thedrifter
06-08-08, 09:27 AM
Matt's Final Tour
Marine Matt Dillon was loved by his hometown. But when an IED took his life in Iraq, the explosion shook the community and turned his friends and family members into unintended casualties of war.
By Brian Hicks
The Post and Courier
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Photo Gallery
http://www.charleston.net/photos/galleries/2008/jun/08/marine_matt_dillon/
Marine Matt Dillon
Marine Cpl. Matthew Dillon's death in Iraq in December 2006 has left his parents, friends and community trying to cope with the loss.
AIKEN — Lucy Dillon is baking cookies when the doorbell rings.
It is two weeks before Christmas in 2006, and her son Matthew and all his Marine Corps buddies want snacks for the holidays. As usual, they've turned to her.
Matt asked for the cookies and a fruitcake on one of his frequent calls home the day before. He is in Iraq serving his second tour of duty but sounds so casual he could be phoning from down the street. For some reason Lucy doesn't understand, those boys over there love fruitcake. Maybe it reminds them of home.
Lucy and her husband, Neal, hear the bell, ask each other "Who could that be?" Neal guesses it is the UPS man. Matt said he sent a Marine Corps flag for the new flagpole in the front yard and that it should arrive any day. Maybe 7:30 p.m. was late for UPS but not out of the question.
Neal is so sure the flag has come that he doesn't even look up when he opens the door, expecting to find a package from Matt on the front porch.
Instead, he sees two pairs of black patent leather shoes. Two Marines stand at attention on his stoop.
Neal is a veteran, all his boys have served, and he knows what this means. Before the soldiers can speak, Neal quietly asks, "Is my boy dead?"
Before the sergeants can finish — "We regret to inform you ..." — Neal Dillon's knees buckle and he falls. The Marines can do nothing but catch him.
This is how the story ends for war casualties, but for the survivors, this is how it begins.
On Dec. 11, 2006, Cpl. Matthew Dillon was killed by an IED, an explosion that reverberated halfway around the world until a doorbell rang on a quiet street in a small town. And then, the collateral damage began.
Like every other American killed in Iraq, Matt left behind hundreds of friends and family members who now have to deal with his death every day. His parents had bought a new house with a room for him; his brother dreamed they would go into business together; a friend had rescheduled his wedding so Matt could be his best man.
"There are 4,000 people like Matt," friend Derrick Turner says, "and it affects all those people around them just like us."
For these people, the price of freedom isn't a philosophical discussion — it is the reality of war.
Souvenirs of war
Neal and Lucy Dillon remember every detail.
Every call Matt made to them, every award he won, every random act of kindness. Their lives have changed immeasurably in 18 months. Matt was their life, and now they live to keep his memory alive.
Matt is a constant presence in their house. A curio cabinet holds his medals, dog tags and combat boots; a painting of him done by a man in Columbia hangs in the spare bedroom. In the hallway, Civil War sketches of Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson and James Longstreet face a wall of family photos dominated by Matt's image. His dress uniform hangs in a shadow box over the couch, always looming, always the center of attention.
Friends say Matt's death remains an open wound for Neal and Lucy, one they fear will never heal. While some people try to move on, push the sadness deep into themselves, the Dillons instead talk about their son easily. Their greatest fear is that people will forget him.
His story begins like so many others.
In 2001, Matt was 20, attending a local college, hanging out with his friends. He was a smart guy, friends say, and even if he wasn't the most serious student, he loved learning new things. He was young, having fun, like most people his age. Then two planes hit the World Trade Center.
"He was quite affected by 9/11," Neal says. "He said, 'Dad, we can't let this stand.' "
Within months, Matt had joined the National Guard, following a long military tradition in his family. His father was Air Force, his oldest brother Army, his other brother a Marine. It had become a family joke, the combat-soldier boys laughing at an old photo of Neal in uniform, calling him a "bus driver."
By all accounts, Matt was an excellent soldier — conscientious, not a hot dog, although he still liked to play and joke around. The military took notice, awarding him Battalion Soldier of the Year over 500 other soldiers.
Soon after the war began, Matt found himself touring the most deadly neighborhoods in Iraq — the Fallujah-Ramadi area. He realized how dangerous it was, knew that many people didn't want him there. It affected him enough that he sent his last wishes in one of his many letters home, just in case.
