How Sherpa Got His Callsign

More Notes from Annual Training in June 2010 ...

It was at an Annual Training a couple of years ago that I earned the nickname "Sherpa." It even happened right here at Camp Ripley, Minn. The headquarters company had just come in from the field, and we were variously busy washing mud off our vehicles, cleaning and turning in our weapons, and staging trucks for the next day's convoy.

The staff, of course, had scattered to the four winds. Commanders and first-sergeants are always focused on taking care of business, and their business is troops. By comparison, however, once in from the field and distracted from mission, staff officers are mostly like cats. Attention-deficit disorder cats--A.D.D. cats on crack.

The headquarters company supply sergeant couldn't lock up the weapons rack and load them in the truck, because she was missing a couple of staff officers' M-16 rifles and M9 pistols. I volunteered to wander around Camp Ripley, collecting the weapons directly from the customers. At this point, the supply sergeant didn't care how clean the weapons were--she just wanted them back.

It took a few hours and a few miles--I was schlepping around on foot, because all the vehicles were at the wash-racks--to locate Supply's Most Wanted. By the time I found the last of the usual staff suspects, my back bristled with three long black rifles, and I was carrying a semi-automatic pistol in each hand. If I looked dangerous, it was probably more to myself than to others.

As the last gentleman handed over his handgun, he said, "Hey--You're the weapons Sherpa!"

At least, I suppose, he didn't say "caddy."

It took me a few years to grow into the "Sherpa" name. Truth told, it now means more to me than a silly story. If you've spent any time with me, you already know that there's never a single or simple explanation. I'll write more on the topic soon.

For now, however, let's just say that "Sherpa" has come to represent--to me, at least--the idea and ideal of putting yourself out there, in humble and hopeful service to one's peers. You've heard the Marine motto, "No greater friend, no worse enemy"? I prefer "no task too great, no service too small."

Too often in this world and Army, people seem to seek out only glory, praise, or honor for themselves. I've been guilty of it many times myself.

"Sherpa" keeps me grounded. "Sherpa" keeps me real.

Without realizing it, I think I've been on the path toward "servant leadership." I aspire to be more humble. I desire to help make my organization better. I am also painfully aware of my shortcomings, and that I can trip on my own tongue, and miscommunicate my message.

In the months leading up to my deployment, I've been quite taken with writer Ann Marlowe's clear-eyed plain-talk from Afghanistan. One particular passage builds on quote from a Provincial Reconstruction Team (P.R.T.) leader in Zabul Province. "The concept of servant leadership is absent here," he says. Marlowe later writes:

The Afghans, of course, have already Afghanized, and that’s the problem. It’s sauve qui peut ["every man for himself"] here, and servant leadership is maybe a century or two in the future. The best we can hope for now are the kind of Afghan government officials who identify with the interests of the government as though it were another tribe. They will at least protect its property and interests, which roughly speaking means our investment here. And of course some few genuinely care about achieving something here.

[...] Many would be happy if we took over all the apparatus of the state, from issuing drivers’ licenses and passports to collecting taxes, because Americans don’t ask for bribes. Many others want to kill us--and in a way, for the same reason. When you have a sense of shame about your culture, it’s one way to restore self-respect. Even the presence of Afghans who care about their work and their country is a reproach to those with no pride left.

We may not be able to make the world follow our leads--whether individually, as soldiers or citizens; or collectively, as armies or countries--but we can always lead by example. Remember the three most powerful words we can say to each other, even those who we perceive to be our enemies.

No, not "I love you"--but "can I help?"

Three Ways to Remember Capt. Dan Whitten

West-Pointer Capt. Dan Whitten, a 1999 Johnston (Iowa) High School graduate and active-duty soldier who was killed in Afghanistan earlier this year, was recently inducted into the Johnston Community School District Hall of Fame. From what I've read, Whitten enjoyed writing for the school newspaper when he was a student there. Given time--unfortunately, that probably means "after my deployment"--I'd like to follow up on that. Maybe there's a way to celebrate Whitten's life as more than just a plaque on the wall? Like a journalism scholarship. Or a writing program.

