Merry Christmas and may God bless your safety and wellbeing
This story was posted to a Texas EMS (Emergency Medical Services) Listserv that I am a member of. You may need some tissues while reading it.... I did.....
24 December 2006
I don't normally post to this list serve, sometimes
send replies, however, I think many of you can relate
to this story having lost coworkers and comrades on
the civilian side. I do not know either one of the
sailors mentioned in this story, however, being an
active reservist, I know that this could have been me
or some of you. Regardless of your political
convictions, I ask that you keep All of our military
personnel and their families in your thoughts and
prayers during this holiday season.
Respectfully,
HM3 Jon Beach, USN, OPA-C, EMT-I
Battlefield's 'Doc' now in a nation's care
Brought home by his best friend, lost medic unites
perfect strangers
By Jim Sheeler, Rocky Mountain News, December 15, 2006
-
http://insidedenver.com/drmn/local/article/0,1299,DRMN_15_5216457,00.html
The skinny sailor sat in the Philadelphia airport
terminal in his deep-blue dress uniform, cracking his
knuckles, shifting in his seat, waiting for his best
friend.
A woman from the airline walked over and motioned for
him to follow. She saw the nervous look on the
sailor's face and stopped. "Wait," she said. "Is this
your first time doing this?"
"Yes, ma'am," the 22 year-old said, his voice
cracking.
"Well, unfortunately, it's not the first time for me,"
she said. "Not even the first time this week." She
led him toward the gate and gave him a soft smile.
"You'll do fine," she said.
Inside the airport, the public-address system pumped
out Peggy Lee's Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree. A
nearby group of passengers loaded up their ski
clothes, readying for a vacation. Suit-and-tied
businessmen with premier privileges watched as the
sailor was led in front of them all.
None of them knew his mission.
On board the nearly empty plane, a flight attendant
was one of the first to shake his hand. "I understand
you're escorting today," he said. "Is this the fella
from Longmont? I live in Boulder. I've been reading
about him in the papers."
"Yes, sir," the sailor said in a warbled voice that
sounded like an eighth-grader.
"I'm sure you'll do yourself and your service proud,"
the flight attendant said.
After speaking with the crew, the pilot walked over
and offered his hand. "I understand he was your
friend," the captain said. "I'm sorry."
The sailor nodded. He carried his soft, white hat in
his hands. The patch on his left shoulder signified
his status as a Navy hospital corpsman.
The captain then looked at one of the crew members.
"Are there any seats in first class? I'd like to bring
him up here."
After the sailor stowed his bags, the woman from the
terminal walked him back out to the jetway, where he
waited as the other passengers boarded the plane. As
they filed past, some stole glances at him, some
smiled at him, and he tried to smile back.
As the sailor waited, another flight attendant, a
Vietnam veteran, walked over. "Hello," he said,
grasping the sailor's hand. "Thirty years ago, they
didn't say thank you to us. I wanted to say thank you
now."
The sailor nodded again and managed a grin. Then the
chief of the ground crew opened the door to the stairs
that led to the tarmac. "OK," he said. "We're ready."
In cardboard box, a casket
Underneath a whining jet engine near the rear cargo
hold, baggage workers lifted the tarp on a cart, and
the sailor swallowed hard. He checked to see if the
name on the cardboard box matched that of his best
friend.
An American flag was printed atop the box, which
encased the polished hardwood casket, protecting it
during transit from Dover Air Force Base to the
airport, and then to Denver, where the box would be
removed before anyone saw it. On each end, the box was
stamped with a large official seal of the Department
of Defense.
The last time Hospital Corpsman 3rd Class John
Dragneff saw his friend was the same day Hospital
Corpsman Christopher Anderson left for Iraq. They
talked endlessly that day, about taking care of each
other's families, about taking care in general. That
was, after all, what they had in common.
Often in restaurants, the waitperson would ask the
sailors, "Are you brothers?" The first few times, they
laughed it off. After a while, they started answering
without hesitation, "Yes."
The two men had met at field medical training school,
and they clicked right away. They soon studied
together, went to the beach in Camp Lejeune, N.C.,
where Anderson surfed, and just generally hung out,
talking about where life was headed for both of them.
More recently, they spent time talking about what it
meant to hold somebody's life in your hands - and to
lose it.
Tuesday afternoon, the young sailor stood on the
chilly tarmac in Philadelphia. As the casket made its
way up the conveyor belt, he snapped to attention,
grasping his hands into fists, thumbs at the seams of
his pants, trying to squeeze back the tears.
His eyes emptied as he brought his hand to his face in
a salute, which he tried to hold steady until the
casket disappeared into the plane's belly.
As he turned, the sailor's face melted, and he walked
into the embrace of Pamela Andrus, the United Airlines
service director. The ground manager took his other
side, supporting him.
"I'm so sorry," Andrus said.
Together, they walked back up the stairs, into the
plane, where a cheery flight attendant came over with
several tissues plucked from the lavatory.
"You can cry," Christine Sullivan told him. "All of us
want to send our love and blessings to you and be here
for you. You're going to do great."
Corpsmen have long history
On Dec. 4, Chief Hospital Corpsman Kip Poggemeyer
wasn't supposed to be in his office at Buckley Air
Force Base in Aurora. It was his day off, but the 37
year-old was busy trying to finish medical reports
that would send another batch of Navy reservists from
Colorado to Afghanistan.
Only last year, the Navy corpsman had returned from
Marine Corps Air Station Al Asad in Iraq, the closest
medical base to some of the heaviest fighting in the
country - a base that shook with mortar attacks 26
times during his deployment.