"I only ask for three things," he wrote. "I would like to have: a proper military burial, the bagpipe version of 'Amazing Grace' played, and Rudyard Kipling's 'If' read."
The closing line still brings tears to the eyes of his parents: "I love both of you with all my heart and I would like to thank you for everything y'all have ever done. I could not have asked for a better childhood or better parents."
Three months later, Matt's patrol was hit by an improvised explosive device.
The shrapnel ripped into Matt's arms and hand, and the doctors couldn't get it all out. If they operated on his hand, there was a chance it would be paralyzed. He could have gone home then but chose to finish out his tour with his unit. He was awarded the Military Order of the Purple Heart.
There is a photograph in the Dillons' hallway, Matt and his brother Robert posing with late-night talk show host David Letterman in Iraq. That was Christmas 2003, Lucy says, getting misty-eyed once again.
"They both said it was the best holiday they'd ever had," she says, "because they spent it together."
Back home, doctors offered Matt the same diagnosis: it was too dangerous to take out the shrapnel.
"He said, 'I guess I'll always have a little Iraqi in me,' " Neal recalls.
'The right reasons'
The Veterans Affairs center is a gray brick building within a few blocks of Matt's old high school, the shop where he worked, the church he attended. There is no permanent sign out front yet, but when there is, it will read: The Matthew V. Dillon Department of Veteran Affairs Outpatient Clinic.
It is one of many honors Matt has received in the past year, along with scholarships and even a Marine Corps leadership award named for him. There is little chance anyone will forget Neal and Lucy's son.
In a town where American flags hang from traffic signal posts, Matt's photo is everywhere, in restaurants and shops. People who knew him, and some who didn't, wear metal bracelets with his name etched on them. Many of these things mark the places where Matt spent his final days in Aiken.
After he returned from Iraq in 2004, he got a job at Aiken Motorcycle, went back to school, went on with his life. Those were days filled with cookouts, new friends and old. Matt was the kind of guy, friends say, who could fit in at a country bar or a hip-hop club. His singing was so good, some folks thought he could be the next American Idol.
"He was one of those guys you couldn't help but like," recalls Mike Enloe, a friend of Matt's. "He was one of the most alive people I have ever known."
But Matt was restless. Life in Aiken did not seem as important with a war going on. Chad Kimbrell, his friend and supervisor at the motorcycle shop, still remembers the mid-morning phone calls.
"Boss man Chad, can I bring you some lunch?"
That was Matt's way of letting him know that he'd be late.
At the motorcycle shop, Matt quietly sold accessories. He never bragged, rarely spoke of his military service and only interjected his political views when he heard someone say something that he interpreted as anti-war. Matt felt a need to convince people how serious these times were.
"We didn't agree on anything politically," Enloe says. "Everybody would dive for cover when we talked politics."
It wasn't long before Matt began to think about going back. He had tried to get involved in other ways — standing in front of precincts on election days, holding signs, reminding people to vote — but it was not enough. When he told Turner he'd decided to go back into the military, his friend asked if he was sure that was right.
"I'm doing what I'm supposed to do," Matt told Turner. "I have to rely on my commander in chief that he has made the right decision."
Matt could have gone into the Army and avoided basic training, kept his rank. But he wanted to be a Marine. After he reported to Parris Island — probably the only recruit there with a Purple Heart — he fell back into his model soldier role. One night, he was caught training some guys who were having a hard time with basics.
Even in the Marines, Matt kept in touch with his friends, assured them he was doing the right thing. In an e-mail to Enloe, Matt warned him not to read below a certain line if he didn't want to hear his opinion.
"He said he would rather be doing that there than standing in front of my store checking cars for bombs," Enloe recalls. "He was doing it for the right reasons."
Enloe was writing Matt an e-mail when he heard that he'd been killed.
His death was a shock to Aiken. Everyone knew Matt because of Lucy, who used to go around town collecting treats and other necessities for soldiers. If Lucy came into your store, Enloe laughs, she was going to get something.
Turner remembers going into a bank one day wearing a bracelet with Matt's name on it. The teller asked, "You knew Matt Dillon?"
