rain.” In what would become an early morning tradition, the new roommates shouted the over-the-top lyrics to the song to get fired up before a seemingly impossible day of mental and physical challenges.
It was the first time that Brendan had laughed since Travis died, and Sarver knew how important that was before the relentless BUD/S instructors started trying to break them and every other Navy SEAL candidate down. For the next six months Brendan’s emotional, mental, and physical strength would be tested as never before.
BUD/S got off to a rocky start. Every candidate’s room, uniform, and appearance were required to be spotless and were routinely subject to rigorous inspections that could sometimes last several hours. For twenty-four punishing weeks, nothing mattered more than attention to detail.
Brendan first faced an instructor’s wrath because of his haircut. The night before, Sarver had accidentally nicked his neck with the clippers they used to shave each other’s heads.
“HAVE YOU SEEN THE BACK OF YOUR NECK?” the instructor shouted directly into Brendan’s left ear. “WHO DID THIS?”
Brendan was silent.
“WAS IT SARVER?” the instructor said.
Brendan quickly glanced at his roommate, who nodded.
“Hooyah,” Brendan said. The word is often used as a battle cry inside the Navy, and sometimes as a substitute for “yes, sir.”
“Sarver, you pass inspection,” the instructor said. “Looney, you fail. NOW GET OUT ON THAT BEACH!”
“Hooyah,” Brendan said.
Brendan spent the next ninety minutes doing God knows how many push-ups and other exercises in cold “BUD/S Beach” water. When he returned to the barracks almost completely covered in sand, Sarver wasn’t sure if Brendan would crack a joke or punch him in the face.
“You owe me, bro,” said Brendan, walking in the room, wiping off his face, and throwing his gear on the bed.
“Anything you want, Brendan,” Sarver said. “Just name it.”
“Ice cream,” Brendan said. “After this day is over, you’re taking me to get some ice cream.”
His first run-in with the instructors behind him, Brendan attacked the island of Coronado, where all Navy SEAL candidates train but very few graduate, with the same intensity Travis had brought to the streets of Fallujah. At almost two hundred pounds of muscle, Brendan was running 5½-minute miles. Aspiring SEALs were shocked by Brendan’s physical prowess.
“That guy is a beast,” one trainee told another. “What’s Looney’s story, anyway?”
“I talked to his roommate, Sarver, the other day,” the other SEAL candidate responded. “Looney just lost one of his best friends in Fallujah.”
Except on weekends, when candidates were usually permitted to rest, Brendan hardly slept during his six months of BUD/S training and was rarely able to communicate with Amy. But after one particularly arduous day of running, being sprayed with ice-cold water while doing push-ups, and shivering while carrying logs over his head with teammates through merciless waves, he described to Amy how Travis was still pushing him.
“When Travis died, I think it gave me that extra motivation to make sure I got out there and did everything I could,” Brendan said.
Amy exchanged “see you laters” with Brendan after he yawned and told her the SEAL candidates had to be awake in three hours. She was proud of her boyfriend’s resolve.
Across the room, Sarver was talking on the phone to his girlfriend, Heather Hojnacki.
“Honestly, I’m just trying to keep up with Brendan,” Sarver said when his girlfriend asked how his training was going. “He is a machine.”
One of Brendan’s favorite quotes was one he rarely spoke out loud, but always kept in the back of his mind: “Be strong. Be accountable. Never complain.”
Sarver, as Brendan’s BUD/S roommate, was watching his friend live out every word.
Fiercely committed and quietly confident, Brendan would have excelled in training even if Travis had still been alive. From spending eight consecutive hours stenciling his number on his gear to sometim
es staying up all night doing additional administrative duties, he brought an exceptional, sincere brand of dedication to a special operations group that was already among the US military’s most revered.
Despite being tough, smart young men, candidates all around Brendan were quitting or being dropped from Class 265 by the time “Hell Week,” a fierce combat simulation during which sleep is not an option, started after two already grueling weeks of training.
On Saturday, May 26, 2007, three days before the Manions would mark one month since Travis’s passing, Brendan wrote an e-mail to Janet:
Mrs. Manion,
Hi, sorry it has taken me so long to write back. I do not get a chance to check my e-mail as much as I would like.
Things out here are going well so far. We started with 203 guys and are now down to 80. Hell Week begins tomorrow night, so we are all getting geared up for that hurdle. Right now I am not too nervous about it because I know I have Travis looking out for me and that will give me strength when I need it. He is probably laughing at me too with all of the crazy stuff they have us doing.
Other than that, not much else is going on, we have long days so that leaves time only to sleep when we finish. I have lost a few pounds, but still continue to eat everything they put in front of me. Anyways, that is about it for now. I’ll be sure to send you all an e-mail when I finish Hell Week next Friday to let you know that I finished.
—Brendan
That Friday an instructor walked up to Brendan and told him what he thought of his Hell Week performance.
“Looney, you crushed Hell Week,” he said. “You beasted it.”
Brendan, who never wanted special attention, simply said “hooyah,” nodded his head in acknowledgment, and headed back to barracks to spend the next few days resting and sleeping. His mom, Maureen, had timed a cross-country trip to help Brendan and Sarver recover before they resumed the first phase of BUD/S training: another month of difficult conditioning exercises. After first phase they would move on to the second and third, which focused on combat diving and land warfare, respectively. Each lasted about eight weeks.
Tom Sileo Page 17