Within his first week, he saw massive combat wounds
while performing the same job that his grandfather
held during World War II, the same job he knew he
wanted since he was a little boy.
The history of the Navy hospital corpsman dates back
to the Spanish-American War. The Marines needed a
field medic, and looked to the Navy to provide one.
According to Navy historian and Hospital Corpsman Mark
Hacala, the Navy hospital corpsman has provided
front-line medical care that has saved countless lives
on the battlefields of every conflict since, earning a
disproportionate share of accolades and awards and
suffering a similarly large percentage of casualties.
Despite both services living under the umbrella of the
Navy, Marines and sailors hold an intense traditional
rivalry. When new hospital corpsmen are assigned to
Marine units, the Marines may tease them as "squids" -
or worse. Still, the hospital corpsmen have to learn
to think, act and react with the speed of their Marine
unit.
When a hospital corpsman is first attached to a unit,
the Marines will call them by their last name, or
maybe just "corpsman." Eventually - only when corpsmen
earn the Marines' respect - they earn the nickname
"Doc."
"The first time they call you 'Doc,' it's like, 'Yes!
I have arrived,' " Poggemeyer said. "It makes you feel
like you're part of the team."
Once the fighting begins, the corpsman's duty is
usually one of the riskiest - carrying their own
weapon along with medical gear.
The Marines say they will take a bullet for the
corpsman, because he's the only one who can take it
out.
"If they yell, 'Corpsman up,' they know Doc is going
to be right there," Poggemeyer said. "When the Marines
call you 'Doc,' you know you'll never let them down,
you'll never leave their side. That bond between a
Marine and a Navy corpsman is something that will last
forever. We call them 'My Marines' - they call us 'My
Doc.' "
Somewhere near Ramadi on Dec. 4, Christopher
Anderson's Marines called on their Doc. Details of the
attack have not been released by the military, other
than the information Poggemeyer received in his office
that afternoon.
"They told me it was a corpsman, KIA (killed in
action) in Ramadi from a mortar attack. . . . It
brought back all the memories," he said. "I had come
full circle. I was in Iraq and saw people die. But I
had never seen this side."
That afternoon, Poggemeyer and another
casualty-assistance officer met the Navy chaplain in
Longmont. The chief carried with him a sheet with the
name of 24-year-old Hospital Corpsman Christopher A.
Anderson - and his parents' address in Longmont.
Together, the sailors drove to the modest home with an
American flag flying from the porch, and another
special flag in the window. After they parked the
government sport-utility vehicle at 5:30 p.m.,
Poggemeyer saw the blue-star flag, signifying the
family had a loved one overseas.
"Doc Anderson," it said underneath the star.
"When I saw that, my heart just sank," he said. "My
mom and dad had one of those flags up while I was
gone. My wife had one up."
Still, he made his way to the door.
"I pushed the doorbell," he said, "and I felt like a
horse kicked me in the stomach."
Debra Anderson opened the door and saw the men in
uniform.
"Oh, honey," she said with a smile, calling to her
husband. "The sailors are here. The recruiters are
here."
Rick Anderson came to the stairs and his face paled. A
former Navy SEAL, he recognized the uniforms.
"Honey, we need to sit down," he said. "These aren't
recruiters."
With service came emotion
In the first-class section of United Airlines Flight
271 from Philadelphia to Denver, the sailor looked
through a booklet called Manual for Escorts of
Deceased Naval Personnel.
"It's weird. I think back, and I was never an
emotional-type person until I joined the military,"
Dragneff said. "In the past, I've had relatives who
died, but I never really cried. I guess that since
I've been in, it all means a lot more."
He thought back to one of the last times he saw his
friend, Chris, when they went to visit Arlington
National Cemetery on Memorial Day, and Dragneff found
the grave of a sailor he had trained with.
"When we went out to Arlington, standing there, I just
started crying, and I couldn't understand why. I
didn't really know the guy that well," Dragneff said.
"Chris just grabbed me and hugged me and let me sit
there and cry. As we were walking away, a man walked
up and shook my hand and said, 'Thank you.' So then,
Chris started to cry. So there were just the three of
us standing there, crying.
"A few minutes later, just trying to cheer me up, he
made up some story about a squirrel on crack. Just
like that. He could make you smile."
Dragneff was the responsible one, relatively shy, the
designated driver who didn't drink or smoke. He was
the one happy in a sweat shirt and jeans, while
Anderson would change clothes five times before going
out, a neatnik who splurged on Armani and Ralph
Lauren.
At 6-foot-2 inches tall, with short-cropped, jet-black
hair and hazel eyes, the muscular, outgoing
24-year-old never lacked in self-confidence. "Damn, I
look good," he wrote on one of the photos displayed on
his MySpace.com account. On the Web site, Dragneff
posted regular updates about his friend while he was
in Iraq. He was also the one to inform them of Chris'
death.
"Dec 5 2006 12:56P," he wrote.
"Christopher Anderson, you weren't a 'real' brother,
but you were still my brother. A person could not ask
for a better friend or brother. You will be greatly
missed. Love your brother, John.
"Rest in peace."
Brother gets a phone call
On the evening of Dec. 4, Kyle Anderson wound through
the remote roads of Weld County, making his regular
rounds in his Schwan's food-delivery truck, when he
realized he had a message on his cell phone.
"It was my dad, saying that he had a problem and he
needed my help, and that he wanted me to come home
right away," he said. The 22-year-old shook his head.
"My dad is a Navy SEAL. There's nothing he can't
handle. I knew something was wrong," Anderson said.
"When I called back, the first thing I said was, 'Is
my brother alive?' And he said, 'No.' "
He hung up the phone. On the other end of the line,
his parents worried. The notification team offered to
go and pick up the young man who was now their only
son.
