I
recently retired after 35 years service with the Army Reserve and Army National
Guard.
Perhaps
the most memorial experience for me, over the course of decades, was the
privilege of memorializing a fellow National Guard member who made the ultimate
sacrifice. SGT Tracey Brogdon fulfilled the rather “in your face” motto of
every member of our armed services. “We have to go out. We don’t have to come
back.”
In the
fall of 1990 the elder President Bush responded to Saddam Hussein’s blatant
march into Kuwait by pouring thousands of our active duty and reserve forces
into Saudi Arabia. The 325th Maintenance Company of the Florida Army
National Guard was one of dozens of reserve units that received the call.
Tracey
was a single mother of a toddler when she received her notification. The
mission of the 325th was to repaint hundreds of jungle camo-colored
vehicles a drab desert brown. One day blended into another, and each day was
much the same as the one that preceded it. The conditions in the desert paint
shop were harsh, and many guardsmen experienced permanent respiratory ailments,
and were medically retired when they returned to the United States.
There are
old video segments of Tracey and her comrades filmed by local television crews.
Even in those horrid conditions, her smile is contagious. She was determined to
make the most of a difficult assignment… (and she did).
Operation
Desert Storm worked its way to a successful conclusion, and the 325th
was scheduled to return to the United States. Of course, the news was met with
smiles and cheers, and the morale of Tracey’s unit rose to the stratosphere.
Just
prior to shipping out, SGT Brogdon was traveling in a convoy, and had laid down
in the backseat of one of the unit’s maintenance trucks. Suddenly the driver
slammed on brakes in an attempt to avoid a collision with a stalled civilian
vehicle. Tracey slid violently forward and her head slammed into a military
radio mount. She died instantly. SGT Brogdon was the only casualty among
Florida Army National Guard units during the Persian Gulf War. She was afforded
the standard military funeral, and was interred in Wildwood Cemetery, Bartow,
Florida; her beloved hometown.
The news
of this precious young lady’s death had a significant impact on me. My own
National Guard unit, the 2nd Battalion, 116th Field
Artillery, had avoided the call, but I was determined to do… something. I
committed to write a poem about this fine young soldier. And all during that
process I felt a peculiar “presence,” as though someone, (perhaps Tracey,
herself) wanted it written. Having finished the narrative, I felt compelled to
take it a step further. I contracted a trophy shop to inscribe the poem onto a
metal plaque. In the meantime, I contacted the commanding officer of the 325th
Maintenance Company and requested the opportunity to present the tribute. On
such and such a day, the troops were assembled in military formation, and I
read the commemorative poem aloud. The plaque was hung in the lobby of Tracey’s
beloved unit; a permanent reminder of her sacrifice.
Though I
never knew her, I stop by SGT Brogdon’s gravesite from time to time. I clean
the cross, mounted just behind her government issued headstone. I gently kneel,
and brush debris from off the granite base. And just prior to leaving, I render
this fine soldier, mother, and daughter a well-deserved salute.
Thank
you, Tracey. You gave your tomorrows for our today.
OH YES, I WAS THE GUARD
A Poem dedicated to the memory of SGT Tracey Darlene Brogdon. National
Guardswoman. K.I.A., Saudi Arabia, 1st Gulf War
He trod the snow with Washington,
his feet were numb with pain
He fired the shot heard round the world,
the prize he sought, he gained
My brother wore the Union blue,
as he climbed Henry Hill
My comrade word the Rebel gray,
as his heart lay cold and still
The Guardsman packed his duffel bag
at Uncle Sam’s request
Through years to come the Fueher’s men
would give him little rest
In the skies of Vietnam,
his wings were swept with fog
A missile arced, a pilot died,
and touched the face of God
Someone tapped her shoulder
and said, “It is your turn,”
In his hand a worn baton,
“The race is not quite won.”
And though she would lose family,
and though she would lose friends
And though she would lose life itself,
her hand she did extend
Her teammate was still struggling
to match her faster gait
And as he passed baton to her,
he fell to seal his fate
And as she clutched that hallowed prize,
the wood was red and scarred
He whispers as he ends his watch,
“Oh yes, I was the Guard”
It was her turn to run the race,
beneath a foreign sun
Her ship had weathered every rack,
the prize she sought, she won
It was her turn to set the pace
across the burning sand
What Guard will dare to take her place,
which one extends his hand?
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