Memorial Day: Remembering Our Fallen

This piece was posted on ALP’s blog on May 24, 2020, and originally published in The Havok Journal on May 29, 2017.

I remember them, all of them. Every day. I don’t live for them, I could never do this justice. I cannot hold myself to any expectation worthy of their sacrifice because I could never earn what they willingly gave. Nobody can. Nobody ever could.

We cannot live for them. But we can live.

“Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends” John 15:13 ESV. These words, spoken millennia ago by Jesus of Nazareth are often echoed when we recall the memories of our fallen. When we recount their sacrifices. A powerful statement that projects what they gave, born of love in the purest. The part we routinely forget, though, is the preceding statement delivering the most powerful, actionable and clear sentiment in the very same scripture.

“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you” John 15:12.

I will not live for my fallen brothers, I will live with them. I will love others, as I have been loved. Give an empathetic ear to the hurting, walk with the lost, and care for those in need. As best I can in my limited capacity. 

This Memorial Day, I will not drown myself in alcohol, isolate myself from my family and my community or punish myself for not following them into eternity too soon. How could I remember them so? That is not the love they gave for me. Nor is it the love Jesus displayed in His often-quoted sentiment.

I could never forget them, they are my friends, they are my brothers.

Lou Olivera...I miss him so much. This one hurts deep. One winter Lou and I hiked Mount Falcon together weekly. We talked about Rangering, a little, but mostly we talked about life, our families, faith, hope, business, our community and brotherhood. We had so much in common. Difficult childhoods that propelled us into the Army. We both had daughters about the same age. We both worked to serve veterans in the nonprofit sector after successful business careers. We were both hard charging NCO’s in 2/75, though more than a decade apart. I went to war in Afghanistan, Lou went to war in Panama when I was 10. 

Every month Lou and our group of Ranger families would have dinner, go hiking, see concerts, go for runs, and do life together. It just hasn’t been the same without him. 

Lou Olivera, Founder of the Honor Bell Foundation.

On December 23, 1989 he jumpmastered a bird of Rangers into Rio Hato Drop Zone. Upon hitting the drop zone, he was mortally wounded. The enemy left him for dead, but Lou survived. Lou came home, recovered, contributed to the Army through NATIC Labs, went to Grad School, built businesses, founded The Honor Bell, but more importantly, he created a beautiful family. After fighting his demons since that night in Panama, Lou finally lost the battle and took his life in 2018. 

Sometimes only parts of us come back from war. Truth is, we lost Lou well before I ever got the chance to meet him. While I cannot imagine the pain he endured for nearly 30 years, I only attest that the parts that came home were worth a thousand great men. And that I will forever thank God that I was called “brother” by my hero. 

Dave McDowell and his Ranger Buddy, Jake, welcomed me, always. I came home to A Co. 2/75 from Ranger School 155 lbs. soaking wet in 1999. Before my week of rest and recovery, I was required to zero my M240B and qualify, so I met the C Co. maggots in the parking lot at dusk, ready to jump on the trucks and head out. Even though I was an “A Co. guy”, Dave welcomed me with that big smile and I rolled out with new brothers. Years later, he would meet me at the C Co. CQ desk and welcome me, again. I was a new Madslasher, the platoon he grew up in. Open arms, warmly embracing his brother.

He used to laugh, but he used to make us all laugh. When we were Pre-Ranger Cadre together out at Cole Range, he’d zip around on the quad, smiling. A mountain of a man with his little MICH helmet and Oakley’s, we likened him to a circus bear on a tricycle. When I committed to the Best Ranger Competition (BRC), he was there for us. Any range, any training, anything we needed to be successful, that’s the kind of man Dave was. He used to say, “I’m not doing Best Ranger, but you guys are and I’m going to do whatever it takes to help you be successful!” It was one of the best showing of any 75th Ranger Regiment BRC team, placing 1st, 3rd, 7th, 8th and 9th out of 15 finishing teams. I remember Dave. Man, how we laughed together.

Dave McDowell (green shirt) and Ranger Buddies post 2006 Best Ranger Competition.

Lance Vogeler was on that very same 2006 75th Ranger Regiment BRC team. He was so upset when he didn’t finish, having sustained an injury during training that forced him to withdraw from the road march. His laughter filled the vans during our months of train up. It never mattered that Lance didn’t finish that year. Lance had the courage to toe the line to begin with. His attempt was a success at its’ onset.