When Kyle called back, his parents asked him to pull
over, saying the sailors would meet him to help drive
back. He parked his truck at the intersection of
Interstate 25 and Colorado 66, and waited, crying
alone in the dark.
"It was so surreal. I wondered, 'Is this really
happening?' " he said. "As I waited longer, I thought,
'Maybe they won't show up. Maybe it's not real.' "
When the government SUV arrived, Kyle dropped his
head. "It was about 25 degrees outside, and we were
standing on the side of I-25 telling him about his
brother," Poggemeyer said. "And giving him hugs."
Once back at the home in Longmont, the family talked
to the notification officers about their son,
breathing life into the name on the casualty list.
"We spoke to him on Dec. 3," his father said. "He
talked about the Christmas presents he wanted us to
buy for a neighbor, and that he wanted us to send out
Christmas cards for him."
At his funeral service today in Longmont, the family
plans to hand out their son's Christmas cards to
everyone who attends. He asked that the card end with
a single phrase: "Please Remember Our Troops!!!!"
Fourth-generation serviceman
When Christopher Anderson enlisted in the Navy in
2005, the Longmont High School graduate became the
fourth generation in his family to do so. At boot
camp, he was voted the "honor graduate" in his class.
After that, he wanted to excel in everything.
Before he left for Iraq, Christopher and his father
mined military supply shops, looking for any equipment
that might help him in the field. He looked for
anything that might help him blend in with the
Marines, since he knew corpsmen were prime targets.
"I have to be able to do this in the dark," he told
his father.
In Iraq, he asked to be stationed with the front-line
Marines and was assigned to a 12-man unit. One of his
first tasks was to memorize each Marine's medical
records. His medical expertise stretched beyond his
unit to the Iraqi people, who would talk to him
"because he was 'the dictor' (as the Iraqis called
him). "There were times that nobody would talk to
anyone except him," Rick Anderson said.
Once, he told his parents, an angry crowd had
mobilized, but it was quashed when a woman recognized
the corpsman and stepped in.
"She said, 'This is the one who helped my baby,' "
Rick Anderson said, "And that dispersed the group, and
everything was OK."
After some of his weekly early morning calls home, it
was impossible for the couple to fall back asleep.
"One time, he called us at 5 a,m. My wife heard some
funny noises and heard shouts of 'Where's that coming
from? Where's that coming from?' " Rick Anderson
remembered.
The Andersons, still in bed, listening with the phone
between them, heard gunfire.
"I'm going to stay down here," he told them. "I'll
just belly-crawl down the hallway so I can talk to
you."
In one mortar attack, he was blown across a room,
bruising him. Not long afterward, after another
attack, he was in the back of a Humvee, his hands
covered with his sergeant's blood, speeding toward a
field hospital, tying tourniquets and offering
encouragement.
"The sergeant told him, 'Tell my wife and kids I love
them.' He told him he wouldn't need to do that, while
he was pinching off an artery because the tourniquet
came loose," his father said.
That sergeant is now recovering at Walter Reed Army
Hospital, the family said, and plans to attend
Anderson's burial at Arlington National Cemetery on
Dec. 21.
Before he left, Christopher and his father talked
about the possibility that he wouldn't return, and
Christopher had asked for a burial at Arlington. He
had only one other request:
"If something happens," he told his father, "I want
John there."
Word spreads through plane
At 31,000 feet, the word slowly slipped through the
plane about the sailor in first class - and his
mission.
When the passengers found out, their emotions spanned
the debate that continues to split the country. Some
cursed President Bush by name. Others cursed anyone
who says they support the troops without supporting
the war. Despite their political leanings, they all
said they appreciated the sailor that most of them
called "the kid" in the front of the plane - and, even
more, the one in the cargo hold beneath them.
Seat 33F, Patrick Mondile, Philadelphia: "I look at my
own situation - I'm 24 years old. I think about, it
very well could have been me, if I'd chosen that path.
I have friends over there right now," Mondile said. "I
don't understand why we're there (in Iraq), but I feel
for the families - not just for this soldier, but the
thousands who have died."
Seat 14A, Pam Anderson, New Jersey: "God bless him.
God bless him," she said of the sailor in first class.
"If he wants any free hugs, just send him back here,"
the 62 year-old said. "I'm serious. I'm completely
serious. I joined the Air Force as a flight nurse, and
my squadron is taking a lot of men and women out of
the field right now."
Seats 8D, 8E, Dave and Lindy Powell, Monument: "To me,
it's a sense of honor. We didn't know him, but he's
part of the Colorado family. We're from Monument. So
he's part of our family, too," Dave Powell said. "Our
nephew is a C-130 pilot who's flying into Iraq and
Afghanistan. Kids in my Scout troop joined the Marines
and went right to Baghdad." His voice broke. "They all
came home safely."
Seat 22D, Terry Musgrove, Ontario, Ore.: "If we don't
support them, then it's going to embolden the
terrorists," he said, fuming as he spoke about a new
poll indicating that support for the war is declining.
Before the flight took off, he was the only passenger
to shake the skinny sailor's hand at the terminal. "It
breaks my heart to know that he's on the plane. I had
no idea," he said, as he began to cry. "But I'm proud
to tell you, I'm proud."
Seat 16F, Michael Lipkin, Aspen: "I think it's
extremely sobering. This is a war where few of us have
family and friends over there, and despite the fact
that it dominates the media, I think most of us don't
feel the cost, the real cost of this war. And we're
going to be paying it for a long time," Lipkin said.
"I'm just chilled that that body is on here."
