thedrifter
03-11-07, 08:47 AM
Ultimate sacrifice
As anniversary nears, Tri-State recalls local heroes who were killed in combat
By JIMMY NESBITT
Courier & Press staff writer 464-7501 or nesbittj@courierpress.com
Originally published 12:00 a.m., March 11, 2007
Updated 11:43 p.m., March 10, 2007
He slept next to me for months, ate next to me, showered next to me, and we shared many things together. He loved the cashews and beef jerky I'd give him. He worried an awful lot about his absence from you.
"He'd get choked up talking about it. He'd get worn out and pass out on his back with all of his clothes on, only to wake himself up snoring. He was always early and diligent. He was a good man, and believed that he was making the world a better place for his children.
"I miss him."
- Bart Cole, U.S. Marine Corps, in a letter dated Oct. 24, 2006, to Barbara Babb, widow of Sgt. Brock Babb
When soldiers leave for war, the prospect of death is never far from those who fight and those who wait for their return. Children hug their fathers a little longer. Parents clutch pictures a little tighter. Wives sleep next to their cell phones. Soldiers make arrangements for their funerals - just in case.
This month marks the four-year anniversary of the March 20, 2003, U.S. invasion of Iraq. More than 3,100 servicemembers have been killed, including 20 from the Tri-State.
The Courier & Press is profiling four of them: Marine Sgt. Brock Babb, Army Pfc. Darren A. DeBlanc, Army Pvt. Jonathan Pfender and Marine Lance Cpl. James E. Brown.
How do you measure the human cost of war? Look at the families left behind to grieve and struggle with their losses.
Babb's wife, Barbara, stayed busy in the weeks after her husband's death. Family, food, flowers and Marines poured into her home, but when the flowers were faded and the food and friends gone, only silence remained.
This is real, she thought. Brock really is gone.
DeBlanc had plans of becoming a police officer with his brother, Michael, when he returned from Iraq. "If I die," he told his brother, "I want full military honors." Michael made sure he got his wish.
DeBlanc's mother, Judy, visits his grave often.
"I know he can't talk back to me," she said. "But he can hear me."
Before Jonathan Pfender's casket was closed, his mother, Peggy Jo, bent down and kissed his cheek. She wore lipstick to leave a mark. It was only fitting. Pfender had left her with so many memories.
"I was blessed that I had him 22 years, really blessed," she said.
A few days before he was killed by a sniper, James Brown frantically called several relatives. He sounded worried. He wrote letters to his mother and aunt, telling them how much he loved them. The notes arrived a few days after his funeral.
His family believes Brown knew death was waiting.
Marine Sgt. Brock Babb, 40, of Evansville died Oct. 15, 2006, while conducting operations in Anbar province
Barbara Babb looked around the cavernous St. Boniface Catholic Church. Her husband's flag-draped casket rested in an aisle to her left. The pews were tightly packed. Mourners in the standing room section silently stood shoulder to shoulder. "When I looked around, they were all people I knew," she said. "They were all friends."
The church's maximum occupancy is 712. A pastor estimated more than 1,000 people attended the funeral.
"I guess he didn't **** off as many people as I thought," said Barbara, 40.
She was only half kidding. Brock wasn't a middle-of-the-road man. He believed in God, family, the Marines and American-made pickup trucks.
Born and raised in Evansville, Brock was the oldest of three children. Growing up, he hunted deer with his father, Terry Babb, and lettered in wrestling and football at Reitz High School. Brock was only 5 feet 6, but he made up for his lack of height with strength. One friend compared him to a tree stump.
Brock joined the Marines in 1985 at the age of 19.
"I thought that he would come out a better man for doing it," Terry said. "We were not against it."
Three years later, Brock's life changed again when he began dating Barbara. She had quietly carried a crush on Brock for years, following him around at football games and sending anonymous notes in the mail. By her own admission, Barbara was a borderline stalker.
"It kind of freaked him out," she said of the notes. "He thought his friends were playing a joke on him."
Eventually, though, Brock chose to meet his stalker. He made the decision after Barbara left a note that read, "If you think you'd like to go out, leave a note on your truck."
"And he did that," Barbara said. They fell in love after two dates. Brock proposed nine months later.
In 1990, when Brock's oldest son, Tanner, was still an infant, Brock was called into active duty for Operation Desert Storm. The separation was difficult, said Barbara, 23 at the time. Brock missed Tanner's first birthday, first Christmas and first steps.
Brock served on an anti-terrorist team in Iraq and guarded an ammunition depot on a Marine air base. He sent audio tapes home to describe his days. Most could be summed up in one word, Terry said. Boring. The first Gulf War "was a three-day deal, and that was about it," he said.
When he returned home, Tanner didn't recognize him. "He was scared of Brock," Barbara said.
