America's Memory

  Thoughts of time on the Mississippi River might bring quotes of Mark Twain to mind or perhaps the sound of boat’s horn. Joseph Kennedy followed in his father Jim’s footsteps working on the river as a deckhand and terminal operator. No doubt, that on those long patrols in Afghanistan that Joe thought of his five years on the river. Those sounds. The smells. The constant motion of water and machine. Servicemen and women fill the void of thoughtless time by thinking of home. Thinking of that safe place. It delivers some solace and peace even in war. Joe penned a letter and poem to his father about six months after joining the army. Both the letter and poem strike a unique tone of humility and "others above self." He writes about his father as an inspiration and his greater teacher. In the poem he titled “My Hero,” Joe deliberately deemphasized the “I” putting it in lower case while emphasizing the beginnings of other words with the upper case. It’s telling in the message he wanted to send. My Father is My Hero

There’s a reason Mother’s Day overloads the post office or someone might say “I bet you’re a proud dad.” The paternal and maternal instinct creates a powerful bond and children recognize that as they mature. The honor and responsibility of big brother can carry an equal weight as it did for Sam Griffith. The marine flew fighter jets and later controlled their firepower from the ground. He served fearlessly, loved his family well, and died in the service of his nation. His death left a void in the life of many as his family now carries the adjective “gold star.” We often speak of a gold star mother or gold star wife, but for Renee Nickell, she became a gold star sister. Her 2018 book, Always My Hero: The Road to Hope & Healing Following My Brother's Death in Afghanistan, offers a powerful testimony of one gold star sibling as she navigates the difficult stages of grief while her husband and children shared in her difficult days. She not only lost a big brother, she lost the man that had been a father figur

The United States Army keeps the selection process for Delta Force a highly-guarded secret. Former Delta operator Pat Savidge has said that “It's not always the best guy that makes it. It's the right guy. That’s the key." Most all special operation units have minimum standards for an invite to a selection course. Once there, applicants are tested daily, and many quit as the training tempo increases. Tons of video from the Navy SEALSs BUD/S crucible exists but few are aware of the multi-course process to become an Air Force Combat Controller. Those trainees know the standard. However, Delta Force selection see many pass the course but don’t select them. Some have Adonis-like bodies and a Harvard intellect. Yet, they don’t make it. William “Chief” Carlson checked off all the qualities one would think are necessary in a Delta operator. He passed the course. Yet, Delta didn’t select him the first time. By his second go-round, they deemed him “the right guy.” Carlson grew up in the northern California area to a fa

The sight of two uniformed individuals approaching a front door almost always ends the same. They have the unsettling and difficult job of telling loved ones that their son, daughter, husband, or wife has perished. The parents of Anthony Maddox didn’t experience that. Not at first anyway. His father, Jerome Maddox, received the initial call that there’d been an accident and Anthony had suffered burns on 50% of his body. Jerome updated his wife Frances as they waited for more information. Anthony’s mother, Glenda Key, looked at her husband, Ron, as he took a similar call with similar news. She noticed the shock on his face but thought the call was about another family member that had been sick. All four began a series of phone calls searching for answers. Each call seemed to deliver worse news. They planned for travel to meet Anthony wherever he was. The Army had transported him to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany with plans to transfer him to a burn unit in San Antonio. As the phone calls progress

Jacob Leicht always liked that he was born on the Fourth of July. Who else gets a parade on their birthday? Some may not like sharing their special day with another holiday, but he embraced it. On a day when America celebrates its independence and freedoms, it seemed like destiny that Leicht’s life would be dedicated in service to America. That ultimately, he’d give his life for his country on Memorial Day weekend. If that wasn’t enough, that he’d be the 1,000th service member killed in Afghanistan theatre of war according to the Department of Defense. It’s certainly not a number anyone wants to report but rather serves as a marker to the sacrifice our service members, and their families, have made in fighting the War on Terror. If the irony were not already thick enough in his life, Leicht was never supposed to return to combat after suffering a horrific injury in Iraq. Doctors wanted to take his leg and told him he’d never return to combat. He faced dozens of surgeries and months of rehabilitation. However,

”Corpsman!” The Marine fires at the enemy and then places a hand on his fallen comrade. “Corpsman!” he yells one more time. He looks down. “Hold on, buddy.” A similarly dressed man runs up and drops down next to both of them. “I’ve got this,” he says. The Marine who had called out returns to firing. The corpsman begins a blood sweep and then reaches for a bandage. “We’re going to get you out of here,” he tells the wounded man. That fictional scene is seen in nearly every war film. These brave young men fight alongside other soldiers and marines, yet also perform battlefield medicine as bullets zing past them. They’re trained to calm their patient while treating sometimes horrific injuries as explosions ring out and dirt flies. They call them corpsman in the United States Marines and medics in the Army.  Clayton Beauchamp epitomized the job. He spent his childhood years in Weatherford, Texas; a child of the 90s. Full of personality, he had an affinity for hard work, humor, and family. His big smile helped him

Dust trailed behind a civilian truck carrying thirteen Afghan citizens in March of 2010. It was likely a normal day for them going about their business. Their normal, however, meant navigating a war-torn landscape where forces from a host of countries battle the Taliban. Herat Province, Afghanistan, was far from normal. Boom! The bus hit an IED, killing five. The other eight lay in or near the vehicle. Nineteen-year-old Jerod Osborne, an army medic, arrived on the scene having barely missed the IED in his vehicle. As his training kicked in, he quickly triaged the wounded and provided battlefield medicine. For the newly arrived Osborne, his first taste of working as a medic involved saving many grateful civilians. For that, the Army awarded him a Bronze Star. His actions impressed his commander, Kyle Bruffy. “It was good to see the kid running in there. He proved himself.”1 Osborne spent his growing years in Royse City, Texas, a small town thirty miles east of Dallas. The downtown buildings make visitors think

