by Joshua Welle
Although my postmilitary navigational chart is not yet plotted, my passions are as clear as when I was a naval officer. No matter the attire, I will lead a life of service. Having a positive effect in today’s society requires perseverance, acumen, and a global perspective. My new life with Nele, my global network of hardworking friends, and the foundation of service derived from Annapolis bring confidence to my next chapter. I’m proud of the route my friends in uniform have chosen, but that path is no longer my life’s aspiration. I will earn early command in my own way. I value having the freedom to set my own course. Our nation needs leaders in and out of uniform who are willing to serve with integrity and dedication. I’m still finding my path, but I wake up every day energized by the endless possibilities for this “one wild and precious life.”
Serving Beyond the Uniform
Elizabeth Kreft
Inever dreamed I’d find a line of work that could humble me more than military service. Then again, I also never expected to find myself snowshoeing through thirty-foot drifts on an Alaskan mountainside with a hundred military widows. While searching for a way to serve my country beyond my fulltime uniformed years, I stumbled upon an amazing community of survivors who taught me that it’s ok to cry and laugh at the same time.
When I first began military training, I assumed “real” service in the armed forces required an all-or-nothing approach. At least that seemed to be the mindset of most of my classmates, who already had the next forty years of their lives charted. They either intended to stay in the military for the minimum number of years and then move on to a civilian career—the “five and dive” plan—or to retire as an admiral. My problem was that neither plan appealed to me. I was sure I wanted to serve my country and be part of a team that accomplished great things, but signing on for a lifetime of military rules and regulations seemed daunting. I felt torn and longed to find a way to serve in a way that felt right for me.
Fast-forward ten years. I’m on the flight line at Nellis Air Force Base for my first Thunderbird air show, and I see Buzz Aldrin whip his head around and ask, “Well, how the hell did you end up in the Air Force young lady?” He overheard I was a Naval Academy alum turned Air Force officer. I fought a lump in my throat as I realized this man—who had been to the moon and back—was curious about my military service. I started talking. “Honestly Sir, I didn’t know what I wanted to do in the military; I just knew I wanted to serve.” I feared that might’ve come across as ungrateful or uneducated, but thankfully my sentiments seemed to resonate with the living legend. He nodded his head several times in approval. “Yeah kid, sometimes it’s better not to have a plan and just go with it,” he said.
I shared with Buzz my teenage dream of attending a military service academy and explained that Annapolis had accepted me into the Class of 2002. Although I didn’t have a specific career mapped out, I knew I wanted to wear a uniform and serve my country in some way. I was a blank page, a clean slate, a service member without a predetermined path.
Buzz’s face lit up as I told him about my first duty assignment: working side-by-side with NASA experts, shuttle operators, and rocket scientists at Kennedy Space Center and Cape Canaveral Air Force Station. I was humbled by his focused attention on my meager military experiences.
“Well, I think that’s great,” he said with a wide smile. “Maybe you can tell me more about it over a drink.”
That’s when I realized that Buzz Aldrin, the sharp-yet-goofy American icon, old enough to be my grandfather, was flirting with me. The day only got more interesting from there.
Elizabeth Kreft speaking with Buzz Aldrin. (Courtesy Elizabeth Kreft)
My conversation with Buzz wasn’t the first or last time that I would explain to a friend, co-worker, or stranger why I cross-commissioned into the Air Force as a Naval Academy graduate. I have a passion for communication and enjoy sharing my stories of military service; in the Air Force, I could be that communicator immediately upon commissioning. The Navy, however, has greater restrictions on how an Academy graduate transitions from unrestricted to restricted warfare communities.
Cross-commissioning is a distinctive, unexpected path shared only by one or two other graduates annually from each service academy. Yes, it is a decision that still earns me a healthy dose of teasing, especially during college football season. (Of course I still root for the Mids every year.) However, this multiservice path gave me the broadened perspective on military life I would use to manage my toughest assignments. This is especially true of the tasks that came after I left active duty. By the time I finished my Thunderbird assignment, I had crossed the threshold of my military commitment and was on the hunt for a bigger challenge. I used the timing as a catapult to begin my part-time military career. This also meant that for the first time in ten years I had to find a civilian job.
At this crossroad, I wondered where the grass might be greener. I realized parting ways with the military community wasn’t as easy as I had pictured it. By then, military service had blended with my soul. I loved working with warriors who chose to honor a higher calling and hold themselves to a distinct moral and ethical standard. I wanted to build on that bond of service beyond my years in uniform, but I was at a loss. In the summer of 2009, I began an internship at a local sports network covering the Washington Nationals to try something new.
Then, fate stepped in at a baseball game.
While the players took batting practice and the vendors filled the air with the smell of hot dogs and popcorn, I set up an interview for a visitor. Bonnie Carroll, the founder of Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors (TAPS), was a special guest on the field to give an interview about supporting military survivors. “We offer emotional support and a place of healing for anyone who has suffered the loss of a military loved one,” she said. Wow. Gut check. I had experienced the loss of military coworkers. I was immediately transported from the crowd-filled stadium back to Bancroft Hall.