In the still-under-construction no-man's-land between the northern Des Moines suburbs of Grimes and Johnston, Iowa--you know, where they're building the new Wal-Mart--I recently noticed the installation of street-pole banners bearing Whitten's name. While he may have been a Johnston schools graduate, Whitten was also a Grimes resident--so the location is particularly appropriate. The banners are a simple and immediate way to celebrate his life--and I think it's great that someone in local government acted so quickly (when does that ever happen?) to remember him in this way. The one I saw (I hope there are more) is perfectly placed to be seen by those traveling from the Iowa National Guard headquarters in Johnston, to the 2nd Brigade Combat Team (BCT), 34th Infantry Division's headquarters in Boone.

In the same week that Capt. Whitten's death was reported over Iowa airwaves, came also the news that the 2nd/34th BCT had lost a chaplain to an industrial accident at his civilian employment. Chaplain (Capt.) Eric Simpson also had local ties--he had been a pastor in a small town north of Johnston. He was planning to go with us to Afghanistan later this year.

Both stories were near misses--they were local, but I didn't know them personally--but pre-deployment life also provides a lot of distractions. It's just too easy to not find the time, to not breathe deep, to not momentarily reflect and pray. We're not even out the door, and we're too busy to mourn. Granted, you can drive yourself (and your family) crazy with too many "what-ifs" and "but for the graces of God." My own practice has been to try to remember to turn off the radio for a few minutes while driving to Boone, to clear the head and the airwaves, to listen for the still, small voice. Carney, Whitten, Simpson ... I realize there may be other names someday, names that hit even closer to home.

I was grateful to belatedly come across these words from writer Ann Marlowe, who had met Capt. Whitten while embedded with his unit in late 2009. She was also apparently able to attend Whitten's funeral at West Point. Here's an excerpt from her Feb. 14, 2010, New York Post commentary:

Dan was special, even among the high caliber of officers I knew from the 82nd Airborne, almost all of whom are Army Rangers. Tall, big-boned and handsome, he had the West Pointer's confidence and the ideal American officer's ability to put others first. He had already earned two Bronze Stars for his efforts. Yet when it came time to edit my article, I realized I had far more material on Dan's subordinates than him. That was as he'd intended.

Dan was kind and witty and socially at ease, and remembered everything I told him. We'd talked about my writing on Afghan archeology, and so, in the helicopter that took us back from Faisabad, he drew my attention to a mysterious large tower he had passed on previous trips. I could tell at once that it was very old. This tower isn't known to Afghan archeologists: Dan?s sharp eyes and intellectual curiousity may have made a discovery.

According to Capt. Derrick B. Hernandez of the 1-508, Dan and his men had finished a three-day operation on the Ghazni Province border when his Humvee struck an IED that wounded one of his men.

Dan then jumped into another vehicle and recovered his original vehicle. Seven kilometers later, his truck again struck another IED, this one instantly killing Dan and Pfc. Zachary Lovejoy and seriously wounding three others.

Dan died doing work that had meaning to him. As Derrick pointed out in a speech he gave at Dan's memorial in Zabul, Dan could have had any assignment he wanted. He chose to return with 1-508 to one of the most remote and insecure places in Afghanistan.

I particularly like that Capt. Whitten may have used his knowledge of newspapering in order to shine attention onto his men, and not himself. I also like that he had an eye for art and archeology, in a land that many people consider only rubble.

Taps and Reveille: Capt. Dan Whitten

I am speeding along my usual ribbon of morning highway, keeping a wary eye on the dashboard dials. The engine temperature isn't where it should be, not this long after dropping the kids after daycare. I can still see my breath inside the car. The sky is a uniform white-gray, nearly the color of the salt-stained concrete below, and I feel clouds hunching over me.

