Day 92, Walk for Warriors

Robert Frost (1874–1963). Mountain Interval. 1920.

The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost (1874–1963). Mountain Interval. 1920.

There was just enough light for me this morning to watch a mother mocking bird teaching her pair of fledglings under an oak tree near my truck. The mother paid no attention to me as she nabbed a moth for her two offspring to share. There was some unmistakable teaching going on as well. She lay the moth down on the ground where the insect writhed. She then picked it up in her mouth and shoved it down one mouth and then the other without letting it go. Finally, she allowed the fledglings to swallow the prey item.

As mother mocking bird flew to the top of a transformer and was followed by the larger offspring, the smaller bird stood next to the oak as if she had no idea what should come next. Mother spotted another moth near a fluorescent lamp and started the ritual all over. I began my coffee preparation immediately after the show.

Although I could see stars and a portion of the moon through clouds, a gentle rain fell throughout my morning preparations. I took one last look at the map and drove east on Highway 90. I stayed on that road for too long and eventually began to ad lib the directions. That was a fun way to travel but after some period of time I realized I had driven perilously close to Montgomery, Alabama; nowhere near my destination of Bainbridge, Georgia.

I consulted the map again and found just the remedy. I made a slight adjustment and found CR 10 east until I arrived at the charming town of Abbeville, Alabama. As I prepared to enter the town I passed a sign that gave a brief history of Rosa Parks.

The sign marked where Ms. Parks had lived. That was a special site worth stopping for. I did not see the house, if the house that was nearby was even the house she had lived in. It was enough for me to stop, take a picture of the monument and remember the courage of that diminutive woman who faced down an institution by holding her seat in the front of a bus not so long ago.

Abbeville was well worth the stop for gas and a Reuben sandwich with a bowl of Hopping Joe soup. When I bought my gas a man came out to ask me a few questions. I was wearing flip-flops, baggy pants and a long sleeve black shirt which identified me as a stranger. Old Norman walked up to me, “How are you doing today, sir?”

“Hi. I’m doing fine. How about yourself?”

“Dandy. What brings you to Abbeville?

I was tempted to say, “I came for the waters,” but I didn’t. I told him what I was doing and he thought that was bully.

“That restaurant looks like it might be pretty good,” I said pointing across the street. The whole Main Street looked like it had been completely redone to great effect. It was tree lined, with ample parking, and each facade had undergone a top notch facelift.

“You ask for whatever you want and they’ll make it for you. The Yellow Wood Man paid for the whole town to look like this. He owns the restaurant too.”

He explained that the Yellow Wood Man was a local businessman who had built the country’s largest wood products company right there in Abbeville. It was his idea and his money that remade Main Street into an attraction with a look and feel similar to Main Street at Disneyland. Huggin Molly’s was the name of the restaurant. I sat at the counter and ordered a delicious vanilla malt, a half a Reuben and a cup of Hoppin' Joe soup that had come highly recommended.

There was a life size cut out of the town’s benefactor, a man dressed in yellow with a yellow cowboy hat. I wanted to ask the genial waitress why they hadn’t stuffed the man instead. She was quite proud of having the man’s likeness amid the hubbub of the restaurant. She pointed to a lady greeting local businessmen who filed in at 11:30 AM for a luncheon; it was the Yellow Wood Man’s daughter.

The waitress was very attentive. She leaned over the counter and asked, “How is that malt? Is it real good?”

With a mouth full of the delicious mix I garbled a, “Mmmm, is it ever!” To my great surprise the place became deluged with customers. This restaurant is in a town of less than two thousand inhabitants but the presence of money has transformed it into a happening micropolis in the middle of a corn field.

I asked the waitress, “What’s going on here? There can’t be this many people living here...”

“I know, isn’t it great? I used to live in Eufala, you know, and I would pass right through here without opening my eyes. But I moved here four years ago with my fiancée and I wouldn’t ever leave now. How do ya like the soup?”

“It’s excellent.”

“We make a really good Reuben. How do ya like that?”

“I couldn’t be happier.” As I said this two men on work clothes sat next to me. They knew the waitress well. One of the men whispered to her, “Cammy’s been talkin’ again.”

The waitress looked peeved, “Oh yeah, and I am supposed to care?”

“She’s been bad mouthin’ you somthin’ awful.”

“Listen Bobby, I don’t care. Okay? Just keep that sheeit to yourself. Besides, the owner is here so…”

“I’m just sayin’, I thought you should know.”

“You gonna order something or you and Tubby here to take up space?”

“Two burgers and lots of fries and a couple a cokes,” he demanded stupidly. The owner glided by to greet some friends at the front door. The waitress went into professional mode again.

“Right away, sir.”

