In the Shadow of Greatness

by Joshua Welle

  Our precious son, Lt. John Joseph Houston, was buried on January 31, 2010, in Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors. Many family members, friends, and USNA shipmates attended the ceremony that clear frosty morning. A memorial trust was established by 2nd Company in Joe’s name for educational resources for Asher. We learned that we truly have an extended Navy family. They continue to come forward in many ways, professionally and personally, to bless our family in providing support.

  Joe loved life and lived it to the fullest. We miss him terribly, and our hearts are broken. It is comforting to know he was prepared to meet the Lord and lived a life worthy of his calling. Joe is eternally safe and secure in God’s presence. Joe would want us to share his life verse: “Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart” (Psalm 37:4). His high school football team motto, his flight school banner, and the banner over his life continue to be “To God Be the Glory!”

  Dual Military Couples: Twice the Challenge

  Brooke Waller

  JANUARY 2002

  We thought we had it all figured out. As two seniors at the Naval Academy, my fiancé, Doug, and I had studied deployment schedules, talked with officers with Fleet experience, and paid close attention to our summer training opportunities. We were determined to put our heads together, figure out the right ships with the ideal underway schedules, continue on with our careers, and get married shortly after graduation. We were two midshipmen, ready to be officers and serve our country, but also wanting to start a life together. It had to be possible, right?

  It soon became clear that we were being too naïve. We were going to need more than careful planning. The hard lessons started on the night of service selection at the Academy; it would be a milestone in our relationship. That evening, each of the one thousand members of the senior class was given a sealed envelope with a piece of paper inside, and on that piece of paper was a number ranking us according to our military and academic performance over the previous three years. Based on that number, students were given preference in choosing their assignments. As the night progressed, numbers were called out, and midshipmen were summoned to Memorial Hall, a huge room where admirals, generals, and loved ones all gathered. The walls were covered with charts of assignments. Doug and I knew our plan. He was to be called first, as his order of merit was higher than mine. (I still think his course load was easier!) He would pick the same ship on the West Coast as his good friend Chris Whyte. Eventually the voice over the loudspeaker called Doug’s number. My heart raced as I thought of him in his Dress Blues walking down to the hall—he has a way of naturally marching wherever he goes—to make the first of many choices that would guide our careers.

  My number was called a short while later, and I joined the other anxious seniors in a long line that made its way out of the hall and into the courtyard. My goal was to be an ensign on USS Coronado, the only West Coast command ship. As a bride to be, I wanted to try to balance our careers from the beginning and wasn’t looking for the “toughest job in the Navy.” I wanted to know I could share a holiday or two with my husband and family. Command ships, we were told, were usually in port a bit more often than other ships, and almost always for Christmas. As I waited in line, I wondered if it was foolish not to have a backup plan. I followed my classmates into the noisy, humid, and congested room. I had always thought this would be a serene and solemn night, but no, it was true Navy—boisterous, crowded, and flowing with alcohol. (There was access to an open bar after you had made your selection.) I stepped up to the red cloth railing, smiled at Doug, who was standing off to the side, and then looked up at the board.

  That’s when my heart sank, triggering a meltdown. My ship was gone! I later found out that a classmate ahead of me by three spaces had taken the last slot. Devastated, I walked up to the chart and asked the admiral what he recommended. He suggested a ship in his fleet, on the West Coast. I took the first ship he offered, grasping at the small hope that at least Doug and I would be in the same homeport, signed my name next to the ship’s, and desperately looked around for the nearest exit. I didn’t even wait for Doug because I knew he was right behind me. I could barely breathe and needed fresh air. How could this have happened to us? It was all wrong. We had planned and prepared for a life with some stability, being surface warfare officers in San Diego. Instead, I had an assignment to a destroyer about which I knew nothing, and to top it off, it had an active schedule that was quite the opposite of the amphibious schedule of my future husband’s ship. This was just the first of many times that attempts to control our Navy careers would fail. I was comforted to know that despite the seeming failure of our plans, God was still in charge, and he had a plan for our lives. I prayed and tried to be encouraged that we would both be in San Diego.

  FEBRUARY 2003

  Fast forward thirteen months, and the challenge of service selection seems like a mere annoyance compared to what we were facing. Doug had been deployed in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom and was cruising in the Persian Gulf, protecting oil platforms. His ship did figure eights and resupplied (via small boats filled with fresh water, food, and ammunition) the sailors who stood watch on the platforms around the clock, without running water, no shade, and armed with automatic weapons. His ship was plagued by a faulty chem-bio alarm, which meant that whenever the wind blew unexpectedly, an alarm would sound, as if they had come under chemical or biological attack. He carried a gas mask with him at all times, even to the bathroom.

  We wrote emails back and forth, his sometimes ending with “chem-bio is going off, gotta go.” It was not reassuring to read, and honestly, I never got used to it. At the time that Doug was dealing with sandstorms so violent he could barely see his hand in front of his face, I was back at the Academy in Annapolis. I never joined the ship I’d chosen on service selection night and instead accepted a phenomenal opportunity to teach at the Academy after getting a master’s degree in American history.