Brock went to work at Evansville Sheet Metal. He and Barbara had two more children. Brock rarely talked about the Marines until the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks.
"I kind of knew that after Sept. 11, he was going to do something," she said. "I kind of knew just because of the person he was. And then I kind of stumbled upon it."
Barbara found an e-mail he had sent to another Marine, expressing his interest in re-enlisting. Barbara was angry, and so were some of Brock's friends. She disagreed with the war, but realized a force greater than family was guiding Brock. He had prayed over the decision for years. He chose to re-enlist because he wanted to train a new generation of Marines and share the skills he learned during his first trip to Iraq - skills that could save lives.
Brock was deployed to Iraq in late September of last year. On Oct. 15, only two weeks after he had arrived there, he was killed when a roadside bomb exploded near his Humvee.
Thousands of miles away, five Marines from Terre Haute, Ind., prepared to leave for Brock's home in Evansville. Staff Sgt. Tim Kosky prepared a stack of paperwork for the trip. He pulled Brock's file and verified his address. He had met Barbara once before at a family day cookout. Kosky knew they had three children. He was nervous.
"I'm married," Kosky, 29, said. "I've got two kids myself. I'm envisioning a Marine walking up and telling my wife that. What is she going to be thinking?"
He played the scenario over and over in his head. There is no training for delivering a death notification. You rely on compassion, preparation and instinct. When he stopped in front of the Babb home, he prepared to break the news. He walked slowly toward the door with a fellow Marine.
"My heart was beating out of my chest," Kosky recalled.
Tanner, Brock's 17-year-old son, answered. Barbara was with her daughter, Zoie, 13, at soccer practice.
When Tanner saw the Marines he told his brother, Levi, 8, to go to his room.
"We didn't take it easy," Kosky said. "We just told him the truth. We didn't hide anything from him."
Brock's brother, B.J. Babb, drove to the soccer field to tell Barbara. Zoie was still practicing. When her mother abruptly said they had to leave, she demanded to know why.
"I had to tell her what happened there on the soccer field," Barbara said.
For the next two weeks, Barbara and her children ate dinner every night with Brock's parents. She took Levi to see a therapist. The sudden loss of a parent can cause fits of anger and frustration.
"He understands the family unit has changed," Barbara said. "Daddy is still with us, but he is not here."
"I hate to think of another wife or child going through what I've gone through," she said through tears. "Or another mother going through (it). We've just got to get (the rest of the troops) home safe. Somehow, they've got to come home.
"I can't see an outcome being worth the pain."
"The one thing that gets us through this a lot is our faith," said Brock's mother, Susie.
Terry finds comfort in a letter from Capt. Michael Mayne, Brock's commanding officer.
"After the explosion that took Brock's life, his Marines, many of them wounded in the attack, quickly treated the more seriously wounded and provided security for their fellow Marines," Mayne wrote. "Their actions, the result of training they received from Brock, saved the lives of two other Marines, and prevented any further attacks by the enemy."
Brock's father perks up when he reads the letter.
"Mission accomplished," he said. "He did what he said he was going to do."
Army Pfc. Darren A. DeBlanc, 20, of Evansville died April 29, 2005, in Baghdad after an explosion while on patrol
The phone rang late one night at the DeBlanc home.
Judy DeBlanc was asleep. Her son, Michael, answered. It was his brother, Darren, who was stationed near Baghdad with the Army's 2nd Battalion, 14th Infantry Regiment. He had a habit of calling around 3 a.m.
Michael recalled their conversation: "Don't tell Mom, but I earned my Purple Heart today."
Darren was on foot patrol March 26, 2005, when an improvised explosive device detonated. The blast shot him into the air, and he landed on another soldier. Bits of shrapnel lodged in his right arm and leg. They were minor wounds.
Judy, 43, sleeping in a bedroom nearby, heard enough of the conversation that she rose out of bed and shouted, "You can't tell me what!"
On April 12, Darren received the Purple Heart. He stood in formation with a small group of soldiers, and former Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld greeted them one-by-one, shaking hands and posing for pictures. Their glory didn't last long. Within three weeks, four of the soldiers in the room would be dead, including Darren.
Darren joined the Army at 18. He was ready for something different.
"He just got done with 13 years of school," Michael, 23, said. "He said he couldn't see himself going back right away."
The war in Iraq already had begun, and Judy knew if her son joined he likely would be deployed.
"I was really against him going," she said. "But there was nothing I could do about it. He was 18. He signed his own papers."
Darren didn't want to make a career out of the military. He planned to go into law enforcement with his brother. The two were close in age and appearance. Before Darren left for Iraq, he told Michael he wanted full military honors at his funeral, just in case he didn't come back.
The day he flew out of Evansville Regional Airport, a group of relatives gathered in the lobby to say goodbye. As he walked to the plane, his uncle pressed a sign against the window that read: "Come home safe." Darren saw it. He smiled and waved back.