One of the recently rediscovered joys of having a longer commute is having quality time with my thoughts, my coffee, and Iowa Public Radio. Rather than its usual classical music, the FM station is still playing news at the time I'm up and moving. This means I get to avoid the low nighttime power of the AM band, which is further degraded by the power lines running alongside this county highway. I'm Army-trained to hear past the static, of course, but switching from AM to FM is like a switching from Speed Metal to Cool Jazz.

The local announcer hits just the right tone of concern and regret when she teases the upcoming top-of-the-hour news. It's what she says that throws me into an emotional skid:

"An Iowa soldier died in Afghanistan Tuesday ..."

I hate it when they do that. Yes, I hate it when anybody dies, and I realize that's the bigger-picture, larger-issue here. And, no, I don't take fault at those in the news media for doing their jobs. But I hate it when radio or TV broadcasters don't give enough of the who, what, where, and when to avoid causing unnecessary distress for those of us with buddies and loved ones downrange.

Now, I have to drive 10 long minutes to find out what the newscaster meant by "Iowa soldier." I start mentally tallying, by unit or individual, who the Iowa Army National Guard has downrange right now. The media often messes up the distinction between active-duty, reserve, and National Guard soldiers. We're all one Army, one Total Force, but we're also different organizations. It'd be like the news media teasing listeners with "A car manufacturer recalled thousands of dangerously flawed vehicles today ..." Think you could be a little more specific?

The newscaster could've spared me and the families of other soldiers minutes of agony this morning. She could have been more specific. She could have said "an active-duty Iowa soldier" or "An Iowa Army National Guard soldier ..." or "A U.S. Army Reserve soldier on active-duty ..." Editors and reporters don't often think about that, however. Not many of them are prior service anymore, or have direct experience reporting on the military. (On the record as both a soldier and a reader, however, I have to say that I think Bill Petroski at the Des Moines Register is doing a good job.)

Army Capt. Daniel P. Whitten, 28, of Grimes, Iowa, and Pvt. Zachary G. Lovejoy, 20, of Albuquerque, N.M., were killed Tuesday, Feb. 2, 2010, when their mounted patrol in the southern Afghan province of Zabul was attacked with an Improvised Explosive Device (I.E.D.) Whitten was a 1999 graduate of Johnston (Iowa) High School, where he played football and worked on the student newspaper. He was a 2004 graduate of the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, where he double-majored in mathematics and English. He was a paratrooper and company commander, a soldier who wore the distinctive maroon beret of the 82nd Airborne Division. He was on his third deployment, his second to Afghanistan. He is survived by his wife, and his parents. News reports indicate that his family will bury his remains at West Point.

Here's a Des Moines Register excerpt:

"[Whitten] was the kid who was always doing the right thing. He always stood by his values, and was true to his family and himself. He was the kind of young man who you hoped your own kids would grow up to represent," said Stratton, who acknowledged he was struggling today to come to grips with Whitten's death.

"When I think about kids who are thinking about going into the military, the one thing about Dan is that I always trusted his character as a person who I would want representing our country," Stratton said.

Here's a WHO-TV excerpt:

Family friend and former Pastor Bob Solberg says Dan was a "real man amongst men." Even as a youngster at Zion Lutheran Church in Des Moines, he knew Dan was destined for great things and believes he found his calling at West Point. He says Dan "had the gift of leadership, the gift of humility, and the gift of honor." News of his death is still hard to believe. "I just really have a hard time believing that he's gone really at the prime of his life," says Solberg.

I didn't know Capt. Whitten, but I drive past his former high school and his hometown every day. I'll try to use those fleeting encounters for some radio-less reflection in the coming days, cold and dark as they are sure to be. Earlier today an on-line friend of mine, Aunty Brat, just happened to point me to a prayer that Eleanor Roosevelt was said to have carried with her at all times. I'd like to share that with you below. I like it because it's simple, and it's a quiet call to action. (I'd also invite you to see what Aunty Brat said about it here.)

Dear Lord,

Lest I continue
My complacent way,
Help me to remember that somewhere,
Somehow out there
A man died for me today.
As long as there be war,
I then must
Ask and answer
Am I worth dying for?