For Gordon
Posted: Friday, July 31, 2009
by Ryan Stroud
It started out as a cold, rainy day in Iraq. I exited my containerized housing unit, or CHU, heading out to work with my other public affairs brothers and sisters. I'm considered a journalist, or propagandist, whichever works for you. I try to tell a story with words and pictures for the good people back in the United States, though I found it hard to get printed into a major publication during our time as writers because we would tell about the good the Army was doing in Iraq and not the negative. I guess that's where we get the title propagandist.
The day carried on like normal. I catered to whiney journalist and photographers who expected us to wait on them hand-in-foot. I hated it, personally. These guys had nice jobs, were getting paid a lot more than we were, doing the same job we were and only had to be in Iraq for a few weeks. Yet, this never slowed them down from complaining about everything I do mean everything.
From their sleeping arrangements to our food at the dining facility on our forward operating base, they cried about it all. I can't even tell you how many times I wanted to ring these whiners necks and tell them, "Stop your crying! We have Soldiers here sleeping in the mud and rocks while you get a bed and a cot. You also get a hot meal and they'll be lucky to come back from a mission alive!" But I always kept my mouth shut, never saying a word to them of that nature. It wouldn't have been polite, like I even cared at that moment.
This day, I was told to take care of a freelance photographer named Bertram. Bertram was a pompous, unruly, loud, egotistical jerk, but one hell of a photographer. He was the best at what he did, and he knew it. It sickened me to hear him talk, but I loved looking at his photos. Honestly, I learned a lot from just peeking at his pictures - the color, the light. He was good, and he knew it.
I hated catering to him because that meant I would have to listen to him talk about how wonderful he was all morning, so I gathered his equipment up and took him to the unit he was going on a mission with. Bertram complained about the ride down the unit because I drove him in tiny vehicle instead of a car or a truck. I just brushed it off the best I could.
I dropped him off and told him I'll see him later tonight after he returned from the mission he was going to photograph. It was a good mission; a group of Soldiers were taking a bunch of blankets and toys to Iraqi families who had nothing. And I really do mean nothing. These people were living in mud huts, and were lucky to have the clothes they had on their back. It was sad to see people this way, so the mission was a noble one.
As I returned to my office, I got back to my own work of telling the Soldier's side of what was going on over here. A few hours passed and my days seemed to fly. Soon, it was dark outside and an email went out to everyone on their computers. There had been an improvised explosive device, or IED, attack on the blankets and toys mission. Two Soldiers were hurt and I was about to receive some of the worst news ever.
Sgt. James Gordon was not the typical Soldier on a military instillation. Sure, he liked to drink and have some fun who doesn't? He was more than that, he was special.
Our public affairs section was placed in the S-6 section for formation and accountability purposes. The S-6 worked with computer; repairing and installing programs on them. We in public affairs really had nothing in common with these workers, but that really didn't matter. These guys were some of the best Soldiers I ever met. They welcomed us into their group even though we stuck out. They took care of us and we all became a family.
This is when I really got to know Sgt. Gordon. I had always heard stories from others about how cool and funny he was and I was excited to get to see this first hand. He was a nice guy who treated us well.
While talking with him during our lunch break, I found out he was a single father taking care of his young son. His wife had left the two of them when his son was younger and now Gordon was in the Army to provide a better life for his son. I felt moved and really touched by Gordon's trust in me to share his life story. It went even further than that, but I won't give too many details. Raising his son was the most important thing to Gordon and hew loved that child more than anything else in his life.
I asked Gordon if I could write a story about him, sharing his life story with others, but he wasn't for it. He said he didn't want any recognition for doing his fatherly job. I understood, bummed, but I understood. I really respected him for this at the same time. I saw him as a hero, a real special guy, but he didn't want others to look at him any different. He wanted to stay seen as that hard-working Soldier.
I asked him again to write a story about him once we arrived in Iraq. At that time, he had placed his son in the care of his mother and father. Once again, Gordon said no.
Gordon was a funny guy and was always cracking jokes, left and right. One of my best memories from before we deployed to Iraq was when we were driving down the highway, Gordon and another sergeant riding in one car, and myself and a few other guys in another. I opened the passenger window, pulled my pants down, and hung my naked buttocks out at Gordon. At first he looked over and saw my rear and quickly looked away. He then looked back, amazed at what he was seeing while driving 60 mph and nearly crashed his car. He was laughing extremely hard once we arrived at out destination. I was glad to see he found my prank funny.
When the news came in, I just stood there frozen. I didn't know what to say or do. Gordon's humvee was struck by the IED and he was one of the injuries to the two Soldiers. As of that moment he was being rushed to the nearest Air Force hospital. He wasn't responding and things were not looking up for him. My heart sank to my stomach and bile began to rise in my throat.