Months later, when Judy received the news Darren had been injured, she relaxed. This was his close call, she thought: Surely nothing else would happen. Darren was scheduled to return home in a few weeks.
"Now I wish he would have broke a leg or arm or something," she said.
On April 29, Judy received a phone call from her ex-husband's mother, who lives in Vincennes, Ind.
"The military guys are here, and they're looking for you," she said.
Michael called the Armory.
"I asked them what it was regarding," he said.
The man who answered the phone said he couldn't provide details. Friends and relatives gathered at Judy's home on Hogue Road. They waited. Michael anxiously paced at the end of the driveway, watching every passing car.
"It's a pretty busy road, so every car that comes by you think it's them," he said.
Said Judy: "I hoped that maybe he was just hit by a bomb, and he was in Germany. You've got to hope for the best."
Two soldiers delivered the news. Darren was driving a Humvee when he stopped because a row of barbed wire was blocking the road. Four soldiers were riding with him. Three jumped out to move the wire.
"Darren, I guess, just backed up or went forward and the bomb went off," Michael said.
The soldiers had left the doors open, and shrapnel rained in. Darren was loaded into a helicopter with a slight pulse. He died before it landed.
"It was an armored Humvee, so they said if the doors had been closed, he might have been able to make it," Michael said. The other soldiers "beat themselves up about that."
Darren's visitation lasted two days. His family delayed the funeral because it was originally scheduled for a Sunday, Mother's Day. Darren received full military honors. He was the first soldier from Evansville to die in combat in Iraq.
The two-year anniversary of his death is next month. Judy still visits his grave at Alexander Memorial often, and has a display case in her home dedicated to Darren. There's his Purple Heart from Rumsfeld, the flag from his coffin and pictures of him in uniform.
Michael said he is finally able to talk about his brother and not cry. Still, "It's just something that you wake up thinking about."
He also thinks about the war.
"If you withdraw your troops like some people are wanting and that country goes back to the way it was, what did my little brother die for?" he asks. "At the time he died, he died serving his country. And then if (Iraq) falls apart?
"He died for a lost cause."
Army Pvt. Jonathan Pfender, 22, of Evansville died Dec. 30, 2005, when an explosive device struck his Humvee on patrol
Peggy Jo Hammond carries memories of her son wherever she goes, literally. She proudly sports three tattoos - one of his face on her left arm; a tiny acorn on her wrist to recall how he was always carrying them into the house as a child; and lipstick lips on the finger where she wears his military ring.
"I will always be his voice," she said. "I just honor him the best I can. This is my life now."
Jonathan was born to be a soldier, his mother said. From the seventh grade on, that was all he talked about. He was shy, but he opened up as he matured into a tall, lanky man.
"Jonathan was funny," said Peggy, 47. "He was the kind of guy who always made you laugh. He was a character. ... He was the kind of person who never saw race or color and didn't care whether you were rich or poor. He just liked everybody."
That attitude drew people to him, said Jason Godsey, 32, who worked with Jonathan at the Pizza Hut on St. Joseph Avenue. Jonathan worked there for six years and befriended nearly everyone, including many regular customers.
He cooked, cleaned, took orders and delivered pizzas. You name the task, Jonathan was there to do it. One day, Godsey, the store manager, called in because his father died.
"(Jonathan) was not a manager," Godsey said. "I told him what happened. He said, 'Don't worry about a thing. I'll take care of everything.'
"He was always about everybody else."
Godsey has three children, all with the initials T.J. When his youngest son was born, he named him Trevor John, after Jonathan Pfender. Jonathan treated Godsey's children like his own, attending their soccer games and school plays. Jonathan stood out in that way, Godsey said. Many men his age would rather spend their free time partying.
That's not to say Jonathan didn't enjoy a good time. Before he left for Iraq, Jonathan rented a limo for his friends at Pizza Hut and took them out for a night on the town. He had so much fun that he planned an even bigger party for his homecoming.
Jonathan was deployed to Iraq on Sept. 16, 2005, with the 101st Airborne Division based at Fort Campbell, Ky. He was convinced they were going for the right reasons.
"He didn't want kids to grow up in a messed-up world," Godsey said.
His unit trained Iraqi soldiers, raided suspected terrorist hideouts and patrolled deserts. Some days, they spent hours digging through the sand, unearthing buried IEDs and rifles. One of the soldiers in Jonathan's unit videotaped the process. He burned a DVD of the video and sent it to Peggy. A soldier in the video says Jonathan "has eyes like a cat" when he spots an IED sticking out of the ground. His comrades refer to Jonathan as P-fizzle.
