by Joshua Welle
Several months after seeing Ronnie’s football jersey in the chow hall at al-Qa’im, disaster struck within my squadron: Morphine 1-2, one of the call signs of our aircraft, was shot down by a man-portable air defense shoulder-fired missile near Karma while returning from a CASEVAC mission on February 7, 2007. Capt. Jennifer Harris (USNA 2000), 1st Lt. Jared Landaker, Sgt. Travis Pfister, Sgt. James Tijerina, Cpl. Thomas Saba, HM1 Gilbert Minjares, and HM3 Manuel Ruiz all perished. These individuals had saved hundreds of other people’s lives flying CASEVAC missions before giving up their own.
As I considered my time as a member of the Purple Foxes, I realized that the hardest part was the mental aftermath. I would lie in bed after a mission, alone with my thoughts. I recalled everything in detail—the sights, smells, radio calls, and what the weather was like. I felt somewhat responsible for any deaths although there wasn’t anything else I could have done. I thought about the fact that that person had a mom and dad who did not yet know what horrible thing had happened to their son or daughter. I wondered about the person who had just made the ultimate sacrifice.
It’s a mixture of emotions. I felt great about what we were doing, because we were saving lives, yet there were times when I knew that those who survived an incident were at the beginning of a painful postwar life. I often wondered about those whom we flew out of harm’s way because we never saw them again. Were they upset about their situation? Did they wish that they had not lived because their life from that point on would be so different and difficult? Were they glad they had survived despite their injuries? Were any of them like Lieutenant Dan from the movie Forrest Gump, who hated Tom Hanks’s character for rescuing him, forcing him to live life in a wheelchair instead of letting him die on the battlefield?
These thoughts weighed on my conscious for a long time, and then on October 21, 2008, I received the answer to some of the questions that I had been afraid to share with anyone. On that day, I received an email from another pilot with whom I had done the first two deployments to Iraq. He said that he had received an email from one of the Navy nurses who had flown with us during the second deployment. An Army sergeant by the name of John Kriesel was trying to get in touch with the squadron. Our squadron had CASEVAC’d him on December 2, 2006, in Zaidon, south of Fallujah, after the vehicle he was in struck a pressure-plate IED wired with two hundred pounds of explosives. It left a crater seven feet wide and four-and-a-half feet deep. One person died at the scene, and another died in the helicopter, but Sgt. Kriesel survived. Now, two years later, Sgt. Kriesel was searching for the crew, flown by a USNA 2000 grad, that had picked up him and his men that day. He wanted to tell us the following:
I know that you said I don’t have to thank you, but I will always have an appreciation for you guys at TQ and the military medical system as a whole. Both of my sons know the story and always ask about you guys and even at 6 and 7 say that they thank God that you guys were there for me and my men. They know and understand that I wouldn’t be alive without you guys. My seven year old built a CH-46E Sea Knight with Legos and it looks pretty good. Take care and thanks again.
I remember reading that and bursting into tears. I got on my knees and thanked God that he and his family were grateful that he was alive, despite his having lost both his legs. Not only was he grateful that he had survived, but his kids were so glad to have their dad back with them. His email was an unexpected gift that helped relieve the weight I had felt about the missions we had flown. Sgt. Kriesel was grateful, and so was I.
The Purple Foxes, saving passengers and transporting angels. (Courtesy Rocky Checca)
That is what Marine Air is about—supporting the guy on the ground, whether through assault support or close air support. It certainly is not about us. It always has been and always will be about supporting the guy on the ground. It is clearly understood that when a pilot screws up—whether because of a bad decision, lack of attention to detail, poor planning, headwork, or situational awareness—many times it is the Marines on the ground who pay the price for the pilot’s mistakes. The driving force is the fear of failure and the thought of possibly letting someone down. People are relying on you to protect or save their life. Failure is simply not an option. If that doesn’t motivate a pilot, then Marine Air is not the business that person should be in.
Now, years later, I can say with certainty that the challenges of serving in Iraq combined with the lessons learned at the Naval Academy—along with the accompanying hurt, pain, adversity, and emotions—have built me into a much better person. I would not trade these experiences, the good and the bad, for anything. It was a gut check and trial by fire, a life experience that I will never forget. The lessons I learned are applied to every facet of my life every day.
The American way of life is not possible without the sacrifice of the few. Edmund Burke wrote, “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” Those that sacrificed did something and are some of America’s bravest sons and daughters. I can only hope that the families of Ron and J.P., the crew of Morphine 1-2, and others that made the sacrifice knew that when things sucked over there, they were the ones that I thought of, that kept me going. I know that there is nothing I can say or do to make their families’ pain go away, but I hope and want them to know that there were people over there who found strength and drive in themselves at the very thought of their son’s and daughter’s sacrifice. I will forever remember what my passengers in the back of the CH-46 did for our nation and how humbling it was to have served them.