Today, Matt's friends display their grief publicly. At Enloe's shop, a gourmet cooking utensils store called Plum Pudding, a poster with Matt's picture declares "We will never forget." At the motorcycle shop, a framed photo of Matt hangs on the wall.
"We've got a new guy here named Matt," Kimbrell says. "When somebody calls his name, I still get chills."
Circle of friends
The flag on the wall at Charlie's Barbershop once flew in Iraq, a gift from the military in thanks for free haircuts given to active-duty soldiers.
The men who work in this patriotic shop on the edge of town, and many of those waiting for their turn in the chair, knew Matt well. Donald Hanson, in fact, served in Matt's National Guard unit and was there the day Matt was wounded.
"He seemed more worried about his gun than his hand," Hanson recalls. "He said, 'I just cleaned that weapon this morning, and now I've got dirt all over it.' He just had this great attitude."
Lewis Duncan had been friends with Matt since they were kids and says there isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't hear a Matt story. This day, they talk about the funeral, how people stopped their cars, got out and saluted as the motorcade passed. Even the kids stopped playing.
The plane carrying Matt's casket, accompanied by his brothers, was running behind. When it landed it Columbia, it appeared they would miss the wake. But Lexington County deputies gave them an escort all the way to the Aiken line. They were only five minutes late.
It was tough that day. Matt's friends had heard there would be a protest at his grave by members of a Kansas City church who believe God is punishing the U.S. military for admitting homosexuals. Matt's National Guard friends alerted the Georgia Highway Patrol, which stopped the church van for a routine inspection that somehow lasted hours.
Just to be sure, Matt's friends stood in a wide circle around the grave to protect his family. They've never broken formation.
"Neal and Lucy have a lot of people here who will do anything for them," Duncan says. "All they have to do is call."
Duncan is one of Matt's most vocal supporters, commends his decision to go back, scoffs at the notion the war should be abandoned.
"I still believe we should stay until the job is done," Duncan says. "If you leave before all is said and done, I believe those guys have died in vain."
Neal and Lucy have heard enough anti-war sentiments that they eventually put their response on Matt's memorial Web site. Neal says his son didn't die for a "just cause," he died "just because."
"Just because he loved his country and wanted to serve it; just because he loved his family enough to want to protect them; just because he loved his friends enough that he would rather fight a war there than here; just because he believed in our order of government whereby the civilian authority rules and the military obeys."
Care packages
Neal says, "Hi son, we've brought some visitors," and Lucy kisses her hand and touches Matt's name on the headstone.
They are at Sunset Memorial Gardens in Graniteville, where their son is buried and their headstones already are laid, one on either side of Matt. They come here two or three times a week. On Sundays, they bring chicken and dumplings — his favorite — and have dinner with him.
"For a long time, we came every day," Neal says.
Here, they remember.
After they spoke to Matt on Dec. 10, 2006, he left on patrol. He had just won Marine of the Quarter and was scheduled for a few days of rest and relaxation. He put it off because his unit was short-handed.
It was an exciting time for Matt. He'd just been named to President Bush's security detail and was scheduled to report to Washington in March. Although he had a girlfriend in Washington, Matt told his mother the best part was that he'd be just eight hours from home.
That night, an IED hit his Humvee. Matt was in the turret and took the worst of it. Two other men died, the rest were wounded. It all happened so fast, they probably never knew what hit them.
Since then, Matt's grave has become the final stop on a pilgrimage for dozens of Marines and all Matt's friends. His brother Michael flies in from California to sit in the cemetery all night. Friends drink beer at the grave, occasionally pouring one onto the ground for Matt.
The headstone now is piled high with medals, buttons and notes from friends. Someone left a key, but no one knows what it unlocks. It is enough, Neal says, that it means something to someone.
A few of Matt's friends are still too grief-stricken to talk about him, but others have adopted Neal and Lucy as surrogate parents. Neal says Marines don't just look out for each other, they look out for their families. Lucy manages a chuckle when she says, "I feel like I've gained 15 sons."
This is their life now. They keep going, manage as best they can. If every war death touches this many people, there are a lot of people hurting in this country.
Neal and Lucy Dillon return home late in the afternoon. In the front hall, there is a stack of Priority Mail packages, addressed and ready to ship overseas. Her last package to Matt was returned after he died, but Lucy still sends treats for the others.