  As pressure grew to invade Iraq, I sat in the faculty lounge at lunch, dining on Lean Cuisine and watching CNN’s “Headline News” with my colleagues. There was constant banter between the liberals and conservatives, and we discussed the politics of the situation as only history instructors can—with plenty of references to antiquity. The only time I remember the lounge being silent was when we watched the fall of Baghdad unfold before us. We were riveted to the TV and glued to our chairs; everyone had questions but nothing to say. What would happen? Was Doug safe? Would he come home? I felt utterly helpless. I knew then and there that there wasn’t a right way to rig a dual military marriage. This life was going to be tough, and there was no way around that.

  2007

  Four years later, we considered ourselves a seasoned military couple. We had three deployments between the two of us—I’d deployed as an intelligence officer with a helicopter squadron, HS-4, onboard an aircraft carrier, USS Stennis— we had missed four of five anniversaries, had never celebrated a Valentine’s Day together, and had begun to receive friends’ wedding invitations addressed to just one of us “and guest.” We were finally due for a break, and we expected our shore tours to be just that. Almost all naval officers begin their careers with two tours at sea followed by one on shore. We had high hopes for ours—we would find cushy day jobs where we would wear “civvies” into work, and at night we would sleep in our own bed, not having to be on the ship every third night—but we were in for another surprise: I was transferred to a shore tour four months ahead of Doug. We needed a house, but I had not planned on finding one on my own. Why did our schedules never align?

  Not ones to be discouraged, we made the most of the time we did have and quickly closed on a new home in ten days. While I waited for Doug to join me on shore duty, I made it my mission to create a home for us in our new place. Although I wanted him there to help me make decisions about paint colors or the arrangement of our furniture, I knew he was working hard and would have been with me if he could.

  I rep
orted for work at the National Geospatial Intelligence Agency well rested and bronzed from my time in the Southern California sun. I was scheduled to work four ten-and-a-half-hour shifts a week and had visions of spending my free time gardening or taking an art class. What was supposed to be an easy shore tour, however, was turning out to be harder than deployment. I barely had time to call Doug, let alone paint our new home or tend to a garden. I worked in the office that directly supported the director of the agency, and as a lieutenant I was expected to assume a leadership role immediately. Despite the intriguing sound of “national intelligence,” the job was equal parts fascinating and mind numbingly dull. It was a heady experience to read the President’s Daily Brief, or PDB as we called it, and to answer the red phone that connected to the White House Situation Room.

  At first I was mesmerized by the seven phones on the watch desk, all of which had a different greeting because U.S. undercover agents might call one of the lines. Much to my dismay, the phone number for our undercover personnel was quite similar to the phone number for a local Domino’s pizza. When answering the phone at 2 o’clock in the morning, I was less than amused by the caller who wanted a “large with onions and olives—fast.” After telling him repeatedly that the number he had called was a national intelligence agency, not Domino’s, I finally replied, “Sure, it’ll be there in ten minutes.” Happily, there were times when my mind and leadership were put to good use, which in the end made the job worthwhile.

  2010

  Now that Doug and I are out of uniform, we look back on our dual military careers as an adventure, with surprises and challenges around every corner, but totally and completely worth the sacrifice. I had never been so proud as to stand in uniform next to my husband and salute the colors as they passed. Never was I so honored than to greet him after he returned from an eight-month deployment. We understand what it means to sacrifice, for our country and for each other, and that our marriage is worth any hardship. The challenges of our dual military marriage are worth any hardship. They made us stronger.

  When No One’s Watching

  Lisa Freeman*

  Some people have no direction, no purpose, and no idea where their lives will take them. Opportunities pass them by. The kids get raised, the mortgage gets paid, and the status stays quo. They’re just along for the ride. Other people have a laser-like focus on where they need to be and a clear, but maybe less precise, idea of how to get there. They set goals and navigate a course undeterred by detours to the finish line. They are the world’s drivers.

  I always knew where I needed to be, I just wasn’t sure how to do it. I wanted to be a pilot, like my dad, and I wanted to be a leader; everything else was just chaff. When I read President Theodore Roosevelt’s “Man in the Arena” speech my first week at the Naval Academy, it reinforced my passion to be on the front lines. There I was, even during plebe summer, in the arena, my face marred with “sweat and dust and blood” from bear crawls on Hospital Point. I was doing what it took to achieve my goals, leaving behind the “timid souls” who know neither victory nor defeat.

  In my early years, things were pretty much the same for me as they were for other military brats. I come from a Navy family. My dad, both my grandfathers, aunt, and an uncle were naval officers. During my first six years of education, I attended a different school every year. When my family moved to Richmond Hill, Georgia, however, I started the sixth grade and finally had educational stability because we never moved after that. It was there that I began the serious effort of earning an appointment to the Naval Academy. The Annapolis brochures said I should strive for good grades, have lots of extracurricular activities, and try to get leadership experience. Of course, I also needed a requisite dose of luck. In pursuit of the nomination, I received some much-needed character-building lessons.