Jay Blessing was a talented artist. He went to Ranger School, as we all did, and found himself struggling in the Mountains, refusing to ever give up. He finally buckled and they discovered that he had been suffering from pneumonia and a collapsed lung. Back home at Ft. Lewis, Jay recovered slowly under the mentorship of Battalion legend and retired Marine, Mr. Ray Fuller, in the Battalion Arms Room. Jay was exceptional at the job. He soaked up every drop of knowledge he could gather from the Legendary Marine and kept the Battalion heavy guns operational.

Jay Blessing. Photo Credit 2/75 Ranger Regiment.

Jay would not accept defeat and returned to Ranger School, grinding through the suck to reach the “Ranger objective”. His body once again rejected the circumstances, but his resolve rejected failure. Jay limped into graduation with yet another case of pneumonia and lung complications and earned his tab. Mission Complete. He was on his way to the Special Forces Qualification Course when we got alerted for the Winter Strike of 2003. Committed to his brothers, Jay deployed becoming the first casualty of the 2nd Ranger Battalion in the Global War on Terror.

Casey Casavant was hysterical. The man with a smile and personality as large as the Big Sky of his home Montana was incapable of a straight face. He was full of belly laughs and cheer. You could always pick out Casey on an airfield or any other objective. He was the one with a 1-Liter bottle of Mountain Dew in his hand. He used to stuff at least two or three into his assault pack or ruck. When Casey and I attended the Primary Leadership Development Course (NCO Education System 1) with our Ranger Buddies, we felt like strangers in a strange land.

The cadre determined that the Rangers needed to allow our fellow “soon to be Sergeants” the opportunity to lead in the field, un-hindered by our experience or personalities. This was a good call. The solution was each of us “Batt. Boys” would serve as the Radio Telephone Operator (RTO) for every platoon in the field for the whole training exercise. This was a bad call. I cannot recall the specifics of the hilarity that ensued each night, but of one thing I am certain: the evenings full of Batt. Boy Radio hour, verbally thrashing each other and our fellow students and hitting pre-determined bump frequencies so as not to be detected by our instructors, was definitely Casey’s idea! I can hear him laughing from the other side of the Company bivouac now.

James Nehl (first on right, Yankees Jersey) and the men of the Blacksheep A Co. 2/75 Ranger, 1998.

James Nehl was another one of my heroes. When I arrived at the Blacksheep, he was the 1st Squad Leader and I was a Maggot under the leadership of his brother-in-law, Daryl. I was always at a slight distance, but James was quiet and strong; the kind of silent confidence that made you want to be better and win his respect. Growing up 3 squads down the hallways I always took notice to James because he was confident, intentional and innovative.

His squad always seemed to be doing something different, trying something new. In hindsight he struck me as a bit shy, but when he laughed, his smile would light up his face and quickly enlist the entire room in the joke. After becoming a young Ranger Leader, my M240B team was attached to James squad, “The Deer Hunters” and I couldn’t have been more elated. Being let into his circle was an honor. I forever wanted to make him proud.

Kris Domeij was one of the most confident young Rangers I had the pleasure to serve with. As his Squad Leader in charge of the maneuver section he was attached to at the beginning of the war he was always technically and tactically proficient. A Forward Observer to be counted on regardless of the circumstance, but more than this, one of the boys regardless of his youth in rank. You couldn’t dislike Kris, he was awesome. During our first deployment, I recall a long patrol in the Lwara Dasta, which left the section completely out of water and burning up in the heat of the desert. The conditions were so bad that one of our Rangers had to be extracted due to severe heat casualty.

Kris Domeij.

Kris would finish the mission. I looked over during a halt to see him finishing off the last drops of his saline I.V. bag. He looked over at me with that rueful smile and big cheeks and merely offered, “I was thirsty, Sergeant”.

“Domeij, you know you just basically downed a canteen of salt water, right?”

His shoulders shrugged off the matter. I shook my head and we moved on. Sometime later, Kris approached me and said, “Uh, can I have a sip of your water, Sergeant, my mouth is as dry as a salt lick!?” Later that mission in a hide site, Kris asked me if he could take off his boots to cool down his feet. “Charlie is doing it…” Our Air Force Enlisted Tactical Air Controller (ETAC). I always see Kris and Charlie in that site together, two larger than life personalities and a combined force to be reckoned with. Exceptional. So talented.