Inside the cabin, flight attendant Christine Sullivan
walked back after visiting with the sailor again. "It
just makes it real," she said. "It's separated from
politics at this point. It's just about the humanity."
Airline pilot pays tribute
As the plane began its initial descent, Captain George
Gil's voice crackled over the intercom. "Ladies and
gentlemen, pardon the interruption, but if I could
have your attention," he said, and then paused.
"The great song from Francis Scott Key says that to
live in the land of the free, it must also be the home
of the brave. Today, we're bringing home two brave
men: Petty Officer 3rd Class John Dragneff, and, in
great sadness, a fallen hero, Hospital [Corps]man
Christopher Anderson."
He asked the passengers to let Dragneff off first to
meet the casket, then addressed the escort: "Please
know that our prayers and blessings are with you and
the family. Thank you for your courage."
A phalanx of pallbearers
As the plane taxied to the gate at Denver
International Airport on Tuesday evening, the
passengers saw the flashing lights of the police cars,
the hearse parked on the tarmac, and they spoke in
hushed whispers.
As Dragneff left the plane, a phalanx of pallbearers -
three Marines and three sailors - walked toward the
plane, for the sailor who died saving Marines.
Inside the belly of the plane, ramp workers removed
the cardboard box protecting the casket, while sailors
arranged the American flag.
The family embraced as the casket was lowered on the
conveyor belt. Some of the plane's passengers watched
from their windows. Some watched from the windows
inside the terminal.
The pallbearers loaded the casket into the hearse, and
Dragneff hugged the family before climbing into the
passenger's seat.
As the motorcade made its way toward Longmont, the
three sailors who served as pallbearers jumped into a
white van, which pulled in behind the limousines.
As they left the airport, police officers and firemen
stood in salutes, bathed in the flashing emergency
lights.
"This is so cool that they do this," said Storekeeper
3rd Class Ben Engelman. "This is so amazing."
At the Erie and Dacono exit, firetrucks and
ambulances, lights flashing, were parked on the
overpass. As the procession turned toward Longmont,
the lights burned even brighter.
"He deserves this. He was doing good," said Petty
Officer Rick Lopez.
On Colorado 66, cars pulled over, along with
firefighters, who continued to salute.
Then there was Longmont's Main Street.
At 20th Avenue and Main, the flags began. Kids holding
plastic flags, Korean War veterans holding worn
American flags, bandana-clad Vietnam veterans holding
POW/MIA flags.
At 18th and Main, groups held candles and signs. "God
Bless Your Son. Thank You." A boy held his candle to
his mother's to light it, as the hearse passed.
At 17th and Main, hands over hearts. Hats over hearts.
"Dude, this is giving me chicken skin," Lopez said,
shivering. "I've never seen anything like this."
At 15th and Main, people came out of a restaurant to
watch the procession. Police cars with blue lights and
medical cars with red lights shone on the Christmas
decorations wrapping the trees of downtown.
Outside, it was about 40 degrees. Still, the crowds
continued to line the streets. More children with
wobbly salutes. A woman in a walker. A couple that
embraced in a hug as soon as the hearse passed.
They drove in silence for a few minutes, then Lopez
spoke again. "You know," he said, "sometimes I wish
they would do this for us when we come home alive."
A 'smile in his voice'
Inside the funeral home, a few feet from her son's
flag-draped casket, Debra Anderson held tight to a
single photo. "I had to have my picture of my smiling
Christopher," she said, staring at it, then at the
casket.
While Christopher was deployed, his parents talked
with him at least once a week - mostly for only a few
minutes. The last time they spoke, the day before he
died, he ended his conversation the way he always did,
telling his parents, "I love you."
"You could hear his smile in his voice, you could hear
it on the phone," his father said. "He was going back
to work, back to do his job, back to doing what he
wanted to do."
Inside the funeral home, Debra Anderson leaned into
her husband of 26 years, wiping her face with a
tissue. "My boy, my boy," she said. "Christopher said
he'd be OK. He promised he'd be safe, Rick - he
PROMISED me. I miss him. I miss the phone calls. I
miss him terribly. I want to talk to him."
"Hey," Rick Anderson said softly, "now we can talk to
him anytime we want."
"Ooooh," she moaned. "My heart hurts. My heart hurts.
It was my job to take care of him. I shouldn't have
let him go. I shouldn't have let him go."
"You were going to stop Christopher?" his father
asked. "Since when?"
They both managed a smile, and their eyes again fell
on the casket.
As the family told Christopher stories from chairs in
a corner of the room, Kyle Anderson stood at the foot
of the casket, refusing to leave his place, patting
his hand on the rough, wrinkled flag.
The brothers had grown up as opposites - Christopher
the well-dressed go-getter, Kyle the rebel who shopped
at thrift stores. They fought like most brothers
fight. Sometimes, they fought worse than most brothers
fight. Since his brother's death, Kyle now says, they
talk all the time.
As the family continued to share stories, sniffling
and laughing, Kyle Anderson refused to move from the
casket.
"Why don't you come over here with us?" Rick Anderson
asked him. "Why are you standing there all alone?"
Kyle looked at his father, his eyes red, and patted
the casket again. "I'm not alone," he said.
More than 16 hours after John Dragneff's day began,
the skinny sailor walked into the room, after
finishing his final paperwork, and handed
Christopher's parents a condolence card.
"Instead of saying, 'I'm sorry for your loss,' I
wanted to say 'thank you' for Christopher. We claimed
each other as brothers."
"You did good, John," Rick Anderson said. "You did
good."
As they sat together in the quiet room dominated by
the casket, Debra Anderson grasped the young man's
hand and looked into his eyes.
