Team Infidel
Forum Spin Doctor
San Francisco Chronicle
February 16, 2008
Pg. 1
By John Koopman, Chronicle Staff Writer
The worst moment in Gary Stokes' life was not the day a couple of Marines in dress uniform showed up at his door to tell him his son had been killed in Iraq.
That was bad, no doubt. He had spent two years wondering whether he would receive those unwelcome visitors. The worst moment came later, after the tears and the grief. The worst moment came slowly. It was the horrible realization that Sean was gone forever. He would never see his son again. Never again go fishing or camping, or watch him get married and have children of his own.
"It's lifelong; it's permanent," Stokes said. "That's what's hellish about it.
"But we're not here for sadness and morbidity," he said. Instead, Stokes now is trying to find a way to honor Sean's memory. "We're here to ask, 'What can we do about it?' "
It sounds like a cliche, but Sean Stokes lived the life of an all-American boy of the late 20th century. He was born in Fremont in 1983. His parents divorced when he was 9 years old, and he and his younger brother went to live with their father on the outskirts of Auburn. Lake of the Pines is an idyllic setting, and Sean loved to fish and camp. He played baseball and football and golf. They had a sweet and gentle golden retriever named Morea.
"He was a great kid, a sweet kid, very intuitive," his father said.
Stokes worked in real estate and home construction. His father had served on the front lines during the Korean War, but Stokes, soft-spoken and funny, never had the warrior spirit in him. He never considered putting on a uniform or picking up a gun.
Sean was different. He decided while in high school that he wanted to join the Marines. The Sept. 11 terrorist attacks on New York and the Pentagon motivated him further, his dad said. "He wanted to go take out some terrorists," Stokes said.
After the attacks, Sean asked his father to sign the papers that would allow him to join at age 17. Gary refused.
"When you're 18, you can do what you want," he told Sean. "But don't ask me to make it happen for you."
Sean joined the Marines when he turned 18 in February 2002, and went to Marine Corps boot camp in San Diego.
He didn't like the Marines at first. Life in the Marine Corps is hard, and the people who are in charge are tough and demanding. Not like Sean's father.
Sean stuck it out, though, and eventually was promoted to private first class. In early 2004, Sean went AWOL, for personal reasons, his dad said, and when he returned, he tested positive for marijuana. He was busted down to private, the lowest rank in the Marine Corps.
But somehow, his father said, the experience changed him. He resolved to become a better Marine and a better person. That summer, he went with his unit - 3rd Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment - to Iraq. Destination: Fallujah.
Six Marine and Army battalions swept through Fallujah that November and engaged in some of the toughest urban combat since World War II. It was bloody, sometimes hand-to-hand combat, in which thousands of insurgents and other Iraqis died, as well as about 100 Marines and soldiers.
In Fallujah, Sean became something of a legend. He insisted on being "point man" for his squad as they went door to door looking for a fight. That means he was the one to kick in the door and charge in first. If someone was inside with a gun, chances are they'd try to shoot the first American through the door. That was Sean.
He was in some wild and hairy fights. The History Channel profiled one of the firefights on its show "Shootout." In that fight, Sean's unit stumbled upon a group of well-trained and hardcore fighters inside a house. The rest of the Marines were able to get out, but Sean was knocked down by a hand grenade. He fought alone inside the house until one of his buddies crashed though another door and dragged him to safety.
This month, the Marine Corps posthumously awarded Sean the Silver Star, the nation's third-highest award for bravery under fire, for his actions during the Fallujah firefight. The ceremony was Feb. 6.
"It was the day he turned 25," Stokes said, then corrected himself. "Would have been 25."
It was the first time a no-stripe private had been awarded the Silver Star since Vietnam, and only a couple of people got one even back then.
Sean returned to the United States a changed man, his father said. He clearly suffered at least a mild form of post-traumatic stress. He would spend three hours a day working out, training in martial arts and kickboxing. He drove fast - way too fast for his father - and talked about buying a superfast motorcycle.
Several months later, Sean's unit was deployed to Iraq. This time, the unit was stationed in Haditha, a couple hours' drive east of Fallujah. Haditha was quieter, but still volatile, and once again Sean insisted on being the point man any time the Marines had to go into houses.
When Sean returned to the United States after his second deployment, he extended his enlistment. His commanding officer tried to persuade him to stay in the United States. Sean had done enough, he said. He should stay home and enjoy life for awhile. No need to endure the dirt and heat and danger of Iraq again.
But Sean wanted to go back. Like a lot of combat vets, he fought for his buddies. He wanted to protect them and shield them.
Sean's platoon commander, 1st Lt. Jeffrey Sommer, wrote in his blog, "Sean was in his element here. This is where his heart was."