Nick Juron had been a plebe squadmate of mine. From the first time I saw Nick, sitting next to me in alphabetical order on Induction Day, he came across as a big, intimidating athlete like so many guys at the Academy. Nick, however, had a funny, sly smile that would pop up right when you thought he might knock your lights out. I first saw that smile during our first platoon uniform inspection that plebe summer.
I spent hours that Sunday morning polishing our entire squads’ shoes so we would pass our inspection. That afternoon, after our brooding upperclassmen gave us proper hell, they announced the inspection winner. Third Squad! My heart jumped. It was a small victory in an otherwise shitstorm of emotional and mental punishment. The upperclassmen then announced the individual winner: Nick Juron! I still remember the smirk Nick had on his face after we ran back to our rooms. He simply gave me that sly smile and said, “Thanks, Kreft.” It was worth it. Inadvertently, Nick and his newly shined shoes taught me one of my first and most enduring lessons of leadership: the team victory is more important than individual praise.
During our four years at the Academy, I saw that smile again and again, usually when Nick was teasing me about my non-engineering classes or giving me a hard time about the boys I chose to date. He was like the annoying big brother you love to hate but who, without question, had your back in a crunch. On Graduation Day, just as we had on Induction Day, Nick and I sat side-by-side as the Blue Angels screamed overhead and we tossed our hats in celebration.
In 2005, Nick’s helicopter crashed at sea during a counternarcotics operation off the coast of Colombia. He passed away, along with two other sailors, that day, bravely serving his country.
“So, do you have a story like ours?”
Bonnie’s question snapped me back to the present. From the moment she mentioned TAPS’ mission, the pain of Nick’s and other military friends’ deaths rushed back into the pit of my stomach. I immediately felt connected to TAPS’ cause.
“More than 20,000 spouses, children, parents, grandparents, and loved ones in the TAPS network offer a c
ommunity of compassion and care so survivors can grieve together and find a place of understanding and hope,” said Bonnie. I knew then and there that I wanted to be a part of the mission. Two days later I interviewed with Bonnie and her team, and two months later I joined them as the director of communications.
My most humbling experience at TAPS happened 3,500 miles from home. One of the healing tactics of our non-profit includes setting up opportunities for survivors of all types to gather and share their feelings, experiences, and issues. One concept is simple: No one can understand how a mother feels when she’s lost her only son except another mother who has also lost her only son. The 2010 TAPS Widow’s Retreat brought more than a hundred women to Alaska for the sole purpose of healing. We packed the schedule with opportunities to just live—skiing, snowboarding, dogsledding, and more—so they could bond over new experiences.
The contrast between the frigid environment and their warm hearts struck me the most. Here were these widows who understandably could have decided to be broken and defeated, giving in to the harsh reality of their loss. Instead, however, they were huddling together to beat the cold. Teeth chattering in between their big smiles, they laughed and hugged and stood together resiliently against the bitter Alaskan wind.
The huddle factor seems instinctive for survival. That is what these women and thousands of others did to endure the passing of their loved ones. Standing alone during a crisis—regardless of how strong or prepared someone feels—isn’t natural behavior when adversity strikes. Yet it is the burden so many survivors feel when they’ve lost a loved one. They feel alienated or lost, so TAPS programs are created with the huddle factor in mind.
Our first outdoor adventure began in the early morning as the sun broke through the Alaskan clouds and highlighted the mountains all around us. We snowshoed past what seemed to be tiny, three-feet-tall Christmas trees, but then we realized the accumulated snow was packed so high, we were actually trekking past the tops of several thirty-feet tall (or taller) spruces! After an hour or so, we made it to a divide in the woods. One direction would take us back to the ski resort, the other up a steep incline. Our guide asked the group to decide which direction to go: “OK ladies, we can start heading back, or we can take this hill route, which will get us back in about forty-five minutes.”
Their faces were blushed from the cold air and the cardiovascular workout, but they decided to press forward. “Oh, of course we are going UP the hill” shouted one widow with a laugh. The rest chimed in immediately. “Oh HECK yeah, we want the tough path!” Then I saw one of them take off, running up the hill in her snowshoes. I just kept thinking, damn, these women are gutsy. They were trying something new, challenging and pushing themselves to an unknown limit all in the name of healing.
The sleep I got that night was restless even though I was drained. My brain was in full gear. How could these women do it? I felt like an ass for complaining a single day in my life about such petty things as bad cell phone reception or bumper-to-bumper traffic.
I rolled over to see if my coworker Kyle was awake on the other side of the room. She had become a dear friend, and I identified with her story the most. She wasn’t a widow, but a “wiance.” Several dozen ladies created this term of endearment after they lost their military fiancés, putting them into a unique survivor category.
Kyle and her fiancé, Mike, had been deeply in love. Theirs was a storybook kind of love. They had met when she served him drinks and dinner at a bar just outside Fort Richardson; within hours they knew their futures were intertwined. Within months of meeting each other, Mike was deployed for a year in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. When he returned for two weeks of leave, he sat Kyle down to tell her an important story. “It was the sweetest thing,” she said. “I sat on the floor with him talking about his experiences in Iraq. He had been hit by an IED, and immediately after he didn’t know if he was alright or hurt, but all he could think was that he had to be ok—because he had to get home to me and tell me he loved me one more time. And then he asked me to share the rest of his life with him.” Less than two months later, Mike was killed while preparing a critically wounded patient for transport.
