On Thanksgiving 2005 I was working a civilian job on the US territory of Guam. My wife, youngest son were with me and we were invited to Thanksgiving dinner in the village of Dededo at the home of the parents of a good friend. My wife and I were in the back yard admiring their Japanese garden when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number but I took the call.

On the phone was one of my oldest friends. Kevin and I had served in the Army together in the early 1980s. He had stayed in the service after I got out. He was now a senior officer in a special operations unit. I was surprised that he was taking time to call me from Iraq in the midst of what was then a raging war.

He said, “First I want you to know that he is going to be okay.” For a moment I was confused and then it hit me like a runaway train: He was talking about my son who was serving in the 75th Ranger Regiment in Iraq. In a flash, I realized that this was “The Call.” It felt like I was standing in an elevator and the cable had snapped. He went on: “He was injured in a combat assault. He fell during a fast rope insertion and both his legs and feet are broken. He is with me now and I will stay with him until he evacuates Iraq.” He promised to get my son on the phone when he could.

My son had fallen at least 40 feet onto concrete after he was knocked from the fast rope during a combat assault. When he regained consciousness his teammates had already placed the explosives on the door to the compound they were attacking. He was so near to the coming blast he had to crawl away in the midst of the chaos.

A support team group eventually carried him away but they had no litter. When a medivac helicopter finally came and took him away, he was taken to an aid station for the regular Army. Socomm types operate with “sterile” uniforms and are not allowed to tell what unit they are with. The regular Army medic took care of him, but there was tension as my son would only say he was with “other coalition forces” and refused to tell his unit. Before this could come to a head, however, my firend – a man who has known my son since he was a baby and who was monitoring the mission – had sent at team to the aid station to bring my son back to him. By the time Kevin called me, he had conferred with the surgeon attending my son’s injuries, spoken to my son and was outside of the room were he was being cared for.

By the time my call with Kevin ended, my wife and the other dinner guests had gone back in the house. When I came in my wife immediately asked what was wrong. Her, reaction, like mine, was first shock, and then a cascade of questions. I told the stunned gathering the nature of the call and everyone was very supportive. In fact, I was truly blessed to be among such wonderful people, so far from my home. I will be eternally grateful for their understanding and support at this moment in our lives.

Kevin did stay with my son. In fact, he made sure that he was treated in his unit’s aid station so he could be with him. My son was eventually evacuated to Germany and from there to Walter Reed. He was then sent to Iowa to recuperate. By Christmas we were all together back in Iowa.

After time in a wheel chair and a couple of months of physical therapy, my son healed. In the summer of 2006 he returned to Iraq to fight again.

Around Thanksgiving I always remember that day in 2005. A good friend in Iraq and good friends in Guam made Thanksgiving 2005 a terrifying day that turned into a day for which I have much for which I am truly thankful.

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