They wave a metal detector over the sand to spot hidden weapons. One of the digs yields four IEDs, one much larger than the rest. A soldier holds it high for the camera to see and says, "That'll definitely put (you) in a box."
Like DeBlanc, Pfender survived his first encounter with a roadside bomb. When his mother received word of the attack, she wasn't surprised.
"It's part of it," she said. The second attack occurred Dec. 30. A roadside bomb exploded near his vehicle in Bayji, Iraq. The blast was more powerful. He was struck by several pieces of shrapnel. One pierced his head. Jonathan died instantly.
"I have days that it will just bring me to my knees," Peggy said. "But if I don't get out and live, I'm not honoring my son."
When Jonathan's unit returned from Iraq, she was at Fort Campbell to welcome it home. Some of the soldiers were greeted with banners and kisses, Peggy said. Others met divorce papers. A few of the soldiers who knew Jonathan found Peggy in the crowd and hugged her. It wasn't the same.
"I'd cut my arms off to have him home."
Peggy wonders what Jonathan would have become.
"A commander, maybe," she says.
Jonathan wanted to marry and have children, said Godsey, who still works at Pizza Hut. Some of the employees there are still too emotional to talk about Jonathan. When Jonathan left for Iraq, the restaurant put up a sign that said, "Good luck Jonathan Pfender." After he died, Godsey changed it to "In loving memory of Pvt. Pfender."
The message remains on the sign. Godsey can't bring himself to change it.
Marine Lance Cpl. James E. Brown, 20, of Owensville, Ind., died Nov. 2, 2006, from a likely sniper bullet in Anbar province
James Brown lived life as if he knew he was going to die young. Fearless, full of energy and with a purpose. The oldest of three children, James became a father figure to his brother, Dillen, 15, when his parents divorced.
He liked to hunt and would disappear into the woods for hours and later emerge with a deer slumped over his shoulder. James was an athlete and competed with intensity, intimidating his opponents. He was voted the most valuable player on Gibson Southern's football team. He boxed and won two Golden Gloves championships, knocking out one of his opponents in less than 90 seconds.
At home, James "wanted to protect everybody," said his aunt, Mary Hess, 42, of Evansville. When James was 14, she briefly moved in with his family. She was having problems with her marriage.
"He looked at me and said, 'Aunt Mary, don't you ever let a man treat you wrong because you deserve better.' He was just like my little counselor. I just looked at him as a young man at that time."
Before his senior year of high school, James met a man who had a connection to the Marine Corps. "He just questioned this guy to death about the Marines," Mary said.
After that, he was sold. Mary tried to talk him out of enlisting, but James wanted to make a career out of the military. Going to Iraq would just be one step in a long path.
"I'm going, and I'm going to take care of business," Mary recalled him saying. "And that was his attitude."
James was deployed to Iraq in July 2006. He proposed to his girlfriend, Jamie Coleman, before he left. The two had known each other since the third grade, but they didn't start dating until their senior year of high school.
"He took me in his room and told me that I was his best friend and that he could never love anyone as much as he loved me," said Coleman, 20. "He told me that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. He got down on one knee and asked me to marry him."
The couple set a wedding date for March. They discussed the wedding during their last telephone conversation Oct. 31.
"He told me that he was ready to come home and that he couldn't wait for us to get married in March," Jamie said. "I told him the same. One of his friends was right next to him and asked if he was invited, and I told him yes. The conversation was so special to me because of one reason: I heard James laugh. I hadn't heard him laugh since before he left in July."
James called several other people that day and wrote letters to his mother and aunt. The notes didn't arrive until after his funeral.
The morning of Nov. 2, James climbed to the roof of an observation post near Camp Habbaniyah for three hours of guard duty, Mary said. He was joined by two other Marines who were guarding lower posts at the corners of the building. The rest of his squad was sleeping, writing letters home or performing routine chores.
A single shot rang through the air. The Marines called out to each other. One by one, they responded. James did not.
The bullet, most likely from a sniper, struck him in the back of his head, severing his spine. A Navy Corpsman rushed to the roof and attempted to revive him.
"All the guys who were with him kissed his head and told him bye," Mary said.
For the second time in less than three weeks, a group of Marines from Terre Haute left for Southern Indiana. When they reached Brown's mobile home in Owensville, his mother, Joanne Van Antwerp, wasn't there. They returned an hour later. This time, a car was in the driveway.
Tim Kosky, the Marine who escorted Barbara Babb out of the church behind her husband's casket, stepped out of the van. This time was different because Kosky was telling a mother. "To actually have to say those words that your son was killed in Iraq today ... those were probably the hardest words I've ever had to say in my life."
How does one see the cost of war and the toll death takes?
It shows in the face of a child whose dad will never watch her play soccer again. It shows when a mother can hold a Purple Heart, but not her son. It shows in the tattoo on a mother's left arm. It shows in a date on a calendar, a wedding that can never be.
