The Lessons of Sacrifice

On this Memorial Day, American servicemembers remain deployed across the world. Many are in harm's way. This simple fact makes the day less abstract, more real. Memorial Day is not only about wars filed away in history, but also about lives lost in service to the nation and the obligations those losses place on the living.

For those who served in combat, the day is intensely personal. It is a day of names, missions, and memories that never fade away entirely. Three of the fallen return to me every year: Cpl. Andrew J. Kemple, 2nd Lt. Tracy Lynn Alger, and Sgt. David Scott Robinson.

Each was a soldier. Each had a family, friends, hobbies, dreams, and a future. Their deaths taught those who served with them something enduring about leadership, citizenship, grief, and responsibility. I hope that Americans with no connection to the military might still pause today — during a parade or civic remembrance — to reflect on these soldiers' ultimate sacrifice.

 

 

Always Remember

Andrew Kemple was 23 years old and from Cambridge, Minnesota. He graduated high school in 2001 and decided to join the Army after the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11. His mother later said their family was hesitant about Andrew's decision, but ultimately, they supported him because he felt such a strong conviction to serve.

Andrew was assigned to the 3rd Battalion, 187th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 101st Airborne Division, also known as the Iron Rakkasans. He was a machine gunner in 3rd Platoon, assigned to the platoon leader's vehicle. As the platoon leader for 1st Platoon, we were in the same company, so our vehicle crews often crossed paths in the spaces between missions: waiting for briefings, comparing notes, loading vehicles, and managing the daily routine.

Andrew was killed on Feb. 12, 2006, when his Humvee came under small-arms fire during combat operations in Tikrit, Iraq. His death changed the company's understanding of the war. Until then, death had been a possibility everyone understood but nobody truly felt. Soldiers had been injured. The roads were treacherous. The enemy was real. But losing someone we knew changed the texture of combat: It made the war personal.

After the unit memorial ceremony for Andrew, I had the platoon gather around a small television on our forward operating base to watch his funeral back in Minnesota. The intent was to honor him and remind his friends who were still at war that the country understood his sacrifice.

Instead, we watched protesters disrupt his funeral. The collective mood shifted. Soldiers stared at the screen in disbelief. Some were furious. Others looked hurt and confused. Young Americans who had just lost a teammate were forced to confront cruelty directed at a grieving family burying their son.

That tension between freedom of speech and the sacrifices of our heroes was no longer academic to us — it permeated the room. The helplessness was the worst part. We were in combat in defense of our country, and yet we could not protect Andrew's family from hurtful words hurled at them during their own son's funeral.

Andrew's death taught me that remembrance is not passive. Sometimes honoring the fallen requires more than gratitude. From outside Tikrit, I sent a letter to New York state Assemblyman Michael Cusick urging legislation that would protect military funerals while safeguarding free speech. New York later enacted a law restricting protests at military funerals, a reminder that the freedom of speech we enjoy still begs for a balanced response — one that prioritizes decency over cruelty.

Tracy Alger's death taught another lesson.

She was 30 years old and grew up in New Auburn, Wisconsin, before attending the University of Wisconsin-River Falls. Before active-duty service, she worked as a graphic artist and a certified nursing assistant. She was also president of the Wisconsin Girls Barrel Racing Association.

Her mother described her simply and powerfully: “Serving her country was what she wanted.†She also said Tracy was not the kind of officer who stayed back at camp. She wanted to serve alongside her soldiers. That is how many remembered her: physically tough, caring, determined, confident, and relentless.

Tracy was one of my platoon leaders. She served as the distribution platoon leader in our forward support company, the logistics company supporting a Rakkasan infantry battalion. I was the company executive officer and had helped plan and coordinate the mission she was executing that day. While Tracy and the rest of the team were outside the wire, I remained inside the tactical operations center monitoring the operation.

On Nov. 1, 2007, in Shubayshen, Iraq, an improvised explosive device detonated under her vehicle. Tracy was killed. Many others were wounded.

Some moments permanently slow time. The news came into the tactical operations center where I worked. The battalion executive officer told me what had happened and explained that it was now my responsibility to tell the rest of the company. There was no way to make that task easier. There was only the obligation to do it plainly and with enough steadiness that people could absorb the words.

The mission was also not over. That is one of the cruelest truths of command: Grief does not stop responsibility. The dead do not relieve the living of duty. Tomorrow's mission still had to be prepared. Personnel and equipment had to be reorganized. Soldiers who had just learned that Tracy was gone had to keep working, not because her death mattered less, but because the people outside the wire depended on us to press on.

The company worked through the night preparing to deliver a re-supply of food, water, gasoline, ammunition, and sandbags to combat outposts manned by our battalion. Some soldiers were shocked, scared, or emotionally frozen. In those moments, an organization looks for direction. People take cues from what leaders say, what they do, and what they allow to happen.