Josh Wheeler had another smile that could light up the darkness. We met during Advance Special Operations Training course held by the Battalion. All of the Squad Leaders from the Battalion rallied for two weeks during one of the most memorable and constructive training session I experienced in the Army. We were, essentially, unleashed in small teams of SSG’s across a myriad of missions. Josh was so humble, so curious. He didn’t care what company anyone was from, he only cared about being better. I admired him so much.

Brian Bradshaw was so similar. I met this young man as his Platoon Instructor during Infantry Basic Officer Leadership Course (IBOLC) at Ft. Benning in 2008. IBOLC is a 13-week cycle to prepare newly commissioned Lieutenants to serve as Platoon Leaders in the Army. Each of my 40-man platoon would leave at the end of our cycle, go to Ranger School and then immediately deploy to combat in Iraq or Afghanistan. I cannot imagine how this must have felt. Brian was sharp, quick and intelligent. He cracked me up with his silly throwback Oakley Razors that I was certain were created before even he was.

Brian Bradshaw (back row, fourth from left) and the men of IBOLC class 501-08.

Scott Dussing. Scott (and his Ranger buddy Shaun and C.J.) were the first Rangers from my squad who successfully completed Ranger School. Scott taught me so much about leadership. Regardless of how much the missions sucked, how hard the PT session was, or how bad he was hurting, his big Texas smile would never fade. Shortly after the towers fell on 9/11, A Co. 2/75 was sent to Jordan for a pre-planned annual training exercise. While we were there, we watched the war kick off with 3/75 jumping into Afghanistan at Objective Rhino. We were downtrodden, feeling like we’d been passed over and missed our chance (oh how little we knew then)! Scott kept smiling. We laughed so hard when he and Shaun got the AC generators going for the tent in the sweltering heat, taking the first blasts of cool air we’d felt in a months for themselves. They dropped to their knees in front of the AC tube and dropped trow, letting the cool air hit their junk while laughing hysterically.

I will always be so proud of you, Scott.

My time with these young men was a capstone to my military service and one of the most special experiences I had in the Army. Amongst a platoon of focused, young leaders, Brian was always one of the platoon mates who would tarry the longest, ask the last questions, gather the last pearls of wisdom from my training partner, Bryan Hart, and me. Only Brian would crack that last joke to cut the atmosphere. He would exhaust me with questions and I loved every minute of it. I just loved that guy.

Love brings us back. Back to the start, back to today. The smiles we see in the dark. The little chuckles and moments we carry to the end. More names pour out in the silence for me: Damian Ficek, Jared Van Aalst, Steve Langmack, Ed Homeyer, Ricardo Barrazza. Men I served with and respected. These names, these people and the thousands of others that will not be lost on my heart.

Today is Memorial Day. A Day to remember and for those of us able, a day to live. Perhaps a day to hike with the family, visit with our neighbors, reconnect with old buddies and remember. Hopefully, we remember with a smile, but I respect that some may do so with the bitter sting of a loss on such a deeply personal level that Gold Star Mother, Scoti Domeij captures in “Dreading Memorial Day”. I simply cannot imagine the loss of a child or a spouse. I also respect that Memorial Day may hold a completely different kind of sting to those who bare the pain of such traumatic loss experienced before their very eyes. Memories of loss seen under violent circumstances.

My heart is with you. Truly. I hope you may know how loved you are by our God and your brothers and sisters. 

Wherever you are today, however you remember, please do not remember alone. Call a friend, call your family or a neighbor. Draw close to someone who loves you, please. If you feel the weight of your loss today in such a way that is so heavy, so profound that it chokes out the love that our brothers and sisters displayed in their sacrifice, please call one of the resources below.

Veterans Crisis Line: 1-800-273-8255 and Press 1

TAPS: 1-800-959-8277

“One for the Airborne Ranger in the Sky”

RLTW,

Brandon Young

This article originally appeared in the Havok Journal.

Working Mom Trade Offs

“You guys are so busy. You’re always doing something. How do you keep up with it all”?

I don’t. And here’s a secret: none of us do. 