It is something they do now, Neal says, "just because."
Ellie
Marine Matt Dillon was loved by his hometown. But when an IED took his life in Iraq, the explosion shook the community and turned his friends and family members into unintended casualties of war.
By Brian Hicks
The Post and Courier
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Photo Gallery
http://www.charleston.net/photos/galleries/2008/jun/08/marine_matt_dillon/
Marine Matt Dillon
Marine Cpl. Matthew Dillon's death in Iraq in December 2006 has left his parents, friends and community trying to cope with the loss.
AIKEN — Lucy Dillon is baking cookies when the doorbell rings.
It is two weeks before Christmas in 2006, and her son Matthew and all his Marine Corps buddies want snacks for the holidays. As usual, they've turned to her.
Matt asked for the cookies and a fruitcake on one of his frequent calls home the day before. He is in Iraq serving his second tour of duty but sounds so casual he could be phoning from down the street. For some reason Lucy doesn't understand, those boys over there love fruitcake. Maybe it reminds them of home.
Lucy and her husband, Neal, hear the bell, ask each other "Who could that be?" Neal guesses it is the UPS man. Matt said he sent a Marine Corps flag for the new flagpole in the front yard and that it should arrive any day. Maybe 7:30 p.m. was late for UPS but not out of the question.
Neal is so sure the flag has come that he doesn't even look up when he opens the door, expecting to find a package from Matt on the front porch.
Instead, he sees two pairs of black patent leather shoes. Two Marines stand at attention on his stoop.
Neal is a veteran, all his boys have served, and he knows what this means. Before the soldiers can speak, Neal quietly asks, "Is my boy dead?"
Before the sergeants can finish — "We regret to inform you ..." — Neal Dillon's knees buckle and he falls. The Marines can do nothing but catch him.
This is how the story ends for war casualties, but for the survivors, this is how it begins.
On Dec. 11, 2006, Cpl. Matthew Dillon was killed by an IED, an explosion that reverberated halfway around the world until a doorbell rang on a quiet street in a small town. And then, the collateral damage began.
Like every other American killed in Iraq, Matt left behind hundreds of friends and family members who now have to deal with his death every day. His parents had bought a new house with a room for him; his brother dreamed they would go into business together; a friend had rescheduled his wedding so Matt could be his best man.
"There are 4,000 people like Matt," friend Derrick Turner says, "and it affects all those people around them just like us."
For these people, the price of freedom isn't a philosophical discussion — it is the reality of war.
Souvenirs of war
Neal and Lucy Dillon remember every detail.
Every call Matt made to them, every award he won, every random act of kindness. Their lives have changed immeasurably in 18 months. Matt was their life, and now they live to keep his memory alive.
Matt is a constant presence in their house. A curio cabinet holds his medals, dog tags and combat boots; a painting of him done by a man in Columbia hangs in the spare bedroom. In the hallway, Civil War sketches of Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson and James Longstreet face a wall of family photos dominated by Matt's image. His dress uniform hangs in a shadow box over the couch, always looming, always the center of attention.
Friends say Matt's death remains an open wound for Neal and Lucy, one they fear will never heal. While some people try to move on, push the sadness deep into themselves, the Dillons instead talk about their son easily. Their greatest fear is that people will forget him.
His story begins like so many others.
In 2001, Matt was 20, attending a local college, hanging out with his friends. He was a smart guy, friends say, and even if he wasn't the most serious student, he loved learning new things. He was young, having fun, like most people his age. Then two planes hit the World Trade Center.
"He was quite affected by 9/11," Neal says. "He said, 'Dad, we can't let this stand.' "
Within months, Matt had joined the National Guard, following a long military tradition in his family. His father was Air Force, his oldest brother Army, his other brother a Marine. It had become a family joke, the combat-soldier boys laughing at an old photo of Neal in uniform, calling him a "bus driver."
By all accounts, Matt was an excellent soldier — conscientious, not a hot dog, although he still liked to play and joke around. The military took notice, awarding him Battalion Soldier of the Year over 500 other soldiers.
Soon after the war began, Matt found himself touring the most deadly neighborhoods in Iraq — the Fallujah-Ramadi area. He realized how dangerous it was, knew that many people didn't want him there. It affected him enough that he sent his last wishes in one of his many letters home, just in case.
