My foxhole held many Americans and a few who weren’t. It held many colors, creeds, and religions.
My foxhole held many weapons, both mass destructive and personal protective.
When I look at where I was, I’m so proud of those I was in the foxhole with. We made it. Well, most of us…
On this Memorial Day weekend in 2024, I broke bread and marched with my brothers and their sons. We marched in formations where the generals marched with the troops. “One of them was actually in step,” my buddy told me, smiling wide.
We “Eyes Righted” at the proper time, dressed in some semblance of a uniform, hugged our brothers tight, and shared tales of when we were soldiers once and young. We lifted ale and whiskey to the fallen.
If you were in my foxhole, I love you! You are my hero!
I called roll three times during my time wearing the lozenge. My favorite times in my life were when I was a First Sergeant. My soldiers were my teammates. We made life happen together. Quigley, Phillips, Ramirez—three soldiers who died too soon. I will never forget their lack of an answer to the bugle call of taps in the distance, as tears fell from my eyes. I loved my soldiers.
I spent the weekend with my family. My nephew graduated from the Naval Academy. He will be flying jets soon for the US Navy. He was the captain of the soccer team. His big brother graduated a year ahead of him and is currently in flight training, also a soccer team captain and future jet pilot.
I spent the weekend with my paratrooper buddies from the 3-4 Air Defense Artillery Regiment, part of the esteemed 82nd Airborne Division. We love each other. We spent countless hours together, sweating through rigorous training, preparing to serve our nation. We were power. We were AUDACIA—by daring deeds.
We were the only Air Defense Unit in the free world prepared to jump out of an airplane with our equipment. We dropped our Vulcans, our Avengers, our Sentinels, and, most amazingly, our Stingers. We strapped it on and rode it in.
The things we would have done for our buddies… We walked miles together, got up early after getting home late, slept on each other’s couches, shined boots together, and shared stories, misery, and joy.
We held and still hold secrets—very sacred secrets that will never be told of evenings that will never actually be fully remembered. That is why Army stories only require 10% truth.
If you were in my foxhole, I love you!
Let’s memorialize the fallen with proper tribute by demanding less war, less killing. Please. If you were in my foxhole, I love you!
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