From the Cradle to the Grave
Anonymous
Iwill never forget the first time I saw Lt. Col. Kevin Shea. It was the spring semester of our junior year at the Academy, and I was walking between Chauvenet and Michelson in the underground hallway that connects many of the academic buildings on the Yard. He trod by like the Jolly Green Giant, an imposing six-foot-four, 220-pound Marine. He sported the “dual cool” insignia, having been certified in both advanced parachuting and combat scuba. He strode confidently down the hallway with a clear sense of purpose. As I walked in the opposite direction, I thought to myself, “I sure am glad he is on our side.” I would have reason to think this again in the future.
Born on September 14, 1966, Kevin Shea was destined to be a Marine Corps officer from an early age, characterized by his determination and dedication. Upon graduating from high school in Seattle, Washington, he received an appointment to the United States Air Force Academy Preparatory School. After successfully completing studies there, Kevin Shea received an appointment to the United States Air Force Academy (USAFA). While at USAFA, he lettered in varsity football and was a member of the 1987 Freedom Bowl team. He also played rugby on the club team that won the 1989 collegiate national championship. In May 1989, he received a rare interservice transfer and a commission as a United States Marine Corps second lieutenant.
By the time those of us in the Class of 2002 met him at the United States Naval Academy as a Marine Corps major and systems engineering professor, he was a decorated combat veteran of Operation Desert Storm and had participated in numerous other overseas missions. He had held positions as a platoon commander, company commander, operations officer, and executive officer. He also had received his master’s degree in electrical engineering from the Naval Postgraduate School.
In the summer of 2001, those members of the Class of 2002 who wanted to pursue a commission in the Marine Corps participated in the Leatherneck program, which entails four weeks at Quantico, Virginia, learning the basic skills of an infantry officer. Major Shea, among others, served as an instructor and mentor there. Following four weeks of training in land navigation and tactics, and some moments of extreme discomfort, we participated in a final exercise meant to test us on the skills we had hopefully learned. During this exercise, we were divided into offensive and defensive units and directed to attack each other.
My platoon was assigned the task of establishing a defense in a cinderblock town in the wo
ods of Quantico. We had thirty minutes to prepare before an aggressor platoon would attack. Both sides were armed with paintball guns; they weren’t the high-speed, professional type that work with flawless precision, but the Marine Corps’ finest, which had been broken and fixed too many times to count. We wore protective masks that covered the forehead, eyes, and mouth and inevitably started to fog at the worst possible moments. We also had simple two-way radios that pretty accurately mimicked the frustrations of communication in combat; notably, they never worked when you needed them.
With minimal time to prepare for the attack, our designated platoon commander decided to defend the tallest building in the village, a four-story structure at the edge of the town with an excellent view of the woods from where our attackers would arrive. We established our positions less than a minute before the attack commenced. I had the fortune, or misfortune, of being on the ground floor of the building with my motivated fire team. Major Shea maintained an observer position in the middle of the room.
The attack kicked off, and we observed the aggressors tactically bounding in the woods as they drew closer to our building. As might be expected of anxious newcomers to the art of war, we began to fire our weapons well before their effective range, and so began a brilliant display of the chaos of conflict. With the sound of paintballs smacking concrete, so began the scattering in all directions of midshipmen in the woods and in the building.
While I cannot recall much of this doomed, ten-minute mock attack, I do remember with great clarity seeing Major Shea through my fogged mask as the paintballs flew by. He simply stood there in the midst of the chaos and smiled, a teacher proudly watching his students taking their final exam. Though he wore a mask similar to ours that covered his mouth, his huge grin was unmistakable. Not once did he duck, even as paintballs hit the walls behind him and smacked his uniform. When the battle was over—who knows who won or who lost—I came away with a better sense of Major Shea’s character. He was a rock. Our rock. While this battle was only an exercise, I knew that Major Shea would stand firm in the face of a real enemy and inspire confidence in his Marines. At that moment, he became the face, the picture for me, of the character, strength, and physical courage required of a Marine Corps officer in combat.
During our final semester at the Academy, one of our classmates—we’ll call him Joseph Smith—experienced a series of life-changing events that left him distraught, depressed, and distracted from his schoolwork. Major Shea, one of Joseph’s teachers, almost immediately recognized that there was something amiss. While Major Shea’s only job was to teach and evaluate Joseph, he took the time to talk to Joseph and arrange the care he needed to recover from the events affecting him. Furthermore, Major Shea served as an advocate for Joseph, who, if not for Major Shea’s actions, may not have graduated from the Academy. While perhaps an easily forgettable episode, I was struck by Major Shea’s leadership and moral courage in taking care of one of his own in a way that was above and beyond his responsibility.
As I raised my hand on May 24, 2002, and accepted my commission as a Marine Corps officer, I could not have known that I would have the honor and privilege of witnessing Major Shea’s leadership in combat. When I stepped foot on Iraqi soil in August 2004 for my first combat experience, there he was. He greeted me with his warm, trademark smile and a huge handshake. Seeing his face, I instantly felt relieved, recalling fondly the image of him standing in that paintball-filled room with a smile on his face. The very strength of his presence conveyed that he would continue to watch over us, even in the face of real gunfire.