"I only ask for three things," he wrote. "I would like to have: a proper military burial, the bagpipe version of 'Amazing Grace' played, and Rudyard Kipling's 'If' read."
The closing line still brings tears to the eyes of his parents: "I love both of you with all my heart and I would like to thank you for everything y'all have ever done. I could not have asked for a better childhood or better parents."
Three months later, Matt's patrol was hit by an improvised explosive device.
The shrapnel ripped into Matt's arms and hand, and the doctors couldn't get it all out. If they operated on his hand, there was a chance it would be paralyzed. He could have gone home then but chose to finish out his tour with his unit. He was awarded the Military Order of the Purple Heart.
There is a photograph in the Dillons' hallway, Matt and his brother Robert posing with late-night talk show host David Letterman in Iraq. That was Christmas 2003, Lucy says, getting misty-eyed once again.
"They both said it was the best holiday they'd ever had," she says, "because they spent it together."
Back home, doctors offered Matt the same diagnosis: it was too dangerous to take out the shrapnel.
"He said, 'I guess I'll always have a little Iraqi in me,' " Neal recalls.
'The right reasons'
The Veterans Affairs center is a gray brick building within a few blocks of Matt's old high school, the shop where he worked, the church he attended. There is no permanent sign out front yet, but when there is, it will read: The Matthew V. Dillon Department of Veteran Affairs Outpatient Clinic.
It is one of many honors Matt has received in the past year, along with scholarships and even a Marine Corps leadership award named for him. There is little chance anyone will forget Neal and Lucy's son.
In a town where American flags hang from traffic signal posts, Matt's photo is everywhere, in restaurants and shops. People who knew him, and some who didn't, wear metal bracelets with his name etched on them. Many of these things mark the places where Matt spent his final days in Aiken.
After he returned from Iraq in 2004, he got a job at Aiken Motorcycle, went back to school, went on with his life. Those were days filled with cookouts, new friends and old. Matt was the kind of guy, friends say, who could fit in at a country bar or a hip-hop club. His singing was so good, some folks thought he could be the next American Idol.
"He was one of those guys you couldn't help but like," recalls Mike Enloe, a friend of Matt's. "He was one of the most alive people I have ever known."
But Matt was restless. Life in Aiken did not seem as important with a war going on. Chad Kimbrell, his friend and supervisor at the motorcycle shop, still remembers the mid-morning phone calls.
"Boss man Chad, can I bring you some lunch?"
That was Matt's way of letting him know that he'd be late.
At the motorcycle shop, Matt quietly sold accessories. He never bragged, rarely spoke of his military service and only interjected his political views when he heard someone say something that he interpreted as anti-war. Matt felt a need to convince people how serious these times were.
"We didn't agree on anything politically," Enloe says. "Everybody would dive for cover when we talked politics."
It wasn't long before Matt began to think about going back. He had tried to get involved in other ways — standing in front of precincts on election days, holding signs, reminding people to vote — but it was not enough. When he told Turner he'd decided to go back into the military, his friend asked if he was sure that was right.
"I'm doing what I'm supposed to do," Matt told Turner. "I have to rely on my commander in chief that he has made the right decision."
Matt could have gone into the Army and avoided basic training, kept his rank. But he wanted to be a Marine. After he reported to Parris Island — probably the only recruit there with a Purple Heart — he fell back into his model soldier role. One night, he was caught training some guys who were having a hard time with basics.
Even in the Marines, Matt kept in touch with his friends, assured them he was doing the right thing. In an e-mail to Enloe, Matt warned him not to read below a certain line if he didn't want to hear his opinion.
"He said he would rather be doing that there than standing in front of my store checking cars for bombs," Enloe recalls. "He was doing it for the right reasons."
Enloe was writing Matt an e-mail when he heard that he'd been killed.
His death was a shock to Aiken. Everyone knew Matt because of Lucy, who used to go around town collecting treats and other necessities for soldiers. If Lucy came into your store, Enloe laughs, she was going to get something.
Turner remembers going into a bank one day wearing a bracelet with Matt's name on it. The teller asked, "You knew Matt Dillon?"
Today, Matt's friends display their grief publicly. At Enloe's shop, a gourmet cooking utensils store called Plum Pudding, a poster with Matt's picture declares "We will never forget." At the motorcycle shop, a framed photo of Matt hangs on the wall.