Ellie
As anniversary nears, Tri-State recalls local heroes who were killed in combat
By JIMMY NESBITT
Courier & Press staff writer 464-7501 or nesbittj@courierpress.com
Originally published 12:00 a.m., March 11, 2007
Updated 11:43 p.m., March 10, 2007
He slept next to me for months, ate next to me, showered next to me, and we shared many things together. He loved the cashews and beef jerky I'd give him. He worried an awful lot about his absence from you.
"He'd get choked up talking about it. He'd get worn out and pass out on his back with all of his clothes on, only to wake himself up snoring. He was always early and diligent. He was a good man, and believed that he was making the world a better place for his children.
"I miss him."
- Bart Cole, U.S. Marine Corps, in a letter dated Oct. 24, 2006, to Barbara Babb, widow of Sgt. Brock Babb
When soldiers leave for war, the prospect of death is never far from those who fight and those who wait for their return. Children hug their fathers a little longer. Parents clutch pictures a little tighter. Wives sleep next to their cell phones. Soldiers make arrangements for their funerals - just in case.
This month marks the four-year anniversary of the March 20, 2003, U.S. invasion of Iraq. More than 3,100 servicemembers have been killed, including 20 from the Tri-State.
The Courier & Press is profiling four of them: Marine Sgt. Brock Babb, Army Pfc. Darren A. DeBlanc, Army Pvt. Jonathan Pfender and Marine Lance Cpl. James E. Brown.
How do you measure the human cost of war? Look at the families left behind to grieve and struggle with their losses.
Babb's wife, Barbara, stayed busy in the weeks after her husband's death. Family, food, flowers and Marines poured into her home, but when the flowers were faded and the food and friends gone, only silence remained.
This is real, she thought. Brock really is gone.
DeBlanc had plans of becoming a police officer with his brother, Michael, when he returned from Iraq. "If I die," he told his brother, "I want full military honors." Michael made sure he got his wish.
DeBlanc's mother, Judy, visits his grave often.
"I know he can't talk back to me," she said. "But he can hear me."
Before Jonathan Pfender's casket was closed, his mother, Peggy Jo, bent down and kissed his cheek. She wore lipstick to leave a mark. It was only fitting. Pfender had left her with so many memories.
"I was blessed that I had him 22 years, really blessed," she said.
A few days before he was killed by a sniper, James Brown frantically called several relatives. He sounded worried. He wrote letters to his mother and aunt, telling them how much he loved them. The notes arrived a few days after his funeral.
His family believes Brown knew death was waiting.
Marine Sgt. Brock Babb, 40, of Evansville died Oct. 15, 2006, while conducting operations in Anbar province
Barbara Babb looked around the cavernous St. Boniface Catholic Church. Her husband's flag-draped casket rested in an aisle to her left. The pews were tightly packed. Mourners in the standing room section silently stood shoulder to shoulder. "When I looked around, they were all people I knew," she said. "They were all friends."
The church's maximum occupancy is 712. A pastor estimated more than 1,000 people attended the funeral.
"I guess he didn't **** off as many people as I thought," said Barbara, 40.
She was only half kidding. Brock wasn't a middle-of-the-road man. He believed in God, family, the Marines and American-made pickup trucks.
Born and raised in Evansville, Brock was the oldest of three children. Growing up, he hunted deer with his father, Terry Babb, and lettered in wrestling and football at Reitz High School. Brock was only 5 feet 6, but he made up for his lack of height with strength. One friend compared him to a tree stump.
Brock joined the Marines in 1985 at the age of 19.
"I thought that he would come out a better man for doing it," Terry said. "We were not against it."
Three years later, Brock's life changed again when he began dating Barbara. She had quietly carried a crush on Brock for years, following him around at football games and sending anonymous notes in the mail. By her own admission, Barbara was a borderline stalker.
"It kind of freaked him out," she said of the notes. "He thought his friends were playing a joke on him."
Eventually, though, Brock chose to meet his stalker. He made the decision after Barbara left a note that read, "If you think you'd like to go out, leave a note on your truck."
"And he did that," Barbara said. They fell in love after two dates. Brock proposed nine months later.
In 1990, when Brock's oldest son, Tanner, was still an infant, Brock was called into active duty for Operation Desert Storm. The separation was difficult, said Barbara, 23 at the time. Brock missed Tanner's first birthday, first Christmas and first steps.
Brock served on an anti-terrorist team in Iraq and guarded an ammunition depot on a Marine air base. He sent audio tapes home to describe his days. Most could be summed up in one word, Terry said. Boring. The first Gulf War "was a three-day deal, and that was about it," he said.
When he returned home, Tanner didn't recognize him. "He was scared of Brock," Barbara said.