Jeffrey Reber was an American hero. The list of Marines willing to praise his battlefield leadership is long and distinguished. Many of them would suggest they’re alive today because of his split-second decisions during combat. The 1st Marine Division agreed, awarding him the Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal for demonstrating “sound, aggressive leadership over the course of seven offensive engagements with the enemy.” The citation continues to list specific actions where he orchestrated the enemy’s defeat. Junior enlisted Marines looked up to him and junior officers learned from him. However, the nature of his death prevents his name from appearing on some memorial walls. His wounds were not so clearly seen. After ten years of honorable service, Reber took his own life on August 12th, 2014. Another casualty of experiences where our servicemen and women see and do things most of us couldn’t imagine. Yet, he didn’t imagine them. They were reality seared into his memory. Constant reminders of the uglines

General David Petraeus pinned a Purple Heart on Wayne Swier’s chest as he lay in a Bagram Airfield hospital bed. He had yet to leave Afghanistan with thoughts on his future after a horrific injury but also on one of the buddies he left behind—Curtis “Moose” Oakes. Both were soldiers in the 101st Airborne. The army sent Swier to Walter Reed Medical Center where he faced over two years of rehabilitation. On his last call with Oakes, they had discussed having a beer soon. Another friend, Aaron Murphy, had been calling Swier regularly, but one day, he called sobbing. He gave him the news that their friend, Curtis Oakes, had been killed. In reality, he had been murdered by a rogue Afghan Border Policeman. The news devastated Swier. He’d lost his best friend. A few days before, at Thanksgiving, Val Oakes had talked to her son. On November 29, 2010, a chaplain and other officers arrived and delivered the crushing news that her “Moose” had been killed. “Curtis has been my hero his whole life. Sixteen months after hav

They’re known as the tip of the spear. Trailblazers we ask to go in first. Highly trained. Fearless. When America was attacked on 9/11, we needed those trailblazers on the ground in Afghanistan to find those responsible and stop their reign of terror. Johnny Micheal “Mike” Spann was one of those who dared to enter that rugged and strange terrain. The CIA paramilitary officer and former Marine had received extensive training in intelligence gathering, unconventional operations, and combat leadership. When one references “boots on the ground,” Spann was one of the first pairs of boots. As the first combat loss in Afghanistan, his name resonated with many Americans in those early days of the war on terrorism as they wondered what lay before them. How long would America fight in Afghanistan? How much blood and treasure would be required to end that evil? Mike Spann grew up in Winfield, Alabama. He was a curious child often found with his nose in encyclopedias. He loved all things military and history but especial

An amazing photo from Afghanistan emerged in 2011 of a soldier kissing the helmet atop the battlefield cross for SSG Bryan Burgess. The 101st Airborne Screaming Eagle patch is prominent on medic Brit Jacob’s arm as his hand holds the back of the helmet. The symbolic act signified something Burgess had done to each of his soldiers prior to a mission. He did this as an act of leadership, sacrifice, and resolve. His fellow soldiers are quick to speak well of him. They believe he epitomized the selfless, steadfast squad leader; the model leader who didn’t seek credit or complain when events deteriorated. He wasn’t simply a good soldier; he was an outstanding one. It sounds cliché, but one soldier said he’d follow him to Hell and back. He placed himself in harm’s way often, and they knew they could count on him in the toughest of situations. He was the kind of man others named their children after, as his commanding officer Tye Reedy did, using the name Bryan for his son. Reedy considered Burgess a man of few word

“Because God wants me to kill bad people.” Mark Forester said that as if it were as normal as anything. He said it many times when asked why he chose to join the fight against terrorism. He never meant it as a flippant or cavalier statement, but one of fortitude and calling. Friends and family knew that once he made up his mind, he couldn’t be convinced otherwise. As a United States Air Force Combat Controller (CCT), Forester’s conviction made him a determined warrior. He was the “new guy” during the first mission of his first deployment to Afghanistan in May 2010. Everyone’s typically concerned about that new guy wondering if he’ll perform under pressure or make a mistake. Trust is a valuable commodity during combat and Forester hadn’t yet the opportunity to earn that trust. In Dalton Fury’s book, Kill Bin Laden, he refers to another CCT in this way: “Most important in this business was his willingness to risk everything for his fellow man, an unhealthy but common trait among Air Force combat controllers.”2

MARINE CORPS BASE, CAMP PENDLETON, Calif. (January 14, 2014) -- Staff Sergeant Sky Mote and Capt. Matthew Manoukian were posthumously awarded the Navy Cross, the highest decoration that can be bestowed by the Department of the Navy and second highest decoration for valor, during an award ceremony at, 1st Marine Special Operations Battalion headquarters, Jan. 18. “Staff Sergeant Mote could have exited the structure to safety.  He instead grabbed his M4 rifle and entered the operations room, courageously exposing himself to a hail of gunfire,” cited the award. Manoukian’s award cited “Located in the far corner for the room, Capt. Manoukian dew his pistol and, in the face of near certain death, engaged the attacker while commanding his Marines to maneuver to safety.” Maj. Gen. Mark A. Clark, commanding general of Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command, presented the Navy Cross to Mote’s and Manoukian’s family after speaking of them during the ceremony. “The bravery of Matt, Ryan and Sky was a continu

Discover the story of Pfc Austin Staggs in today's episode of America's Memory. 

In this episode, discover the story of 1LT Todd Weaver. 

Discover the story of the wall in this first episode of America's Memory Podcast.