"We've got a new guy here named Matt," Kimbrell says. "When somebody calls his name, I still get chills."
Circle of friends
The flag on the wall at Charlie's Barbershop once flew in Iraq, a gift from the military in thanks for free haircuts given to active-duty soldiers.
The men who work in this patriotic shop on the edge of town, and many of those waiting for their turn in the chair, knew Matt well. Donald Hanson, in fact, served in Matt's National Guard unit and was there the day Matt was wounded.
"He seemed more worried about his gun than his hand," Hanson recalls. "He said, 'I just cleaned that weapon this morning, and now I've got dirt all over it.' He just had this great attitude."
Lewis Duncan had been friends with Matt since they were kids and says there isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't hear a Matt story. This day, they talk about the funeral, how people stopped their cars, got out and saluted as the motorcade passed. Even the kids stopped playing.
The plane carrying Matt's casket, accompanied by his brothers, was running behind. When it landed it Columbia, it appeared they would miss the wake. But Lexington County deputies gave them an escort all the way to the Aiken line. They were only five minutes late.
It was tough that day. Matt's friends had heard there would be a protest at his grave by members of a Kansas City church who believe God is punishing the U.S. military for admitting homosexuals. Matt's National Guard friends alerted the Georgia Highway Patrol, which stopped the church van for a routine inspection that somehow lasted hours.
Just to be sure, Matt's friends stood in a wide circle around the grave to protect his family. They've never broken formation.
"Neal and Lucy have a lot of people here who will do anything for them," Duncan says. "All they have to do is call."
Duncan is one of Matt's most vocal supporters, commends his decision to go back, scoffs at the notion the war should be abandoned.
"I still believe we should stay until the job is done," Duncan says. "If you leave before all is said and done, I believe those guys have died in vain."
Neal and Lucy have heard enough anti-war sentiments that they eventually put their response on Matt's memorial Web site. Neal says his son didn't die for a "just cause," he died "just because."
"Just because he loved his country and wanted to serve it; just because he loved his family enough to want to protect them; just because he loved his friends enough that he would rather fight a war there than here; just because he believed in our order of government whereby the civilian authority rules and the military obeys."
Care packages
Neal says, "Hi son, we've brought some visitors," and Lucy kisses her hand and touches Matt's name on the headstone.
They are at Sunset Memorial Gardens in Graniteville, where their son is buried and their headstones already are laid, one on either side of Matt. They come here two or three times a week. On Sundays, they bring chicken and dumplings — his favorite — and have dinner with him.
"For a long time, we came every day," Neal says.
Here, they remember.
After they spoke to Matt on Dec. 10, 2006, he left on patrol. He had just won Marine of the Quarter and was scheduled for a few days of rest and relaxation. He put it off because his unit was short-handed.
It was an exciting time for Matt. He'd just been named to President Bush's security detail and was scheduled to report to Washington in March. Although he had a girlfriend in Washington, Matt told his mother the best part was that he'd be just eight hours from home.
That night, an IED hit his Humvee. Matt was in the turret and took the worst of it. Two other men died, the rest were wounded. It all happened so fast, they probably never knew what hit them.
Since then, Matt's grave has become the final stop on a pilgrimage for dozens of Marines and all Matt's friends. His brother Michael flies in from California to sit in the cemetery all night. Friends drink beer at the grave, occasionally pouring one onto the ground for Matt.
The headstone now is piled high with medals, buttons and notes from friends. Someone left a key, but no one knows what it unlocks. It is enough, Neal says, that it means something to someone.
A few of Matt's friends are still too grief-stricken to talk about him, but others have adopted Neal and Lucy as surrogate parents. Neal says Marines don't just look out for each other, they look out for their families. Lucy manages a chuckle when she says, "I feel like I've gained 15 sons."
This is their life now. They keep going, manage as best they can. If every war death touches this many people, there are a lot of people hurting in this country.
Neal and Lucy Dillon return home late in the afternoon. In the front hall, there is a stack of Priority Mail packages, addressed and ready to ship overseas. Her last package to Matt was returned after he died, but Lucy still sends treats for the others.
It is something they do now, Neal says, "just because."
Ellie