I Will Always Come for You, My Brother
No matter where, when or what
The last time I saw Sgt Joel Lee Murray, he was sitting in the front passenger seat of a Humvee in Iraq. Flames washed over him like a log in a lakeside bonfire. He was slightly leaning to the right. I could only see the back of his helmet, which at that point was charred black. He looked more like a burnt statue than a man. Forever seared into my memory as though he was trying to get out. Thick black smoke swelled into the sky, carrying away his earthly presence in the form of carbon and ash.
The fire burned at the flash point of the magnesium splash armor on the doors, roughly around 5000 degrees Fahrenheit. Joel drowned in the fire. We couldn’t get him out, and he melted into the road on route Predators mixed with the molten metal of the truck in northeastern Baghdad, Iraq. The fire burned hot and long, and there was barely anything left to send home. We could not free our friend from the inferno. I would like to believe that the smoke carried him home.
Joel’s son Jerry was only two years old at the time. I had only met Jerry briefly before our deployment in 2007. Then again, when we returned to Fort Riley, Kansas, in 2008 at the memorial for the soldiers we lost during our deployment. He was the same age as my son. They both played and were disruptive during the somber ceremony where battle-tested warriors cried uncontrollably. They had no idea of the heaviness of the moment. Jerry had no idea that his father wasn’t coming home — ever. They were just boys getting along in a world of sad giants.
Since 2007, Rangers of the 2/16 Infantry would make their way to Fort Riley, Kansas, on September 4th to pay their respects to the four brothers we lost that day. I finally made my way back there in September 2017 after I retired, for the ten-year anniversary of the incident. I hung out with Maricel, Joel’s wife, Jerry, and several other Rangers who returned to Kansas. I’ve been back only about three times. But someone from the unit, at least one, always goes.
Jerry graduated high school on May 20th of this year. I sent out a “warning order” to our battalion Facebook group. I wanted to be there to watch this young man walk the stage. He graduated in the top 1% of students in the state of Kansas, earning a Governor’s scholarship and many other academic accolades. Maricel said it would be nice if we could come for the graduation, but she would appreciate it more if we would come for the party the following week. Memorial Day weekend.
I didn’t think I would make it. My wife is 8 months pregnant, my long-term stay visa in Romania is about to expire, and the price of travel is 2x what it was six months ago. Then one night, I got a call from Oklahoma around 3:00 am my time. It was Garrison, one of the soldiers that I led in Iraq, and his friend Chase. Garrison was only seventeen-years-old when he came to my squad.
He was in pain. We had just heard the news that another soldier (yes, another) had taken his life only a week before. Garrison said that he was going to the graduation party. He had tried to get other guys to go, but everyone had an excuse. Since he lived only four hours from Kansas, he said, “I don’t care if I’m the only motherfucker going. But I’m going.”
His friend Chase took the phone and uttered three words, “He needs you.” That was the kick in the ass I needed. I had made a promise a long time ago that I would be there for Jerry’s graduation. I had made a commitment to these men whom I had the honor to serve with in Iraq. They had my back then and always. If I needed anything, Garrison would drop everything and move mountains for me. I quickly pulled my miserable head out of my ass and started getting everything ready to make the trip to Kansas.
After a year of living in Romania, I took off to Oklahoma. It felt damn good to see Garrison. We went and got some “cold beers,” as they say in Oklahoma, and went to Chase’s beautiful part of the countryside. We drank and told stories late into the night.
The next day Garrison and I headed north toward Kansas. We stopped first in Emporia, Kansas, to visit David Lane. He is buried in a small private cemetery in rural Kansas. It’s a quiet place on the plain surrounded by trees. David was twenty years old when he died. He left behind a baby only a few months old.
After visiting David, we went to Fort Riley and visited the memorial stones at the 1st Infantry Division Headquarters. Someone had been there before us and laid down quarters on the stones of the men that died on September 4th, 2007. Quarters on a stone signify someone that knew the warrior and was there the day they were killed. Dimes are for the soldiers that knew the fallen but were not there when they were killed.
Later that night, another comrade from the unit joined us. I had not seen Hetzler for almost sixteen years. I hugged him, and my brain filled with memories of our little breakfast club. Hetz, Smith, Yanelli, and one other guy whom I can’t seem to remember would have coffee, a smoke, and bitch about the leadership in the unit. It was a great group of guys.