After settling into Camp Fallujah, a military outpost to the east of the most dreaded city in Iraq at that time, I quickly caught up with the rhythm of battle. From my interactions with the Marines of the 1st Marine Regiment, where Major Shea served as the communications officer, I learned firsthand of his sterling reputation. Although Major Shea had been selected for promotion to the rank of lieutenant colonel, had been chosen to command the 9th Communications Battalion, and was scheduled to return to the United States early, he elected to extend his tour in Iraq to complete the mission and look after his Marines. Every Marine looked up to him for this decision, and all of us asked ourselves if we would have done the same if given the opportunity to return home early. Without hesitation, most of us decided we would have boarded the earliest bird to the States.
During one of my first missions off base, Major Shea served as the patrol leader. From the moment our mission brief began, I relaxed knowing he was in charge. The mission was a tank feint at the northeast corner of Fallujah. The tanks would proceed toward the city with the intent of drawing insurgent fire. The tanks would return fire until enemy fire ceased and then withdraw to base. Major Shea was responsible for directing friendly forces from a position to the rear of the tanks, and I would be one of the Marines in his command post.
As the feint got under way, our mobile command post stood a good distance from the front lines, where the tanks were located, and behind a one-story sand berm, far away from the action for my liking. As the enemy fire began and the tank counterfire roared, I paced at the edge of the berm with my rifle at the ready, even though we were well outside of my M-16’s effective range. Behind me, I heard the voice of Major Shea, “Lieutenant, don’t worry, you will get your chance at combat.” Major Shea smiled, a radio handset to his ear as he stood over a tactical map spread out on the hood of a Humvee. Without a word, I returned the smile and then instantly relaxed, lowered my rifle, and returned to my Humvee and the radio.
Two days later, on September 14, 2004, the day began like any other in Iraq, which is to say cloudless and hot. There was a change of command scheduled, and the roving Catholic chaplain would say a mass that evening. It also happened to be Major Shea’s thirty-eighth birthday, but I only learned about that later.
I attended the mass with approximately forty other Marines. It was a solemn occasion, as all masses are in a combat zone. As I exited the auditorium, I greeted and thanked the priest and walked down the stairs toward the command center. Without warning, there was a BOOM! . . . and then quiet. Approximately fifty meters to our left, at the command headquarters, a cloud billowed toward the sky. Several of us ran toward the noise. As we faced the cloud of dust, someone called, “Marines with flashlights forward.” Being one of the few Marines with a flashlight, I was the second to enter the room, which vaguely resembled the office of the commanding officer of 1st Marines. My flashlight cut through the thick smoke. The faint twilight of the setting sun was shining through a window that had previously been covered by sandbags. Furniture and cinderblocks were sprawled all over the room, and a faint groan could be heard under the now exposed window. Time stood still.
There, at my feet, lay the man I so deeply respected and admired. I can’t describe what I felt at that moment. Shock? Disbelief? While the body did not resemble that of Major Shea, the face was certainly his. He was smiling, his eyes partially opened as he faced the open window to the west, toward the city of Fallujah, toward the enemy, and toward his wife and two children living in the United States. He was dead. I covered him with blankets I found in an adjacent room and then watched as his body was carried away. I also watched as his body was placed in a body bag and moved to a transport vehicle. I saluted my teacher—our teacher, our leader. I wiped the smoke debris from around my nostrils and mouth with a tissue and then went back to work, back to war, back to the insanity.
I would later learn that Major Shea had been killed by a 122-mm rocket fired from the west side of Fallujah, approximately twelve to fifteen kilometers away. It was a lucky shot—the perfect shot—a shot that took our teacher away on his birthday. He was posthumously promoted to lieutenant colonel, and at the time of his death, he was the most senior-ranking officer to have been killed in action in Operation Iraqi Freedom. He was buried at Arlington National Cemetery, section 60, site 8002.
As I reflect on his life and on the moment of his death, I realize that the Naval Academy and L
ieutenant Colonel Shea prepared me, us, for war as best they could. They taught us tactics and strategy. They taught us leadership in the face of adversity and ethics without clearly drawn lines. They taught us the poetry and philosophy of those who had experienced war before us. The Naval Academy could never prepare us, however, for the essence of war, the violence of war, the cruelty of war. Ironically, and sadly, it was the smiling, unflappable Lieutenant Colonel Shea who taught me the true nature of war by his death. He also taught me physical and moral courage through the manner in which he lived his life and stood firm in the face of the enemy.
I visit Lieutenant Colonel Shea’s gravesite twice a year, on Memorial Day and on his birthday, the day of his death. He continues to teach me, to lead me. Even now, I can hear his voice and see his smile, which still causes me to relax, lower my guard, and return to life.
(Courtesy of author)
Dhow in Distress
Patrick McConnell
USS Bulkeley (DDG 84), central Persian Gulf, June 13, 2004, approximately thirty minutes after sunset:
“Red deck, red deck! Wave off the helo! Boats, on the 1MC: Commanding officer to the pilot house! Rescue swimmer to the boat deck!” The orders flew from my mouth as fast as I could get them out.
The captain was soon behind me, offering calm reassurance. “I’m here, Pat,” he said.