Sean returned to Iraq in 2007 for a third tour. Now a corporal, he served in the personal security detachment for the battalion commander, which is an elite, handpicked unit usually made up of seasoned combat veterans.
On July 30, 2007, Sean and his best friend, Sgt. Brad Adams, were investigating the site of an improvised explosive device blast, when Sean apparently triggered another bomb buried nearby. The explosion was huge, fire and smoke everywhere. Adams was seriously wounded. The battalion commander rushed to the scene and held Sean in his arms, his father said.
Moments later, Sean died.
"It made me feel better that he didn't die alone," Stokes said. "He was there with someone who respected him and cared about him."
The first thing Stokes asks reporters when they call about his son is, "Don't ask me about my political views on the war."
Stokes is no fan of the war. But Sean did believe in what the United States was doing in Iraq, and Stokes respects his son's beliefs.
After a bit of hesitation, Stokes admits that his first reaction was to pull a Cindy Sheehan. When her son was killed in Iraq, Sheehan became a controversial and vociferous critic of the president and the war.
"I was going to go after a lot of people, like someone else has," he said, referring to Sheehan. "From talking to people who actually know Sheehan, she went about it in a very angry, noninspirational, not really healing way. And from our perspective, she didn't really accomplish a lot."
Stokes doesn't want any more kids to get killed in Iraq. But what could he do, as a practical matter?
He opted to focus on helping the families of troops who have died in Iraq, and thus preserve the memory of his son without becoming a political lightning rod.
Stokes is seeking nonprofit status from the Internal Revenue Service for an organization he's creating called the Sean Andrew Stokes Memorial Organization. The organization's aims are still a bit sketchy, as Gary and his wife, Sue, try to figure out how best to help the families of fallen troops. They want to raise and donate money, and raise awareness of the struggles facing those families.
Sue Stokes said the military is solicitous of the families of dead troops. But after the funerals and ceremonies and hugs and tears, families are left to cope by themselves.
"What about the people who lost kids three or four years ago?" she asked. "It has to be really tough on them as time goes by. People forget."
That's what motivates Gary Stokes, that people not forget the men and women who have died in Iraq. "If you know someone who's lost a family member, don't be afraid to say the wrong thing," he said. "People don't know what to say, so they don't say anything. Which is worse. But it sure means a lot to me when people just say something like 'I'm sorry for your loss and I care.' "
February 16, 2008
Pg. 1
By John Koopman, Chronicle Staff Writer
The worst moment in Gary Stokes' life was not the day a couple of Marines in dress uniform showed up at his door to tell him his son had been killed in Iraq.
That was bad, no doubt. He had spent two years wondering whether he would receive those unwelcome visitors. The worst moment came later, after the tears and the grief. The worst moment came slowly. It was the horrible realization that Sean was gone forever. He would never see his son again. Never again go fishing or camping, or watch him get married and have children of his own.
"It's lifelong; it's permanent," Stokes said. "That's what's hellish about it.
"But we're not here for sadness and morbidity," he said. Instead, Stokes now is trying to find a way to honor Sean's memory. "We're here to ask, 'What can we do about it?' "
It sounds like a cliche, but Sean Stokes lived the life of an all-American boy of the late 20th century. He was born in Fremont in 1983. His parents divorced when he was 9 years old, and he and his younger brother went to live with their father on the outskirts of Auburn. Lake of the Pines is an idyllic setting, and Sean loved to fish and camp. He played baseball and football and golf. They had a sweet and gentle golden retriever named Morea.
"He was a great kid, a sweet kid, very intuitive," his father said.
Stokes worked in real estate and home construction. His father had served on the front lines during the Korean War, but Stokes, soft-spoken and funny, never had the warrior spirit in him. He never considered putting on a uniform or picking up a gun.
Sean was different. He decided while in high school that he wanted to join the Marines. The Sept. 11 terrorist attacks on New York and the Pentagon motivated him further, his dad said. "He wanted to go take out some terrorists," Stokes said.
After the attacks, Sean asked his father to sign the papers that would allow him to join at age 17. Gary refused.
"When you're 18, you can do what you want," he told Sean. "But don't ask me to make it happen for you."
Sean joined the Marines when he turned 18 in February 2002, and went to Marine Corps boot camp in San Diego.
He didn't like the Marines at first. Life in the Marine Corps is hard, and the people who are in charge are tough and demanding. Not like Sean's father.
Sean stuck it out, though, and eventually was promoted to private first class. In early 2004, Sean went AWOL, for personal reasons, his dad said, and when he returned, he tested positive for marijuana. He was busted down to private, the lowest rank in the Marine Corps.