"I'm glad you came with him. It's what he wanted. You
did a good job. You got him home," she said, gripping
his hand even tighter. "Thank you for bringing him
home."
24 December 2006
I don't normally post to this list serve, sometimes
send replies, however, I think many of you can relate
to this story having lost coworkers and comrades on
the civilian side. I do not know either one of the
sailors mentioned in this story, however, being an
active reservist, I know that this could have been me
or some of you. Regardless of your political
convictions, I ask that you keep All of our military
personnel and their families in your thoughts and
prayers during this holiday season.
Respectfully,
HM3 Jon Beach, USN, OPA-C, EMT-I
Battlefield's 'Doc' now in a nation's care
Brought home by his best friend, lost medic unites
perfect strangers
By Jim Sheeler, Rocky Mountain News, December 15, 2006
-
http://insidedenver.com/drmn/local/article/0,1299,DRMN_15_5216457,00.html
The skinny sailor sat in the Philadelphia airport
terminal in his deep-blue dress uniform, cracking his
knuckles, shifting in his seat, waiting for his best
friend.
A woman from the airline walked over and motioned for
him to follow. She saw the nervous look on the
sailor's face and stopped. "Wait," she said. "Is this
your first time doing this?"
"Yes, ma'am," the 22 year-old said, his voice
cracking.
"Well, unfortunately, it's not the first time for me,"
she said. "Not even the first time this week." She
led him toward the gate and gave him a soft smile.
"You'll do fine," she said.
Inside the airport, the public-address system pumped
out Peggy Lee's Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree. A
nearby group of passengers loaded up their ski
clothes, readying for a vacation. Suit-and-tied
businessmen with premier privileges watched as the
sailor was led in front of them all.
None of them knew his mission.
On board the nearly empty plane, a flight attendant
was one of the first to shake his hand. "I understand
you're escorting today," he said. "Is this the fella
from Longmont? I live in Boulder. I've been reading
about him in the papers."
"Yes, sir," the sailor said in a warbled voice that
sounded like an eighth-grader.
"I'm sure you'll do yourself and your service proud,"
the flight attendant said.
After speaking with the crew, the pilot walked over
and offered his hand. "I understand he was your
friend," the captain said. "I'm sorry."
The sailor nodded. He carried his soft, white hat in
his hands. The patch on his left shoulder signified
his status as a Navy hospital corpsman.
The captain then looked at one of the crew members.
"Are there any seats in first class? I'd like to bring
him up here."
After the sailor stowed his bags, the woman from the
terminal walked him back out to the jetway, where he
waited as the other passengers boarded the plane. As
they filed past, some stole glances at him, some
smiled at him, and he tried to smile back.
As the sailor waited, another flight attendant, a
Vietnam veteran, walked over. "Hello," he said,
grasping the sailor's hand. "Thirty years ago, they
didn't say thank you to us. I wanted to say thank you
now."
The sailor nodded again and managed a grin. Then the
chief of the ground crew opened the door to the stairs
that led to the tarmac. "OK," he said. "We're ready."
In cardboard box, a casket
Underneath a whining jet engine near the rear cargo
hold, baggage workers lifted the tarp on a cart, and
the sailor swallowed hard. He checked to see if the
name on the cardboard box matched that of his best
friend.
An American flag was printed atop the box, which
encased the polished hardwood casket, protecting it
during transit from Dover Air Force Base to the
airport, and then to Denver, where the box would be
removed before anyone saw it. On each end, the box was
stamped with a large official seal of the Department
of Defense.
The last time Hospital Corpsman 3rd Class John
Dragneff saw his friend was the same day Hospital
Corpsman Christopher Anderson left for Iraq. They
talked endlessly that day, about taking care of each
other's families, about taking care in general. That
was, after all, what they had in common.
Often in restaurants, the waitperson would ask the
sailors, "Are you brothers?" The first few times, they
laughed it off. After a while, they started answering
without hesitation, "Yes."
The two men had met at field medical training school,
and they clicked right away. They soon studied
together, went to the beach in Camp Lejeune, N.C.,
where Anderson surfed, and just generally hung out,
talking about where life was headed for both of them.
More recently, they spent time talking about what it
meant to hold somebody's life in your hands - and to
lose it.
Tuesday afternoon, the young sailor stood on the
chilly tarmac in Philadelphia. As the casket made its
way up the conveyor belt, he snapped to attention,
grasping his hands into fists, thumbs at the seams of
his pants, trying to squeeze back the tears.
His eyes emptied as he brought his hand to his face in
a salute, which he tried to hold steady until the
casket disappeared into the plane's belly.
As he turned, the sailor's face melted, and he walked
into the embrace of Pamela Andrus, the United Airlines
service director. The ground manager took his other
side, supporting him.
"I'm so sorry," Andrus said.
Together, they walked back up the stairs, into the
plane, where a cheery flight attendant came over with
several tissues plucked from the lavatory.
"You can cry," Christine Sullivan told him. "All of us
want to send our love and blessings to you and be here
for you. You're going to do great."
Corpsmen have long history
On Dec. 4, Chief Hospital Corpsman Kip Poggemeyer
wasn't supposed to be in his office at Buckley Air
Force Base in Aurora. It was his day off, but the 37
year-old was busy trying to finish medical reports
that would send another batch of Navy reservists from
Colorado to Afghanistan.
Only last year, the Navy corpsman had returned from
Marine Corps Air Station Al Asad in Iraq, the closest
medical base to some of the heaviest fighting in the
country - a base that shook with mortar attacks 26
times during his deployment.
Within his first week, he saw massive combat wounds
while performing the same job that his grandfather
held during World War II, the same job he knew he
wanted since he was a little boy.