Brock went to work at Evansville Sheet Metal. He and Barbara had two more children. Brock rarely talked about the Marines until the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks.
"I kind of knew that after Sept. 11, he was going to do something," she said. "I kind of knew just because of the person he was. And then I kind of stumbled upon it."
Barbara found an e-mail he had sent to another Marine, expressing his interest in re-enlisting. Barbara was angry, and so were some of Brock's friends. She disagreed with the war, but realized a force greater than family was guiding Brock. He had prayed over the decision for years. He chose to re-enlist because he wanted to train a new generation of Marines and share the skills he learned during his first trip to Iraq - skills that could save lives.
Brock was deployed to Iraq in late September of last year. On Oct. 15, only two weeks after he had arrived there, he was killed when a roadside bomb exploded near his Humvee.
Thousands of miles away, five Marines from Terre Haute, Ind., prepared to leave for Brock's home in Evansville. Staff Sgt. Tim Kosky prepared a stack of paperwork for the trip. He pulled Brock's file and verified his address. He had met Barbara once before at a family day cookout. Kosky knew they had three children. He was nervous.
"I'm married," Kosky, 29, said. "I've got two kids myself. I'm envisioning a Marine walking up and telling my wife that. What is she going to be thinking?"
He played the scenario over and over in his head. There is no training for delivering a death notification. You rely on compassion, preparation and instinct. When he stopped in front of the Babb home, he prepared to break the news. He walked slowly toward the door with a fellow Marine.
"My heart was beating out of my chest," Kosky recalled.
Tanner, Brock's 17-year-old son, answered. Barbara was with her daughter, Zoie, 13, at soccer practice.
When Tanner saw the Marines he told his brother, Levi, 8, to go to his room.
"We didn't take it easy," Kosky said. "We just told him the truth. We didn't hide anything from him."
Brock's brother, B.J. Babb, drove to the soccer field to tell Barbara. Zoie was still practicing. When her mother abruptly said they had to leave, she demanded to know why.
"I had to tell her what happened there on the soccer field," Barbara said.
For the next two weeks, Barbara and her children ate dinner every night with Brock's parents. She took Levi to see a therapist. The sudden loss of a parent can cause fits of anger and frustration.
"He understands the family unit has changed," Barbara said. "Daddy is still with us, but he is not here."
"I hate to think of another wife or child going through what I've gone through," she said through tears. "Or another mother going through (it). We've just got to get (the rest of the troops) home safe. Somehow, they've got to come home.
"I can't see an outcome being worth the pain."
"The one thing that gets us through this a lot is our faith," said Brock's mother, Susie.
Terry finds comfort in a letter from Capt. Michael Mayne, Brock's commanding officer.
"After the explosion that took Brock's life, his Marines, many of them wounded in the attack, quickly treated the more seriously wounded and provided security for their fellow Marines," Mayne wrote. "Their actions, the result of training they received from Brock, saved the lives of two other Marines, and prevented any further attacks by the enemy."
Brock's father perks up when he reads the letter.
"Mission accomplished," he said. "He did what he said he was going to do."
Army Pfc. Darren A. DeBlanc, 20, of Evansville died April 29, 2005, in Baghdad after an explosion while on patrol
The phone rang late one night at the DeBlanc home.
Judy DeBlanc was asleep. Her son, Michael, answered. It was his brother, Darren, who was stationed near Baghdad with the Army's 2nd Battalion, 14th Infantry Regiment. He had a habit of calling around 3 a.m.
Michael recalled their conversation: "Don't tell Mom, but I earned my Purple Heart today."
Darren was on foot patrol March 26, 2005, when an improvised explosive device detonated. The blast shot him into the air, and he landed on another soldier. Bits of shrapnel lodged in his right arm and leg. They were minor wounds.
Judy, 43, sleeping in a bedroom nearby, heard enough of the conversation that she rose out of bed and shouted, "You can't tell me what!"
On April 12, Darren received the Purple Heart. He stood in formation with a small group of soldiers, and former Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld greeted them one-by-one, shaking hands and posing for pictures. Their glory didn't last long. Within three weeks, four of the soldiers in the room would be dead, including Darren.
Darren joined the Army at 18. He was ready for something different.
"He just got done with 13 years of school," Michael, 23, said. "He said he couldn't see himself going back right away."
The war in Iraq already had begun, and Judy knew if her son joined he likely would be deployed.
"I was really against him going," she said. "But there was nothing I could do about it. He was 18. He signed his own papers."
Darren didn't want to make a career out of the military. He planned to go into law enforcement with his brother. The two were close in age and appearance. Before Darren left for Iraq, he told Michael he wanted full military honors at his funeral, just in case he didn't come back.
The day he flew out of Evansville Regional Airport, a group of relatives gathered in the lobby to say goodbye. As he walked to the plane, his uncle pressed a sign against the window that read: "Come home safe." Darren saw it. He smiled and waved back.