Just then, Bertram entered our office beaming like he had sunk the winning basket of a basket ball game. "You should see the pictures I got," was all he said.
It hit me quickly. Bertram was on that same mission as Gordon, he might have photos of the wreckage. Bertram opened his computer, uploaded his photos and began scrolling through them. He stopped at a picture of Gordon's lifeless body lying there, bloodied, and said, "I'm gonna send this one out. The people of America need to see this."
The other workers in my public affairs group saw the look of anger I had and immediately dragged me into another room. They proceeded to tell me to stay put while they talked with Bertram. I was enraged at this man's cruelty towards Soldiers and their families. The only thing I could keep thinking about was Gordon's son opening the paper and seeing a picture of his father, bloodied and looking quiet dead in the photo. I kept thinking about the devastating effect that could have on a small child.
Members of my team returned and told me he was only joking and he won't release those particular photos to the public out of respect to Gordon. That wasn't good enough for me. I shouted and screamed at my coworkers for what seemed like hours, trying to let go of my anger.
Then we got even worse news. Gordon was brain dead and the doctors were going to pull the plug. He was about to die. I screamed some profanities and looked toward Bertram, the last man to photograph my fallen comrade. He just looked back at me, not smiling, not frowning, but his eyes told me he didn't care about Gordon or his family.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my knife and handed it to one of my coworkers, and said, "I need you to take this or I promise you, I will kill that man."
My coworker starred back at me and reached out her hand. "Ok, I believe you," is all she said.
Days passed and I received the news that I was going to cover Gordon's memorial service our unit was putting together. This meant I would have to take photos of all the mourning Soldiers saluting their fallen partners for the last time. I would also have to write a story about Gordon. I begged my leadership to have another public affairs guy flown in to cover the service but they said no. I was going to write about the man who never wanted to be written about. I cried that night thinking about how hard this was going to be for me. I had no idea the pain I was about to feel.
The memorial services for our fallen Soldiers were always very touching and very sad. Often there would be a slide show showing pictures of the fallen Soldier and the Soldier's company commander and friends would stand and speak about him. They would tell stories about "the good times" and how they will never be forgotten. This always made me extremely emotional. These were just guys who died from natural causes, or even worse than that, from a car accident of some e sorts. These were Soldiers who died fighting for something they believed in. They had their lives cut short so others at home can live the free life they want to live. It was this concept which made these services even harder to attend, let alone cover and write a story about.
I began Gordon's service by taking pictures of all the special guest in attendance generals, colonels and command sergeant majors. Then I would photograph the closest friends of Gordon's who all sat in the front of the seated area, closest to Gordon's memorial of boots, a weapon, his helmet and tags. I pressed play on my tape recorder to record the speeches and snapped as many photos as I could.
During the service, I was so over whelmed by the speeches and my own grief for this major loss that I started crying and fogging up my camera lens. I couldn't stop crying. I moved behind Gordon's memorial and took a knee to take my next photos. When Gordon's friends approached Gordon's memorial, they saluted it, tears falling from all their faces. I was done for. I cried and cried right then.
As the service wrapped up, one of Gordon's bosses came up to me, grabbed me, and pulled my sobbing body next to his in a hug. He told me he was so sorry that I couldn't be up their to salute my friend with him. He said he was sorry I had to take these photos. I just wept, feeling sorry for myself and for Gordon. His son ran through my mind. His family did as well. Just the idea that Gordon was no longer with us made me upset.
I needed that hug at that moment. It calmed me down and let me know there were others out there feeling the way I was, feeling even worse than I was.
It's been a few years since Gordon's death and I think of him often. He wouldn't be the last of one of my friends to be killed in Iraq. There were a few more but Gordon's really hit me the hardest. I will never forget him and I pray his son grows up to be half the man Gordon was. If he does, he will be amazing.
Ryan Stroud is a military trained journalist who has served in Iraq with the 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 1st Cavalry Division, US Army. Prior to his military experiences, Stroud grew up playing, coaching, and refereeing soccer. Also, Stroud focused many years of his life playing, touring, and recording/producing local music acts. He has a wonderful wife of 4 years, a 2 year old son and a newborn daughter.
Stroud's biggest writing influences are Jim Butcher, Chuck Palahniuk, Edward Lee, Jack Ketchum, Christopher Moore and Ben Fox.
He currently resides in Huntsville, Al, with the 59th Ordnance Brigade at Redstone Arsenal.
Stroud would also like to take a moment to thank his friends who are currently in battle over in Iraq. God bless all of you.
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