Before the graduation party, we met up with Hetzler at Fort Riley. We went and visited Joel’s grave at the Fort Riley cemetery. We reminisced about Joel, the infantryman’s infantryman, the quintessential grunt. We bid Joel farewell, bought some beers, and drove up to the Division headquarters to drink with the fallen. We stayed there for a few hours, lovingly reflecting on the time we had hated so much. The job sucked, but the people were cool.
The three of us strode into the graduation party with a little buzz going. Jerry jumped up and greeted us. It had been about two years since I last saw him. He looks just like his dad. His mannerisms are the spitting image of his father’s. Maricel came over and hugged us. Anne, Joel’s mother, was there too. It had been about five years since the last time I had hugged her. I had only met Joel’s father once. That was at the memorial for the guys after we had returned from Iraq. Sadly, Joel’s father passed away a few years after Joel.
The party started with a movie. Up on the screen, there was baby Jerry in his father’s arms. The next scene was when Jerry was two years old. The first time I met him. Scenes from Jerry’s life lit up the room. There were only a few pictures of him and his father at a time that Jerry has no recollection of now. I watched as Jerry grew up in front of my eyes. Without his dad. The man that I knew had loved him so much. Joel would talk about Jerry and his plans for Jerry’s future. Photo after photo, video clip after video clip of Jerry becoming a man with the memory of this mythical father in the background. Mythical because that’s all Jerry had of his father. Pictures and stories.
These old Army guys would come around occasionally and tell him the same stories year after year. Tell him he looked and acted just like him. Tell him that his father would be proud. Then a video of Joel popped up. He was wearing his combat uniform, sitting in the back of a Humvee, smiling and laughing. I had forgotten what his voice sounded like. The tears fell. I could only see Garrison from the back as I watched him shudder. It made my tears come even faster.
The last photo was a fantastic Photoshop picture of Joel standing with his 18-year-old son and loyal wife.
If I could wish anything into existence, it would be that photo and the years of Jerry’s youth he spent without his father to be filled with his presence. Joel was a good fucking dude. He was a good person. He was a real soldier. He was harder than woodpecker lips. Brave. Loyal. He was a great fucking dude. It’s cliche to say he would’ve been proud of his son. Joel was always proud of his son. Joel IS proud of his son.
The lights came on, and Maricel came straight over to the table where we were sitting with Jerry. The grizzled combat veterans with tears streaming down from the sun-creased wrinkles of their eyes. She hugged us, and I’m sure it wasn’t just to console us but to hug her husband. That is what we represent. The last people to see the father of her child alive. The men carry a piece of him in their heavy hearts. The soldiers he ate with, slept with, lived with, and risked his life for day in and day out. His brothers. We are a piece of Joel. His legacy will live on through the lives of the soldiers that he touched and the leadership that he imparted on them that they pass down to their soldiers.
Karaoke was next on the agenda. There were some little Philipino ladies with some lungs on them, and they intimidated me to the point where I didn’t dare try to follow up their acts. Jerry asked us if we would sing. We said no. We were embarrassed.
“Well I’m not a pussy.”
That line was straight out of his dad’s playbook. The three of us looked at each other like his father had suddenly possessed Jerry. The boy rolled up on the stage like a boss and belted out some Frank Sinatra. I was also impressed with the love Jerry has for his family. Some of his relatives asked him to sing a duet with them. He didn’t hesitate. I watched how he walked the room, making sure to spend time and talk with everyone. I was happy that he spent most of his time with us. We were honored.
“Jerry, are you eighteen?”
“Ya, why?”
I asked his mother if we could take Jerry out on the town. She agreed.
“Take care of him Tristan. He is all I have.”
“I know. I will take care of him like he’s my own.”
I won’t go into details, but we had a pretty fun night. We spent about a thousand dollars between the four of us and were home by 2330. We stayed up late into the night, telling the same stories we always tell about Joel. I wonder if they get bigger and better with age.
Jerry and Maricel let us go on though I’m sure they’ve heard these stories more than a few times. It felt good to be around these guys I had sweated, laughed, and suffered with during such a strange time in history. I felt at home in Maricel’s house. As if Joel had gone to bed early and that maybe our laughter would wake him and bring him to the kitchen.