The history of the Navy hospital corpsman dates back
to the Spanish-American War. The Marines needed a
field medic, and looked to the Navy to provide one.
According to Navy historian and Hospital Corpsman Mark
Hacala, the Navy hospital corpsman has provided
front-line medical care that has saved countless lives
on the battlefields of every conflict since, earning a
disproportionate share of accolades and awards and
suffering a similarly large percentage of casualties.
Despite both services living under the umbrella of the
Navy, Marines and sailors hold an intense traditional
rivalry. When new hospital corpsmen are assigned to
Marine units, the Marines may tease them as "squids" -
or worse. Still, the hospital corpsmen have to learn
to think, act and react with the speed of their Marine
unit.
When a hospital corpsman is first attached to a unit,
the Marines will call them by their last name, or
maybe just "corpsman." Eventually - only when corpsmen
earn the Marines' respect - they earn the nickname
"Doc."
"The first time they call you 'Doc,' it's like, 'Yes!
I have arrived,' " Poggemeyer said. "It makes you feel
like you're part of the team."
Once the fighting begins, the corpsman's duty is
usually one of the riskiest - carrying their own
weapon along with medical gear.
The Marines say they will take a bullet for the
corpsman, because he's the only one who can take it
out.
"If they yell, 'Corpsman up,' they know Doc is going
to be right there," Poggemeyer said. "When the Marines
call you 'Doc,' you know you'll never let them down,
you'll never leave their side. That bond between a
Marine and a Navy corpsman is something that will last
forever. We call them 'My Marines' - they call us 'My
Doc.' "
Somewhere near Ramadi on Dec. 4, Christopher
Anderson's Marines called on their Doc. Details of the
attack have not been released by the military, other
than the information Poggemeyer received in his office
that afternoon.
"They told me it was a corpsman, KIA (killed in
action) in Ramadi from a mortar attack. . . . It
brought back all the memories," he said. "I had come
full circle. I was in Iraq and saw people die. But I
had never seen this side."
That afternoon, Poggemeyer and another
casualty-assistance officer met the Navy chaplain in
Longmont. The chief carried with him a sheet with the
name of 24-year-old Hospital Corpsman Christopher A.
Anderson - and his parents' address in Longmont.
Together, the sailors drove to the modest home with an
American flag flying from the porch, and another
special flag in the window. After they parked the
government sport-utility vehicle at 5:30 p.m.,
Poggemeyer saw the blue-star flag, signifying the
family had a loved one overseas.
"Doc Anderson," it said underneath the star.
"When I saw that, my heart just sank," he said. "My
mom and dad had one of those flags up while I was
gone. My wife had one up."
Still, he made his way to the door.
"I pushed the doorbell," he said, "and I felt like a
horse kicked me in the stomach."
Debra Anderson opened the door and saw the men in
uniform.
"Oh, honey," she said with a smile, calling to her
husband. "The sailors are here. The recruiters are
here."
Rick Anderson came to the stairs and his face paled. A
former Navy SEAL, he recognized the uniforms.
"Honey, we need to sit down," he said. "These aren't
recruiters."
With service came emotion
In the first-class section of United Airlines Flight
271 from Philadelphia to Denver, the sailor looked
through a booklet called Manual for Escorts of
Deceased Naval Personnel.
"It's weird. I think back, and I was never an
emotional-type person until I joined the military,"
Dragneff said. "In the past, I've had relatives who
died, but I never really cried. I guess that since
I've been in, it all means a lot more."
He thought back to one of the last times he saw his
friend, Chris, when they went to visit Arlington
National Cemetery on Memorial Day, and Dragneff found
the grave of a sailor he had trained with.
"When we went out to Arlington, standing there, I just
started crying, and I couldn't understand why. I
didn't really know the guy that well," Dragneff said.
"Chris just grabbed me and hugged me and let me sit
there and cry. As we were walking away, a man walked
up and shook my hand and said, 'Thank you.' So then,
Chris started to cry. So there were just the three of
us standing there, crying.
"A few minutes later, just trying to cheer me up, he
made up some story about a squirrel on crack. Just
like that. He could make you smile."
Dragneff was the responsible one, relatively shy, the
designated driver who didn't drink or smoke. He was
the one happy in a sweat shirt and jeans, while
Anderson would change clothes five times before going
out, a neatnik who splurged on Armani and Ralph
Lauren.
At 6-foot-2 inches tall, with short-cropped, jet-black
hair and hazel eyes, the muscular, outgoing
24-year-old never lacked in self-confidence. "Damn, I
look good," he wrote on one of the photos displayed on
his MySpace.com account. On the Web site, Dragneff
posted regular updates about his friend while he was
in Iraq. He was also the one to inform them of Chris'
death.
"Dec 5 2006 12:56P," he wrote.
"Christopher Anderson, you weren't a 'real' brother,
but you were still my brother. A person could not ask
for a better friend or brother. You will be greatly
missed. Love your brother, John.
"Rest in peace."
Brother gets a phone call
On the evening of Dec. 4, Kyle Anderson wound through
the remote roads of Weld County, making his regular
rounds in his Schwan's food-delivery truck, when he
realized he had a message on his cell phone.
"It was my dad, saying that he had a problem and he
needed my help, and that he wanted me to come home
right away," he said. The 22-year-old shook his head.
"My dad is a Navy SEAL. There's nothing he can't
handle. I knew something was wrong," Anderson said.
"When I called back, the first thing I said was, 'Is
my brother alive?' And he said, 'No.' "
He hung up the phone. On the other end of the line,
his parents worried. The notification team offered to
go and pick up the young man who was now their only
son.