Months later, when Judy received the news Darren had been injured, she relaxed. This was his close call, she thought: Surely nothing else would happen. Darren was scheduled to return home in a few weeks.
"Now I wish he would have broke a leg or arm or something," she said.
On April 29, Judy received a phone call from her ex-husband's mother, who lives in Vincennes, Ind.
"The military guys are here, and they're looking for you," she said.
Michael called the Armory.
"I asked them what it was regarding," he said.
The man who answered the phone said he couldn't provide details. Friends and relatives gathered at Judy's home on Hogue Road. They waited. Michael anxiously paced at the end of the driveway, watching every passing car.
"It's a pretty busy road, so every car that comes by you think it's them," he said.
Said Judy: "I hoped that maybe he was just hit by a bomb, and he was in Germany. You've got to hope for the best."
Two soldiers delivered the news. Darren was driving a Humvee when he stopped because a row of barbed wire was blocking the road. Four soldiers were riding with him. Three jumped out to move the wire.
"Darren, I guess, just backed up or went forward and the bomb went off," Michael said.
The soldiers had left the doors open, and shrapnel rained in. Darren was loaded into a helicopter with a slight pulse. He died before it landed.
"It was an armored Humvee, so they said if the doors had been closed, he might have been able to make it," Michael said. The other soldiers "beat themselves up about that."
Darren's visitation lasted two days. His family delayed the funeral because it was originally scheduled for a Sunday, Mother's Day. Darren received full military honors. He was the first soldier from Evansville to die in combat in Iraq.
The two-year anniversary of his death is next month. Judy still visits his grave at Alexander Memorial often, and has a display case in her home dedicated to Darren. There's his Purple Heart from Rumsfeld, the flag from his coffin and pictures of him in uniform.
Michael said he is finally able to talk about his brother and not cry. Still, "It's just something that you wake up thinking about."
He also thinks about the war.
"If you withdraw your troops like some people are wanting and that country goes back to the way it was, what did my little brother die for?" he asks. "At the time he died, he died serving his country. And then if (Iraq) falls apart?
"He died for a lost cause."
Army Pvt. Jonathan Pfender, 22, of Evansville died Dec. 30, 2005, when an explosive device struck his Humvee on patrol
Peggy Jo Hammond carries memories of her son wherever she goes, literally. She proudly sports three tattoos - one of his face on her left arm; a tiny acorn on her wrist to recall how he was always carrying them into the house as a child; and lipstick lips on the finger where she wears his military ring.
"I will always be his voice," she said. "I just honor him the best I can. This is my life now."
Jonathan was born to be a soldier, his mother said. From the seventh grade on, that was all he talked about. He was shy, but he opened up as he matured into a tall, lanky man.
"Jonathan was funny," said Peggy, 47. "He was the kind of guy who always made you laugh. He was a character. ... He was the kind of person who never saw race or color and didn't care whether you were rich or poor. He just liked everybody."
That attitude drew people to him, said Jason Godsey, 32, who worked with Jonathan at the Pizza Hut on St. Joseph Avenue. Jonathan worked there for six years and befriended nearly everyone, including many regular customers.
He cooked, cleaned, took orders and delivered pizzas. You name the task, Jonathan was there to do it. One day, Godsey, the store manager, called in because his father died.
"(Jonathan) was not a manager," Godsey said. "I told him what happened. He said, 'Don't worry about a thing. I'll take care of everything.'
"He was always about everybody else."
Godsey has three children, all with the initials T.J. When his youngest son was born, he named him Trevor John, after Jonathan Pfender. Jonathan treated Godsey's children like his own, attending their soccer games and school plays. Jonathan stood out in that way, Godsey said. Many men his age would rather spend their free time partying.
That's not to say Jonathan didn't enjoy a good time. Before he left for Iraq, Jonathan rented a limo for his friends at Pizza Hut and took them out for a night on the town. He had so much fun that he planned an even bigger party for his homecoming.
Jonathan was deployed to Iraq on Sept. 16, 2005, with the 101st Airborne Division based at Fort Campbell, Ky. He was convinced they were going for the right reasons.
"He didn't want kids to grow up in a messed-up world," Godsey said.
His unit trained Iraqi soldiers, raided suspected terrorist hideouts and patrolled deserts. Some days, they spent hours digging through the sand, unearthing buried IEDs and rifles. One of the soldiers in Jonathan's unit videotaped the process. He burned a DVD of the video and sent it to Peggy. A soldier in the video says Jonathan "has eyes like a cat" when he spots an IED sticking out of the ground. His comrades refer to Jonathan as P-fizzle.
They wave a metal detector over the sand to spot hidden weapons. One of the digs yields four IEDs, one much larger than the rest. A soldier holds it high for the camera to see and says, "That'll definitely put (you) in a box."