I say “no” pretty ruthlessly, to adding things to our life. Just ask Matt, my sweet husband. He and I have very different thought processes regarding getting to a goal. He starts at the endgame and works his way backward: “Wouldn’t it be awesome to own an outdoor gear store/jiu-jitsu gym/blacksmithing shop,” etc., while I start pulling back on the reigns, thinking of the hundreds of considerations and steps that need to be made before we become small business millionaires. I often have to stop myself from an immediate compulsion to give a head shake and a “Nope” and reconsider something that could eventually be fun and rewarding. 

There are some real-life challenges of being committed to living an integrated life as a professional, a parent, a friend, and an individual with our own interests. We all have people in our lives who seemingly have it all figured out. Their houses always appear impeccably clean, they prep meals every weekend, keeping gardens lush and bountiful, and their daughters’ hair is always styled with cute accessories, while my skills are strictly limited to ponytails. 

The reality is that no one checks all of these boxes all the time. It just seems that way. Most days, we’re just trying to remember to put our overflowing garbage cans out on the curb for pick-up day and make sure everyone is fed decently, including ourselves. Some days, that’s the mark of success. 

The truth is, when you’re trying to get everything right, you’re getting nothing right. No one has everything, though we can have just enough to keep us grateful. Life is one big trade-off.

Anyone who wants some quiet personal and reflection time in the morning before the day gets out of hand, especially parents, will tell you they set the alarm earlier than ever. To get that uninterrupted cup of coffee in silence, a workout while catching up on a podcast, or any other prep for the day.

When my daughter, Rory, moved out of the confines of a crib to a big girl bed last year, we (attempted) to set up some boundaries as to when she could get out of bed in the morning. She’s got a night light that changes colors, so we made some rules as to what she can do depending on the color of the light. Think red, yellow, and green like a stoplight … I’m sure some of you parents reading this did something similar. The novelty lasted a few months until she realized Mommy was up before her and, like any 4-year-old, got a serious case of FOMO and could care less about Mom’s expectations for alone time. When she came out of her room, I was doing my daily mobility exercises in the garage with my foam roller and other torture devices that inevitably became toys for her, the garage a playground.   

These are the moments I realize that all my good intentions and solid leadership communication—setting boundaries, the big girl talks, and the killer night light—mean as little to her as the importance of the quiet time I’ve sacrificed 30 minutes of precious sleep for. My irritation sets in, though I cannot ignore how endearing her bid for connection is. She just wants to spend time with me. I am fully aware the day is coming when she will not want to at all, and I’ll be the one stalking her for quality time and irritating her. That’s when the Mom guilt sets in. 

I get to choose in those moments to hip-fire a head shake and a “nope” to my daughter or to pause, take a deep breath (as I teach her to), rethink that “no,” and consider its impact, as I do with Matt. I’m not trying to squelch either their enthusiasm or love. Frankly, I need that just as much as I need to roll out my quads or put a plan in place for a major financial decision. 

All are important, so it’s really a matter of considering the trade-offs - If not this, then what? I want Rory to know that it’s important that we care for ourselves physically and mentally and to witness Mom and Dad doing that. But not at the expense of forsaking our relationships, which are just as important to living a healthy, integrated life. I want Matt to know that we are together in our wild schemes to the end and that I am at my best with a strategy. It’s our classic couple superpower - we’re better together than we could ever be apart. 

“You have to be very careful about to what (and to whom) you’re giving the best part of your day. ”

— Philipp Meyer

I find that being honest about the irritation and endearment are both important, not only to myself but to those around me. Being a working parent is hard. Trying not to screw up anything - my kid, my job, myself. Being a working spouse is hard. Trying not to keep score as to who is doing more housework during the week or who missed their jiu-jitsu class because the other partner is traveling for work and there’s no coverage for the kids and, at the same time, trying to support and balance each other’s individual aims and the family's dreams. But I’m fortunate to recognize these boundaries as they come up and decide to bend, not break, for the sake of what I’m truly going for - a rich, integrated life of love and meaning WITH my family, not solo.

On my grave, my headstone is not going to read, “Mediocre jiu-jitsu player, average yoga teacher, and so-so writer,” though my family is the kind of pranksters that would do that to get the last laugh. I hope every day, I’m making the right choices so that my family will decide to remember me as a loving and dedicated wife and mom. I’ll continue to make sure I make the proper trade-offs for what matters so someone else doesn’t make them for me. 