When Kyle called back, his parents asked him to pull
over, saying the sailors would meet him to help drive
back. He parked his truck at the intersection of
Interstate 25 and Colorado 66, and waited, crying
alone in the dark.
"It was so surreal. I wondered, 'Is this really
happening?' " he said. "As I waited longer, I thought,
'Maybe they won't show up. Maybe it's not real.' "
When the government SUV arrived, Kyle dropped his
head. "It was about 25 degrees outside, and we were
standing on the side of I-25 telling him about his
brother," Poggemeyer said. "And giving him hugs."
Once back at the home in Longmont, the family talked
to the notification officers about their son,
breathing life into the name on the casualty list.
"We spoke to him on Dec. 3," his father said. "He
talked about the Christmas presents he wanted us to
buy for a neighbor, and that he wanted us to send out
Christmas cards for him."
At his funeral service today in Longmont, the family
plans to hand out their son's Christmas cards to
everyone who attends. He asked that the card end with
a single phrase: "Please Remember Our Troops!!!!"
Fourth-generation serviceman
When Christopher Anderson enlisted in the Navy in
2005, the Longmont High School graduate became the
fourth generation in his family to do so. At boot
camp, he was voted the "honor graduate" in his class.
After that, he wanted to excel in everything.
Before he left for Iraq, Christopher and his father
mined military supply shops, looking for any equipment
that might help him in the field. He looked for
anything that might help him blend in with the
Marines, since he knew corpsmen were prime targets.
"I have to be able to do this in the dark," he told
his father.
In Iraq, he asked to be stationed with the front-line
Marines and was assigned to a 12-man unit. One of his
first tasks was to memorize each Marine's medical
records. His medical expertise stretched beyond his
unit to the Iraqi people, who would talk to him
"because he was 'the dictor' (as the Iraqis called
him). "There were times that nobody would talk to
anyone except him," Rick Anderson said.
Once, he told his parents, an angry crowd had
mobilized, but it was quashed when a woman recognized
the corpsman and stepped in.
"She said, 'This is the one who helped my baby,' "
Rick Anderson said, "And that dispersed the group, and
everything was OK."
After some of his weekly early morning calls home, it
was impossible for the couple to fall back asleep.
"One time, he called us at 5 a,m. My wife heard some
funny noises and heard shouts of 'Where's that coming
from? Where's that coming from?' " Rick Anderson
remembered.
The Andersons, still in bed, listening with the phone
between them, heard gunfire.
"I'm going to stay down here," he told them. "I'll
just belly-crawl down the hallway so I can talk to
you."
In one mortar attack, he was blown across a room,
bruising him. Not long afterward, after another
attack, he was in the back of a Humvee, his hands
covered with his sergeant's blood, speeding toward a
field hospital, tying tourniquets and offering
encouragement.
"The sergeant told him, 'Tell my wife and kids I love
them.' He told him he wouldn't need to do that, while
he was pinching off an artery because the tourniquet
came loose," his father said.
That sergeant is now recovering at Walter Reed Army
Hospital, the family said, and plans to attend
Anderson's burial at Arlington National Cemetery on
Dec. 21.
Before he left, Christopher and his father talked
about the possibility that he wouldn't return, and
Christopher had asked for a burial at Arlington. He
had only one other request:
"If something happens," he told his father, "I want
John there."
Word spreads through plane
At 31,000 feet, the word slowly slipped through the
plane about the sailor in first class - and his
mission.
When the passengers found out, their emotions spanned
the debate that continues to split the country. Some
cursed President Bush by name. Others cursed anyone
who says they support the troops without supporting
the war. Despite their political leanings, they all
said they appreciated the sailor that most of them
called "the kid" in the front of the plane - and, even
more, the one in the cargo hold beneath them.
Seat 33F, Patrick Mondile, Philadelphia: "I look at my
own situation - I'm 24 years old. I think about, it
very well could have been me, if I'd chosen that path.
I have friends over there right now," Mondile said. "I
don't understand why we're there (in Iraq), but I feel
for the families - not just for this soldier, but the
thousands who have died."
Seat 14A, Pam Anderson, New Jersey: "God bless him.
God bless him," she said of the sailor in first class.
"If he wants any free hugs, just send him back here,"
the 62 year-old said. "I'm serious. I'm completely
serious. I joined the Air Force as a flight nurse, and
my squadron is taking a lot of men and women out of
the field right now."
Seats 8D, 8E, Dave and Lindy Powell, Monument: "To me,
it's a sense of honor. We didn't know him, but he's
part of the Colorado family. We're from Monument. So
he's part of our family, too," Dave Powell said. "Our
nephew is a C-130 pilot who's flying into Iraq and
Afghanistan. Kids in my Scout troop joined the Marines
and went right to Baghdad." His voice broke. "They all
came home safely."
Seat 22D, Terry Musgrove, Ontario, Ore.: "If we don't
support them, then it's going to embolden the
terrorists," he said, fuming as he spoke about a new
poll indicating that support for the war is declining.
Before the flight took off, he was the only passenger
to shake the skinny sailor's hand at the terminal. "It
breaks my heart to know that he's on the plane. I had
no idea," he said, as he began to cry. "But I'm proud
to tell you, I'm proud."
Seat 16F, Michael Lipkin, Aspen: "I think it's
extremely sobering. This is a war where few of us have
family and friends over there, and despite the fact
that it dominates the media, I think most of us don't
feel the cost, the real cost of this war. And we're
going to be paying it for a long time," Lipkin said.
"I'm just chilled that that body is on here."
Inside the cabin, flight attendant Christine Sullivan
walked back after visiting with the sailor again. "It
just makes it real," she said. "It's separated from
politics at this point. It's just about the humanity."