Purposeful action became a way to keep soldiers together. Isolation would have made the grief heavier. I hoped the shared work would give people something to hold onto while they tried to process losing Tracy. At the time, that looked like leadership. Years later, in hindsight, it was also a way to survive.

Tracy's death reminds us that Memorial Day is not only about loss, but about all the moments that immediately follow: the notification, the faces of the soldiers hearing the news, the unfinished mission, and the effort to keep faith with the living while honoring the dead.

Sgt. David Scott Robinson's death was different.

He was 25 years old and from Fort Smith, Arkansas. To his family and friends, he was known as “Scotty.†He was outgoing and sociable, the kind of person who liked running around with friends, playing paintball, and shooting pool. He had a wife and three children. The youngest was born during his final deployment to Afghanistan, and so he never got to meet him. David enlisted in the Army in 2004 and served as a gunner and rifleman. A family friend described him as “a defender until the end.â€

David was assigned to the 2nd Squadron, 2nd Stryker Cavalry Regiment, based in Vilseck, Germany. We served in the same battalion during two Iraq deployments, then served together again in Afghanistan. By then, I was the commander of Dog Company, and David was one of my soldiers.

On Nov. 20, 2010, I was leading the company movement from Zabul Province to Kandahar, almost 100 miles away. The mission required sharing the road with civilian traffic rather than forcing every vehicle to stop or pull over — a tactic used earlier in the war. The new approach reflected the rules and the purpose of counterinsurgency: reduce disruption to civilians, avoid unnecessary escalation, and remember that the population was not the enemy.

The risks seemed obvious at the time: enemy vehicles laden with explosives hidden among regular traffic. The less obvious risks were the road itself — poor infrastructure, limited visibility, civilian drivers, and the unforgiving physics of heavy vehicles moving through narrow space.

At sunrise on Highway 1 outside Qalat, Afghanistan, David's vehicle came around a blind curve. An oncoming 18-wheeler drifted into his lane. The vehicle that David's truck was towing slipped off the paved surface, caught the gravel, and both vehicles rolled over. David was in the hatch in the machine gun turret. He could not get out in time.

Memories of certain details remain when others blur: onions from the truck's load scattered across the highway, dust filled the air, twisted metal strewn everywhere, the thump of rotor blades from the inbound medevac helicopter, and the responsibilities during crisis.

Security had to be established. Casualties had to be treated. Equipment had to be recovered. As his company commander, I helped carry David's body to the helicopter.

The hard truth was that David's death did not come from direct enemy action. There was no firefight or shocking explosion from a hidden enemy.

His death raised questions that never fully vanish. What could have been done differently? What level of risk had I accepted? How does a leader carry responsibility without being consumed by it?

David's death should not be reduced to blame. War often presents leaders with circumstances where reasonable decisions, such as sharing the road with civilian traffic, still produce devastating outcomes. But command always carries responsibility. That is part of the burden leaders accept when given the privilege of leading others.

Never Forget

Memorial Day, best observed, resists turning the fallen into abstractions. Andrew Kemple, Tracy Alger, and David Scott Robinson were not categories of sacrifice. Andrew was a young man from Minnesota who chose to serve after 9/11. Tracy was a barrel racer, daughter, sister, officer, and leader who wanted to be with her soldiers. David was a husband, father, friend, and Iraq War veteran whose family remembered his loyalty and spirit. They were people. The country owes them honor. Those who knew them owe them something more.

We should remember more than how they died. We should recall and recount the spaces they occupied, the experiences we shared, and the ongoing impact they have on continued service. Some deaths come from enemy action, others from accidents. Some losses happen in an instant. Others keep unfolding in the lives of families, teammates, and leaders who replay the day. Some scars aren't seen.

Memorial Day belongs to those who did not come home. But it is also a reminder that the world is a dangerous place, and that brave men and women are needed to protect the American way of life. A new generation of servicemembers is deployed to the Middle East and beyond. Young leaders still make difficult decisions with incomplete information while carrying responsibility for others.

Today, I share the service and sacrifice of Andrew Kemple, Tracy Alger, and David Scott Robinson. I also remember the soldiers who were beside them when they died — their resilience, courage, and selflessness — and I take inspiration from how the living never forget.

 

 

Adam A. Scher is a U.S. Army officer. He has deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan in various command and staff roles and previously served as a speechwriter to the Chief of Staff of the Army. He currently leads strategic initiatives for the Joint Interagency Task Force 401, the Pentagon's counter-drone office. His writing has appeared in The Wall Street Journal, the Washington Post, and Military Review.

Image: Sgt. Justin Rachal via DVIDS