Editor’s note: This op-ed is by award-winning journalist Telly Halkias. It first appeared in the Portland Sun.
Several days before redeploying from Iraq, my college roommate Dominic spoke on the phone with his father. “What could happen now?” asked the elder. Dom, a career Army officer, knew better, and replied: “Dad, something stupid can happen.”
And so goes another spring, another Memorial Day.
Eleven years ago this month, my world became an emptier place. On May 19, 2003, my friend Dominic was killed in Iraq. He was at a desert crossroads monitoring convoys when a freak accident cost him his life.
As a battalion commander, Dom was right where he had to be: out amongst his troops, leading by example and sharing their risks. Every soldier serving under his command – many just 18 — came home alive.
When Dom and I were 18 and in school, you couldn’t find two guys better suited as cadet bunkmates. Both coming from large Mediterranean families, we instantly hit it off. While capable of holding our own academically, our individual strengths meshed to make a better whole.
With a mind for numbers and figures, Dom visualized all things mathematical in every conceivable dimension. With him, quantum physics took on the simplicity of a beginner’s Sudoku puzzle. I never went into an engineering exam without Dom having supplied me with a plethora of templates, models, and confidently guaranteeing my final grade.
I complemented Dom’s numerical acumen by contributing to the room’s communications skills. In an era of handwritten drafts and typewritten essays, I pushed Dom to rewrite third and fourth drafts until the prose was crisp, the mechanics sound, and the arguments airtight. Any oral presentation had to be rehearsed in a near bloodletting of critique and potential audience sharp-shooting, with polished visual aids a must.
As a battalion commander, Dom was right where he had to be: out amongst his troops, leading by example and sharing their risks. Every soldier serving under his command – many just 18 — came home alive.
But it wasn’t all serious; in fact, our friends remember us as being some of the less studious among them. Most of the time we were either watching TV (M*A*S*H* was a cynical favorite), hitting the gym to play some ball, or just hanging out over junk food and a pint of ice cream.
On weekends we would light up New York City, making fools of ourselves in numerous watering holes during the now-extinct 18-year-old drinking age. Above all, more than academics, athletics, or even girls, the things that mattered most to us were family, friendship and loyalty.
That loyalty endured.
On a wet spring morning in 2003, we laid Dom to rest at Arlington National Cemetery, with many of our classmates present.
I stayed composed throughout the service and speeches, surprised at my calm when approaching Dom’s parents. Their joy at seeing me graveside was humbling. Embraces were long and tight, as if they were trying to find, somewhere in me, a sliver of their lost son.
When it was time to depart my lips quivered. With members of the honor guard standing watch, I rested my hand on Dom’s casket. The American flag was folded and cradled in his mother’s arms, where she had rocked him to sleep him four decades earlier.
I was ashamed at having survived, and couldn’t even whisper goodbye. I should have been there to watch Dom’s back, just as we had always been for each other — when we were boys trying so hard to be men, and often failing miserably.
Before Dom shipped out to Iraq, we spoke on the phone. I implored him to come to our upcoming 20th class reunion. Later, I searched the campus crowds for him, in vain. His unit had already deployed, and there would be no nostalgia over pints of beer.
During that call, as any soldier knows, we didn’t discuss combat, politics, danger, or threats, but rather good times and memories.
Years removed from my military service, I write and teach writing, both genteel pursuits. Having long ago lost the mental edge required to enter a combat zone, I appreciate how this ritual of superficial small-talk helps one cope with the anxiety and apprehension inherent in the task at hand.
My final utterance to Dom was, “Look, we’ll talk before they send you out; just keep your head down and your fingers crossed.”
Before he hung up the phone, Dom replied, “I read somewhere an old Marine once said, ‘No one in their right mind should ever want to fight in a war, but someone had better know how.’ Smartest thing I ever heard.”
Yet something stupid happened.
We never spoke again, and my Memorial Day never ends.
You may e-mail Telly Halkias at tchalkias@aol.com or follow on Twitter: @TellyHalkias