Airline pilot pays tribute
As the plane began its initial descent, Captain George
Gil's voice crackled over the intercom. "Ladies and
gentlemen, pardon the interruption, but if I could
have your attention," he said, and then paused.
"The great song from Francis Scott Key says that to
live in the land of the free, it must also be the home
of the brave. Today, we're bringing home two brave
men: Petty Officer 3rd Class John Dragneff, and, in
great sadness, a fallen hero, Hospital [Corps]man
Christopher Anderson."
He asked the passengers to let Dragneff off first to
meet the casket, then addressed the escort: "Please
know that our prayers and blessings are with you and
the family. Thank you for your courage."
A phalanx of pallbearers
As the plane taxied to the gate at Denver
International Airport on Tuesday evening, the
passengers saw the flashing lights of the police cars,
the hearse parked on the tarmac, and they spoke in
hushed whispers.
As Dragneff left the plane, a phalanx of pallbearers -
three Marines and three sailors - walked toward the
plane, for the sailor who died saving Marines.
Inside the belly of the plane, ramp workers removed
the cardboard box protecting the casket, while sailors
arranged the American flag.
The family embraced as the casket was lowered on the
conveyor belt. Some of the plane's passengers watched
from their windows. Some watched from the windows
inside the terminal.
The pallbearers loaded the casket into the hearse, and
Dragneff hugged the family before climbing into the
passenger's seat.
As the motorcade made its way toward Longmont, the
three sailors who served as pallbearers jumped into a
white van, which pulled in behind the limousines.
As they left the airport, police officers and firemen
stood in salutes, bathed in the flashing emergency
lights.
"This is so cool that they do this," said Storekeeper
3rd Class Ben Engelman. "This is so amazing."
At the Erie and Dacono exit, firetrucks and
ambulances, lights flashing, were parked on the
overpass. As the procession turned toward Longmont,
the lights burned even brighter.
"He deserves this. He was doing good," said Petty
Officer Rick Lopez.
On Colorado 66, cars pulled over, along with
firefighters, who continued to salute.
Then there was Longmont's Main Street.
At 20th Avenue and Main, the flags began. Kids holding
plastic flags, Korean War veterans holding worn
American flags, bandana-clad Vietnam veterans holding
POW/MIA flags.
At 18th and Main, groups held candles and signs. "God
Bless Your Son. Thank You." A boy held his candle to
his mother's to light it, as the hearse passed.
At 17th and Main, hands over hearts. Hats over hearts.
"Dude, this is giving me chicken skin," Lopez said,
shivering. "I've never seen anything like this."
At 15th and Main, people came out of a restaurant to
watch the procession. Police cars with blue lights and
medical cars with red lights shone on the Christmas
decorations wrapping the trees of downtown.
Outside, it was about 40 degrees. Still, the crowds
continued to line the streets. More children with
wobbly salutes. A woman in a walker. A couple that
embraced in a hug as soon as the hearse passed.
They drove in silence for a few minutes, then Lopez
spoke again. "You know," he said, "sometimes I wish
they would do this for us when we come home alive."
A 'smile in his voice'
Inside the funeral home, a few feet from her son's
flag-draped casket, Debra Anderson held tight to a
single photo. "I had to have my picture of my smiling
Christopher," she said, staring at it, then at the
casket.
While Christopher was deployed, his parents talked
with him at least once a week - mostly for only a few
minutes. The last time they spoke, the day before he
died, he ended his conversation the way he always did,
telling his parents, "I love you."
"You could hear his smile in his voice, you could hear
it on the phone," his father said. "He was going back
to work, back to do his job, back to doing what he
wanted to do."
Inside the funeral home, Debra Anderson leaned into
her husband of 26 years, wiping her face with a
tissue. "My boy, my boy," she said. "Christopher said
he'd be OK. He promised he'd be safe, Rick - he
PROMISED me. I miss him. I miss the phone calls. I
miss him terribly. I want to talk to him."
"Hey," Rick Anderson said softly, "now we can talk to
him anytime we want."
"Ooooh," she moaned. "My heart hurts. My heart hurts.
It was my job to take care of him. I shouldn't have
let him go. I shouldn't have let him go."
"You were going to stop Christopher?" his father
asked. "Since when?"
They both managed a smile, and their eyes again fell
on the casket.
As the family told Christopher stories from chairs in
a corner of the room, Kyle Anderson stood at the foot
of the casket, refusing to leave his place, patting
his hand on the rough, wrinkled flag.
The brothers had grown up as opposites - Christopher
the well-dressed go-getter, Kyle the rebel who shopped
at thrift stores. They fought like most brothers
fight. Sometimes, they fought worse than most brothers
fight. Since his brother's death, Kyle now says, they
talk all the time.
As the family continued to share stories, sniffling
and laughing, Kyle Anderson refused to move from the
casket.
"Why don't you come over here with us?" Rick Anderson
asked him. "Why are you standing there all alone?"
Kyle looked at his father, his eyes red, and patted
the casket again. "I'm not alone," he said.
More than 16 hours after John Dragneff's day began,
the skinny sailor walked into the room, after
finishing his final paperwork, and handed
Christopher's parents a condolence card.
"Instead of saying, 'I'm sorry for your loss,' I
wanted to say 'thank you' for Christopher. We claimed
each other as brothers."
"You did good, John," Rick Anderson said. "You did
good."
As they sat together in the quiet room dominated by
the casket, Debra Anderson grasped the young man's
hand and looked into his eyes.
"I'm glad you came with him. It's what he wanted. You
did a good job. You got him home," she said, gripping
his hand even tighter. "Thank you for bringing him
home."