Like DeBlanc, Pfender survived his first encounter with a roadside bomb. When his mother received word of the attack, she wasn't surprised.
"It's part of it," she said. The second attack occurred Dec. 30. A roadside bomb exploded near his vehicle in Bayji, Iraq. The blast was more powerful. He was struck by several pieces of shrapnel. One pierced his head. Jonathan died instantly.
"I have days that it will just bring me to my knees," Peggy said. "But if I don't get out and live, I'm not honoring my son."
When Jonathan's unit returned from Iraq, she was at Fort Campbell to welcome it home. Some of the soldiers were greeted with banners and kisses, Peggy said. Others met divorce papers. A few of the soldiers who knew Jonathan found Peggy in the crowd and hugged her. It wasn't the same.
"I'd cut my arms off to have him home."
Peggy wonders what Jonathan would have become.
"A commander, maybe," she says.
Jonathan wanted to marry and have children, said Godsey, who still works at Pizza Hut. Some of the employees there are still too emotional to talk about Jonathan. When Jonathan left for Iraq, the restaurant put up a sign that said, "Good luck Jonathan Pfender." After he died, Godsey changed it to "In loving memory of Pvt. Pfender."
The message remains on the sign. Godsey can't bring himself to change it.
Marine Lance Cpl. James E. Brown, 20, of Owensville, Ind., died Nov. 2, 2006, from a likely sniper bullet in Anbar province
James Brown lived life as if he knew he was going to die young. Fearless, full of energy and with a purpose. The oldest of three children, James became a father figure to his brother, Dillen, 15, when his parents divorced.
He liked to hunt and would disappear into the woods for hours and later emerge with a deer slumped over his shoulder. James was an athlete and competed with intensity, intimidating his opponents. He was voted the most valuable player on Gibson Southern's football team. He boxed and won two Golden Gloves championships, knocking out one of his opponents in less than 90 seconds.
At home, James "wanted to protect everybody," said his aunt, Mary Hess, 42, of Evansville. When James was 14, she briefly moved in with his family. She was having problems with her marriage.
"He looked at me and said, 'Aunt Mary, don't you ever let a man treat you wrong because you deserve better.' He was just like my little counselor. I just looked at him as a young man at that time."
Before his senior year of high school, James met a man who had a connection to the Marine Corps. "He just questioned this guy to death about the Marines," Mary said.
After that, he was sold. Mary tried to talk him out of enlisting, but James wanted to make a career out of the military. Going to Iraq would just be one step in a long path.
"I'm going, and I'm going to take care of business," Mary recalled him saying. "And that was his attitude."
James was deployed to Iraq in July 2006. He proposed to his girlfriend, Jamie Coleman, before he left. The two had known each other since the third grade, but they didn't start dating until their senior year of high school.
"He took me in his room and told me that I was his best friend and that he could never love anyone as much as he loved me," said Coleman, 20. "He told me that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. He got down on one knee and asked me to marry him."
The couple set a wedding date for March. They discussed the wedding during their last telephone conversation Oct. 31.
"He told me that he was ready to come home and that he couldn't wait for us to get married in March," Jamie said. "I told him the same. One of his friends was right next to him and asked if he was invited, and I told him yes. The conversation was so special to me because of one reason: I heard James laugh. I hadn't heard him laugh since before he left in July."
James called several other people that day and wrote letters to his mother and aunt. The notes didn't arrive until after his funeral.
The morning of Nov. 2, James climbed to the roof of an observation post near Camp Habbaniyah for three hours of guard duty, Mary said. He was joined by two other Marines who were guarding lower posts at the corners of the building. The rest of his squad was sleeping, writing letters home or performing routine chores.
A single shot rang through the air. The Marines called out to each other. One by one, they responded. James did not.
The bullet, most likely from a sniper, struck him in the back of his head, severing his spine. A Navy Corpsman rushed to the roof and attempted to revive him.
"All the guys who were with him kissed his head and told him bye," Mary said.
For the second time in less than three weeks, a group of Marines from Terre Haute left for Southern Indiana. When they reached Brown's mobile home in Owensville, his mother, Joanne Van Antwerp, wasn't there. They returned an hour later. This time, a car was in the driveway.
Tim Kosky, the Marine who escorted Barbara Babb out of the church behind her husband's casket, stepped out of the van. This time was different because Kosky was telling a mother. "To actually have to say those words that your son was killed in Iraq today ... those were probably the hardest words I've ever had to say in my life."
How does one see the cost of war and the toll death takes?
It shows in the face of a child whose dad will never watch her play soccer again. It shows when a mother can hold a Purple Heart, but not her son. It shows in the tattoo on a mother's left arm. It shows in a date on a calendar, a wedding that can never be.
Ellie