Oh Yes. I Was the Guard

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 325^th 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 325^th 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 325^th 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 2^nd Battalion, 116^th 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 325^th 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, 1^st Gulf War

 SSG William Royce McDonald (Ret.)

 

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?