  Much of my interest centered on student government. I served on the student council every year in high school. As a freshman, I was the treasurer, and as a junior I ran for student council president but lost. This was a major blow to a young man focused on attending a college where leadership was a prerequisite. Pursuing school-wide office was uncommon for a junior, but I had the respect of so many different cliques that I gave it a shot, believing I could tally enough votes to win.

  While living on different military bases, I never had the luxury of picking and choosing my buddies. I accepted anyone who accepted me. I lost the council president race because a malicious student council adviser, Mrs. Stenson, had shown favoritism toward another candidate. I was disappointed: How could I possibly get into Annapolis if I can’t even land a high school leadership role? I accepted the loss, but I didn’t give up. The next year I ran again and was elected council president. I learned something all successful military officers must learn—perseverance. Outside the Naval Academy leadership center is an Epictetus quote under the statue of Adm. James Stockdale that reads, “Lameness is an impediment to the body but not to the will” It really isn’t important how many times you fail, fall, or get knocked down, or even how hard the blow. To truly win, you have to get back up and move forward.

  My parents helped me fulfill my dream of attending the Naval Academy. Throughout my life, my mother has been my biggest cheerleader. She told me I could be anything I wanted to be. She told me I was blessed with brains, looks, and family, that I should use these strengths to help others, and that with the right choices and “checking the right boxes” my dreams would be realized. When things went wrong, she taught me to turn to God and learn from my mistakes.

  The Marine Corps Mameluke sword, inscribed and presented to Matt Freeman at his graduation from the Naval Academy in 2002.

  On Induction Day at the Naval Academy, I felt ready. My dad, Class of 1976, made sure I was prepared to be a plebe. Plebes are like freshmen at other, traditional colleges but without civil rights. They are broken down mentally and then built back up, reshaped as officers in the naval service. Last-minute instructions on how to fold T-shirts, polish boots, and memorize age-old sayings from Reef Points—a timeless bible that explains the Naval Academy and the Navy—were an advantage I had as a “legacy” student.

  My dad told me if some sadistic upperclassman asked, “How’s the cow?” I should be ready to respond by saying, “Sir, she walks, she talks, she’s full of chalk, the lacteal fluid extracted from the female of the bovine species is highly prolific to the Nth degree, Sir.” My dad also provided some intangible advice: To put my shipmates first, put 100 percent of my energy into every day, and never compromise my integrity. While other midshipmen were still developing their moral compasses, my self-awareness of right and wrong had already been calibrated.

  My years at Annapolis were some of my fondest. I did my best as an aerospace engineer and developed close friendships. I wasn’t Brigade commander, but I focused on being a good leader in company and taking care of my squad mates. Flying was in my DNA, but I was going to be different from the other aviators in my family: I was going to be a Marine as well. At graduation, my parents gave me an officer’s sword. Marine Corps officers carry a Mameluke sword, in recognition of the one presented to 1st Lt. Presley O’Bannon by the Ottoman viceroy Prince Hamet during the First Barbary War in 1805. All Marine officers have since had it.

  My parents engraved my sword “Matthew C. Freeman, USMC, USNA 2002. When No One’s Watching.” My dad wanted the phrase on the sword to remind me that character is one of the most important and essential parts of being an officer and leader, and the most telling method of measuring character is noting how someone acts and conducts his affairs when no one is watching.

  After six months of officer training at the the Marine Corps Basic School at Quantico, Virginia, I went to flight school. Becoming a pilot required twenty-four months of additional education, and with a war going on, I was particularly impatient. Because of the needs of the Corps, I was assigned orders to a C-130 squadron based in Okinawa, Japan. Our mission was to take bullets, boots, and Band-Aids in and out of the area of combat ope
rations, always in a support role.

  Though my desire to be more involved in combat operations remained unfulfilled, personal things were on track living overseas. I was blessed to have my childhood friend and now fiancée, Theresa Hess, living with me in Japan. Theresa was an Air Force flight surgeon and had wrangled a job in Okinawa as well. We were able to enjoy the Japanese culture together and nurture our relationship. We took walks on the beach and bought eclectic Japanese delights. Our favorite was Norimake-Zushi, a delicious fresh fish wrapped in seaweed. We explored the island and snorkeled and scuba dived right in front of our apartment. I traveled to Australia and dove off the cliffs there. I played with monkeys in the Philippines and took pictures on Wake Island and Guam. Life was good, but something was missing. I felt disconnected from the history ongoing in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  On a typical morning around the squadron hangar, my executive officer called a meeting for all the junior officers. He read an email explaining that the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were continuing much longer than expected, and there was a shortage of troops on the ground due to extended Army deployments. There were not enough troops in the active, reserve, and guard components to maintain mission requirements. Positions were opening up for individual volunteers, or volun-“told,” officers to augment Army forces on the ground. It was explained that an Army infantry unit responsible for mentoring the Afghan national army needed more personnel. Assignments to the unit were supposed to be for an entire year in Afghanistan.

  Operations were slow in the Pacific region, and I felt the need to be closer to the fight. Aside from leaving Theresa, I was excited about the opportunistic deployment. My executive officer slated me to deploy individually to Afghanistan.