But somehow, his father said, the experience changed him. He resolved to become a better Marine and a better person. That summer, he went with his unit - 3rd Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment - to Iraq. Destination: Fallujah.
Six Marine and Army battalions swept through Fallujah that November and engaged in some of the toughest urban combat since World War II. It was bloody, sometimes hand-to-hand combat, in which thousands of insurgents and other Iraqis died, as well as about 100 Marines and soldiers.
In Fallujah, Sean became something of a legend. He insisted on being "point man" for his squad as they went door to door looking for a fight. That means he was the one to kick in the door and charge in first. If someone was inside with a gun, chances are they'd try to shoot the first American through the door. That was Sean.
He was in some wild and hairy fights. The History Channel profiled one of the firefights on its show "Shootout." In that fight, Sean's unit stumbled upon a group of well-trained and hardcore fighters inside a house. The rest of the Marines were able to get out, but Sean was knocked down by a hand grenade. He fought alone inside the house until one of his buddies crashed though another door and dragged him to safety.
This month, the Marine Corps posthumously awarded Sean the Silver Star, the nation's third-highest award for bravery under fire, for his actions during the Fallujah firefight. The ceremony was Feb. 6.
"It was the day he turned 25," Stokes said, then corrected himself. "Would have been 25."
It was the first time a no-stripe private had been awarded the Silver Star since Vietnam, and only a couple of people got one even back then.
Sean returned to the United States a changed man, his father said. He clearly suffered at least a mild form of post-traumatic stress. He would spend three hours a day working out, training in martial arts and kickboxing. He drove fast - way too fast for his father - and talked about buying a superfast motorcycle.
Several months later, Sean's unit was deployed to Iraq. This time, the unit was stationed in Haditha, a couple hours' drive east of Fallujah. Haditha was quieter, but still volatile, and once again Sean insisted on being the point man any time the Marines had to go into houses.
When Sean returned to the United States after his second deployment, he extended his enlistment. His commanding officer tried to persuade him to stay in the United States. Sean had done enough, he said. He should stay home and enjoy life for awhile. No need to endure the dirt and heat and danger of Iraq again.
But Sean wanted to go back. Like a lot of combat vets, he fought for his buddies. He wanted to protect them and shield them.
Sean's platoon commander, 1st Lt. Jeffrey Sommer, wrote in his blog, "Sean was in his element here. This is where his heart was."
Sean returned to Iraq in 2007 for a third tour. Now a corporal, he served in the personal security detachment for the battalion commander, which is an elite, handpicked unit usually made up of seasoned combat veterans.
On July 30, 2007, Sean and his best friend, Sgt. Brad Adams, were investigating the site of an improvised explosive device blast, when Sean apparently triggered another bomb buried nearby. The explosion was huge, fire and smoke everywhere. Adams was seriously wounded. The battalion commander rushed to the scene and held Sean in his arms, his father said.
Moments later, Sean died.
"It made me feel better that he didn't die alone," Stokes said. "He was there with someone who respected him and cared about him."
The first thing Stokes asks reporters when they call about his son is, "Don't ask me about my political views on the war."
Stokes is no fan of the war. But Sean did believe in what the United States was doing in Iraq, and Stokes respects his son's beliefs.
After a bit of hesitation, Stokes admits that his first reaction was to pull a Cindy Sheehan. When her son was killed in Iraq, Sheehan became a controversial and vociferous critic of the president and the war.
"I was going to go after a lot of people, like someone else has," he said, referring to Sheehan. "From talking to people who actually know Sheehan, she went about it in a very angry, noninspirational, not really healing way. And from our perspective, she didn't really accomplish a lot."
Stokes doesn't want any more kids to get killed in Iraq. But what could he do, as a practical matter?
He opted to focus on helping the families of troops who have died in Iraq, and thus preserve the memory of his son without becoming a political lightning rod.
Stokes is seeking nonprofit status from the Internal Revenue Service for an organization he's creating called the Sean Andrew Stokes Memorial Organization. The organization's aims are still a bit sketchy, as Gary and his wife, Sue, try to figure out how best to help the families of fallen troops. They want to raise and donate money, and raise awareness of the struggles facing those families.
Sue Stokes said the military is solicitous of the families of dead troops. But after the funerals and ceremonies and hugs and tears, families are left to cope by themselves.
"What about the people who lost kids three or four years ago?" she asked. "It has to be really tough on them as time goes by. People forget."
That's what motivates Gary Stokes, that people not forget the men and women who have died in Iraq. "If you know someone who's lost a family member, don't be afraid to say the wrong thing," he said. "People don't know what to say, so they don't say anything. Which is worse. But it sure means a lot to me when people just say something like 'I'm sorry for your loss and I care.' "