By the time I arrived in sleepy old Bainbridge it was raining steadily but the temperature had dropped to 88 degrees. I jammed in a walk around a lake and up to the entrance of a small college before retiring. The rain gear is going to get a workout for the next several days, and maybe the boots too. “Whatever it takes to get the job done”, someone once said.

I may have mentioned the extraordinary actions of Air Force PJ Jason Cunningham before. I have known about his actions in the early days of the Afghanistan War since 2003. His story illustrates how reluctant the Bush Administration was and the current Pentagon is to award the Medal of Honor in Iraq and Afghanistan.

My son introduced me to Jason's story after he read, The Hunt for Bin Laden. I have thought of Jason and his wife many times in the past few years. He was one of those men whose job description is, "So that others may live."

Jason Dean Cunningham
Senior Airman, United States Air Force
Book details war heroism of airman
Military medic was awarded the Air Force Cross posthumously
October 3, 2005

Airman Jason Cunningham, a military medic with ties to Ventura County, moved his wounded comrades to safety three times while exposing himself to enemy fire that eventually cut him down, according to a new book about his death on a snowy mountainside in Afghanistan.

Cunningham was married to Rio Mesa High School graduate Theresa de Castro, a resident of Camarillo, while both were in the Navy. The 26-year-old Air Force pararescueman, or medic, was killed in combat on March 2, 2002.

His funeral was in Camarillo, and he was buried at Arlington National Cemetery.

"I talked to one guy, a surgeon who was waiting for him to come in," said author Malcom MacPherson, whose book is among a small number that give detailed accounts of Afghanistan combat. "He told me Jason was the spiritual center of the whole medical team out there."

MacPherson based his book, "Roberts Ridge," on the words of those who were there, including Navy SEALs, Army Rangers, medics, combat air controller and pilots. It provides hour-by-hour details on the events leading up to the death of Cunningham and six other Americans during a battle with Taliban and al-Qaida guerrillas.

The men fought a 17-hour battle that began as an attempt to rescue Neil Roberts, a SEAL who earlier had been thrown from a helicopter shredded by Taliban and al-Qaida fire. The helicopter limped to safety in a valley, but Roberts was stranded high on the 10,240-foot mountain called Takur Ghar.

By the time two rescue helicopters carrying combat personnel and medics arrived on the scene, Roberts was dead. The choppers were quickly disabled by guerrilla fire and the long battle began.

Cunningham was killed while protecting and giving medical treatment to wounded men. Three times he moved them from the line of fire, each time exposing himself to enemy fire.

He and Army medic Cory Lamereaux picked up weapons and fought off a counterattack for 40 minutes before both were shot.

According to MacPherson, Lamereaux was hit in the belly. He suffered intense pain but survived.

Cunningham was shot once through the small of his back to the right of his spine through his pelvis. The bullet shattered his liver. Despite his pain, he checked his body, did not see blood and yelled to Lamereaux, "I think I'm OK."

MacPherson said another medic, Matt LaFrenz, a premed graduate of Vanderbilt University, rushed to the men. He examined Cunningham and believed the airman was bleeding internally.

Cunningham was lucid, surprised and angry: "This is bull. ... Cannot believe they shot me," he told LaFrenz.

The medic knew Cunningham had to get to a surgical team right away. Army Capt. Nate Self, commander of the rescue attempt, kept calling the main base, asking for -- and then demanding -- a medivac helicopter.

But it was daytime, and the two wounded helicopter pilots on the mountain knew no helicopter would be sent in until five or six hours later, after dark when it was safer.

The medics did everything to try to keep Cunningham alive. They cut down padding from the walls of a crippled helicopter and tucked it inside his sleeping bag for warmth.

They talked to him to keep him alert, injected him with morphine for pain.
But nothing could keep him from slipping away. The former sailor, who had become an Air Force pararescueman because he wanted to help others, died at 6 p.m.
The medivac arrived 90 minutes later.

Last week, neither Theresa Cunningham nor Jason Cunningham's parents had read MacPherson's book. They said they might not read it.

For his extraordinary heroism, Jason Cunningham posthumously received the Air Force Cross, an award second only to the nation's highest award, the Medal of Honor.

"I think he got ripped off," said his mother, Jackie Cunningham of Farmington, N.M. "I will never understand why he didn't get the Medal of Honor.

"There's not an hour that goes by that I don't think of him. Because of what my son did, those other wounded men are living with their families."

"I am so proud that they are still honoring him," said Cunningham's widow, now Air Force 1st Lt. Theresa Cunningham, a flight controller at Fairchild Air Force Base near Spokane, Wash.

"A compound at Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan has been named Camp Cunningham and, in 2007, a portion of the basic training facility at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio will be named in honor of Jason," said Cunningham, a 1989 graduate of Rio Mesa High School.

Currently, her hopes are to make the Air Force a career while raising her and Jason's daughters Kyla, 8, and Hannah, 5.

"The military has a lot of respect for its history, and people here try to help us out," she said.

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