Marking Our Mountaintop Moments

I struggle to remember the pain of the push to the summit, but I’ll never forget the joy of the moment at the top. Monarch Pass is 11,312’ above sea level and sits on the continental divide in the Colorado Rockies. It was the fall of 2014, and we ran one American flag across the country from the Golden Gate Bridge to Walter Reed Hospital in Bethesda, MD. We started the 3,600-mile trek on 9/11 and ended it on Veterans Day, 11/11. The Old Glory Relay was an ambitious bid from the start, and the obstacle the Rockies presented was a concern from the initial planning. 

By the time the flag got to Colorado, it had already ground through the heat of the Nevada desert, the dust of America’s loneliest road, record heat in Sacramento, and a string of challenges - teams showing up late, teams showing up light, and teams not showing up at all! But Team RWB drove on to the objective and handed over Old Glory to a team of Rangers in Colorado. Now, I’m a bit partial on the matter, but if you’re going to take a hill, you call the Rangers! 

On most days of the relay, we covered about 60 miles. This day–summit day–we covered 20. Twenty miles east and 3,000 feet up! We had an incredible team–a wrecking crew of Rangers, an ultra-running champion, veterans, friends, and family–and we took the hill together. 

Slogging up the mountain was a fight for altitude, one-quarter mile at a time. We trailed the flag runner with two support vans, one with teammates hanging out the open door, ready to sub out and take the flag, the other collecting exhausted runners as they made the handoff. These athletes typically took down miles at a time, but this day, we took tenth of a mile chunks at worst, quarter miles at best. We leap-frogged vans, replacing tired runners with semi-fresh teammates while rehydrating and reloading calories to drive on. 

Some doubled over and heaved while smiling and looking to the summit, relishing the challenge and feeling truly alive in the struggle. It was beautiful. And when we crested the hill, the shared sense of accomplishment and relief exploded into elation. We had made the summit. Hugs and high-fives were aplenty. Beers were cracked. Toasts were made. And we marked the moment. We marked the moment with our stories of one another on the climb. We recalled moments where one stumbled, and the other picked them up. We recalled the funny moments - awkward handoffs, botched van dismounts, and emergency bathroom breaks! 

And we recalled the meaningful moments that carried us to the top when we thought we had run out of gas, like the two Rangers who met on the trail and hadn’t seen one another since they both jumped into Panama during Operation Just Cause in 1989. Lou was mortally wounded by the enemy on the drop zone, but Antonio (”Doc”) kept him alive. And there they were, side by side with Old Glory some thirty years later—a testament to perseverance and grit. 

Marking that moment mattered. Marking our mountaintop moments always matters. And it doesn’t take running up the Continental Divide to necessitate them. We summit mountaintops in business and life all the time -  a project that launched on time or before the deadline, a new customer sale, a service call that went longer than expected but didn't end until the customer was delighted, or making the Circle of Excellence for top sales performance. These and many other examples can be mountaintop moments if we recognize them for what they are and mark them accordingly. 

I was reminded of this last week while Blayne and I reviewed our 2023 performance. We had another smashing year - 63% growth, plussing up the team with talent, and having a blast with leaders we care about doing big things in the world. And how did we celebrate this? How did we mark the mountaintop moment? We didn’t. We refreshed and reloaded over the holidays and got right back on the trail, hitting two big National Sales Meetings and turning in our book manuscript. 

I am reminded of one of the leaders we serve perfect words about celebrating accomplishments: “I always considered myself a mountaintop jumper going from one goal to another, but I recognize that I need to pause and celebrate those moments before looking towards the next challenge.” And I am convicted to take her words to heart and celebrate right along with her. It’s time to mark this mountaintop moment before reorienting towards the next goal and moving out to achieve it. This mountaintop, and in fact all mountaintops, are cause for pause and celebration. 

We owe it to ourselves, our team, and our community. It’s a time to reflect upon the long nights and late flights that got us here. A time to remember the challenging presentations and big wins. A time to recall the tough decisions that got us here and the people who carried us when we needed help. Because if we don’t, what was it all for? What is it all for if not for making the world a little better than before by doing hard things with people we care about? 

As I write this today, I know we have done that. I know we’ve made a difference in others' lives and that our success reflects their successes. I can see it on my LinkedIn feed with so many colleagues celebrating their mountaintop moments, and we are committed to joining you. We’ve earned it. We’ll mark it. 

More to follow on this later. Hold us accountable.