Fiancés aren’t guaranteed support through official military or veteran’s affairs channels. In fact, unless you are the military member’s beneficiary or dependent, you aren’t recognized in any of the official military survivor paperwork. By offering support to people like Kyle, TAPS was filling a void that needed to be filled. I rolled over and finally began to fall asleep as I thought about the widows and their family of survivors.
At times during that weekend, I felt like a stranger invited to a large, intimate family gathering. I carefully searched for common ground while trying not to overstate my own moments of suffering. It was uncanny the way each time, in my most uncomfortable moments, one of the widows would walk right up to me and bring me in.
“Do you think a non-widow could ever understand your feelings of loss?” I asked one of the women during a group chat session. She tenderly smiled saying, “We’ve all experienced some kind of loss. Relationships, pets, friends, loved ones… Death happens, and if you understand even a small part of that, it helps.” I blinked back tears as I thought about Nick. Yes, my classmates and I knew loss.
The next day we were out of the hotel before sunrise, making our way to the starting line of the Iditarod, the iconic race that takes mushers and their dog teams across roughly 1,000 miles of harsh yet breathtaking Alaskan landscape. The journey begins along crowd-lined streets in downtown Anchorage. That year, half a dozen veteran mushers wanted to honor the TAPS widows by carrying ribbons stitched with the names of their fallen husbands throughout the race.
I walked with one widow (who I’ll refer to as Patty) through the crowds and down the snow-packed streets to find her musher. The air was bitter cold, and the smell of fish and dogs filled our noses.
“Do you think they really care?” Patty pondered aloud as we walked up to a group of dog teams.
“The dogs?” I asked. It was a lame attempt at humor on my part. Thankfully she laughed.
“No, I’m wondering if the mushers actually know how an act like this helps, or if it’s just another nice PR stunt for them. Or maybe they care, but they have no idea why this sort of thing means so much to us.”
Rather than attempt a complicated answer, I simply said, “Why not ask him?”
Patty looked back at me with a funny I-should-have-thought-of-that smile and walked up to her musher. He was intimidating, even for a brooding Alaskan male. Black scruff covered his face but didn’t hide the wrinkles on his brow as he stared intensely at a map or chart. I imagined this guy being born with a pipe in his mouth and drinking whisky from a baby’s bottle. He was clearly focusing on the race, which was scheduled to start in less than thirty minutes. Patty, within minutes, had brought this salty old man to the verge of tears.
Most of the widows I meet say the best way for an “outsider” or a “non-survivor” to support someone who has lost a military loved one is to simply ask about their story. They love to take the time to remember the amazing men they had in their lives, and they honor them by taking the time to remember their lives. That day in Anchorage, the mushers were helping the widows remember.
Remembering those who have gone before us is not always easy. Honoring their stories and their service is our calling, but not one that is free of pain. The process of healing is long, arduous, and unscripted. The emotional strength I cultivated as I served the TAPS survivors bolstered my abilities as a military leader. I believe the lessons I absorbed from these brave widows prepared me for my next tour of service in Operation Enduring Freedom.
During my time with TAPS, I continued my military service as a member of the District of Columbia Air National Guard. In the summer of 2010, I left my position with the non-profit to prepare for a six-month deployment to Kabul. There I was called upon to serve in another unique capacity—instructing President Hamid Karzai’s team of spoke
smen on public affairs and helping them establish a strategic plan to overcome the Taliban’s sophisticated propaganda strategy.
I hid weapons under my sweaters. I wore a scarf on my head to blend in. I thought of my TAPS widows daily. People were dying in Afghanistan every other day. I was in harm’s way but serving a purpose, breaking down barriers between radical Islamists and freedom-seeking Afghans. As I executed my mission, it gave me great peace knowing Kyle, Bonnie, and the rest of the TAPS team were conducting their mission as well.
As a veteran of the long wars, like so many of my classmates and military colleagues, I’ve experienced rare forms of professional and personal sacrifice. It was an odd juxtaposition of the desire to serve at the tip of the spear and longing for home. I felt an ache for family closeness, muted by the urge to execute my mission without weakness. It was a constant tension. These experiences sparked a new level of appreciation in me. I wanted to use my training to see those around me operate at their professional peak, and I now had more tools than ever in my war chest to achieve that goal.
Thus far, my service with TAPS and my service in Afghanistan have been the ultimate tests of my emotional strength. My favorite jobs have always offered the most challenging and rewarding tasks. As it turns out, maybe I was right during those early years at the Academy when I thought military service was an all-or-nothing attitude. I thought someday parting ways with military service would feel right—a time when I could comfortably trade in my camouflage uniforms for business casual. Without expecting it, however, through my experiences at TAPS and my Afghanistan deployment, I discovered national service can be continuous on both the civilian and military sides, wherever the greater need exists.
