Dutch’s Scotch

The 2018 Run For The Wall is one of only two times in the past 11 years that I have not participated in the event. But due to work commitments, unfortunately I was not able to. Instead of creating new memories, I leave you with the story I wrote about the 2013 event:

Due to lack of leave days, I made the painful decision to not ride in this year's Run For The Wall pilgrimage to Washington, DC., a decision I thought I was fine with until l I was reunited with my friend, Karoni Forrester. Sitting on the sidewalk outside the Clarion Inn in Monroe that Sunday night, we discussed life, loss and love, and formulated a bond that past Runs had not allotted time for. 

We sat on that ground and laughed and cried about tales from the past; and over a bottle of Dutch's scotch, made the seemingly irrational decision that I would fly to DC to welcome the three annual RFTW formations as they arrived in our nation's capital on Friday to honor the fallen, our POWs and those service members still unaccounted for. 

Although I was very excited about the trip, I felt rather unsettled regarding the use of my remaining leave days and the unnecessary spending of money. My surprise reunion with the riders in the formation was as dramatic as Karoni and I had imagined. The surprised faces of our friends were priceless, which was something new for me, as I am not usually able to keep secrets.

The night of the formation’s arrival in DC., I made plans to visit Arlington NationalCemetery with four of the “Five Musketeers.” We planned to visit the internment sites of CPT John Tinsley and CW3 Kenneth "Casper" Jones. After taking pictures at CPT Tinsley's site and honoring his beautiful family in Section 60, we began to make our way across the cemetery to Casper's grave. 

Scanning the cemetery and taking in the thousands of sites that represent those who have made the ultimate sacrifice for our country, I noticed a few rows of new internment sites; sites so fresh that headstones had not been placed. Many were decorated with fresh flowers or beautiful wreaths, but the site that caught my attention was simply decorated with two Starbucks coffee cups. 

I found myself unexplainably drawn to the site. As the guys continued to walk toward the road, I veered to the right and headed about 25 yards in the direction of the coffee cups. I don't even know if it was a conscious decision, but I do know that something was guiding me to that grave. 

Upon arriving at the site, I immediately knelt down to read the name on the identification card, which was placed there for the pending arrival of the headstone. I read the name: Liam Anthony Flynn, date of internment 31 March 2015, date of death 10 March 2015. I immediately thought to myself, "had to be a fine Irish boy with a name like Liam Flynn." The caption across the two Starbucks cups read: "started with a cup of coffee and a smile,” "and continues with everlasting love." I knew immediately that Liam was a young man and the loss to his family had to be indescribable. 

I snapped a couple of pictures of the grave and as I made my way back to the guys, I had what Karoni would call "a significant emotional event." I literally could not breathe as I thought about Memorial Day weekend…Liam's family…and my own friends who had made the ultimate sacrifice. 

The guys attempted to console me and after what seemed like an eternity, we were finally on our way again to Casper's grave. As we walked up to the site, we were surprised to hear a voice behind us, “Did you know my dad?" We all spun around to come face-to-face with Casper's son, Jerry. After exchanges of handshakes and hugs we talked about riding with Casper, how everyone missed him and how important the Run was to him. I feel in my heart that maybe we helped to alleviate the guilt of an estranged son; a man who wished he had his dad back for just five minutes to swallow his pride and to tell him how much he loved him and understood the pain of Vietnam. “Ras” spoke up in the midst of our shock and our lack of words to explain Jerry's presence. "It's the magic of the Run," he stated matter-of-factly. 

The events at this point in the story were spiritual enough for me to realize traveling to DC was money well-spent. Little did I know, this was just the beginning of the story...a story that started with Dutch's scotch.

When I arrived back at my hotel, I made my traditional Memorial Day weekend posts on Facebook; posts honoring those I knew and those whose sacrifice and dedication to our country I needed to personally highlight. I posted my usual picture in honor of MAJ Ronald Wayne Culver, my friend and mentor. I posted in honor of Casper and CPT Tinsley...and I posted in honor of SSG Liam Anthony Flynn.

Within just a few minutes of making my post, a friend of mine commented that Liam's wife had been one of his Warrior Leader Course students and he was honored that somehow I had managed to find that site. At that point I realized how odd it was that amongst the tens-of-thousands of grave sites at ANC, that I would come across that site. If the story ended at this point, it would be magical enough. But fate had its own plan.

Shortly after responding to Joe's post, I received a private message from Destiny Flynn thanking me for the post in honor of Liam. She went on to explain that she was married to Liam and that two days after burying the love of her life, she celebrated the one-year birthday of their daughter, Leilani. How do you respond to that? The weekend quickly went from dealing with the loss of friends and fellow comrades, to realizing how deep, new, and heartbreaking this family’s loss is.

We exchanged a few messages and then I invited her to meet me on Sunday, the day of the Rolling Thunder parade through DC. She and her beautiful daughter made the 40-minute drive from her hotel to spend the day with me; an honor I cannot even properly put into words. Upon meeting her, we immediately hugged. I told her my thoughts upon visiting the grave site and my immediate perception that Liam must have been Irish. I was completely blown away when Destiny explained that Liam was actually born and reared in Ireland. He had only been in the United States for 11 years; a move made with the sole intention of becoming a U.S. Marine.

We discussed our confusion regarding how people could spend their entire lives here and not grasp how magnificent this country is. Liam knew…and he knew what it meant to be an American. He left his family and his homeland to travel to New York to fulfill his life-long dream to serve this country. He did so with honor and without regret.

I am not sure why I made the assumption that Liam was killed in Afghanistan. Over breakfast, Destiny brought up the fact that his death was so closely connected with Louisiana and that it seemed even more fated regarding my past connection to the Louisiana National Guard. I did not grasp her point until she explained that Liam was one of the seven Marine operators killed on March 10, when a Louisiana National Guard helicopter crashed off the coast of the Florida panhandle during a training mission. I listened to the story of this beautiful woman as she attempted to navigate through the stages of grief. There was only one word that kept crossing my mind...Destiny.

After Destiny, Leilani and I attempted to navigate through the DC Metro system to watch Rolling Thunder...an escapade that I should have filmed for a new comedy show...we returned to Ballston so I could introduce her and Leilani to the two ladies who would most understand what Leilani will deal with as she travels through the course of her life: Karoni and Pam Cain, two Vietnam MIA daughters who are still searching for their fathers, or at least the closure that comes along with having the final knowledge of where their daddies are…that connection was immediate. 

The four of us shared a beautiful visit; one full of laughter, anger, tears, and confusion. It was hard to watch Destiny and Leilani drive away that evening. But I hoped that Destiny left with the realization that while many people say they will be there because that is the obligatory thing to say...some people actually mean it...and she has been embraced by a strong circle of people who mean it.

On Monday prior to catching my flight home, I met Karoni in the hotel bar for a ceremonial good-bye Bloody Mary. We reflected on the events of the week. We were sad that Dutch had to pull out of the Run in Monroe, and recounted his announcement that he would not continue. We laughed about drinking all of his scotch and the fact that Karoni had to inform him that there was nothing left when he so selflessly attempted to give her the remainder of his bottle to take with her on the journey. 

I remained in shock that I ran into Jerry at ANC and hoped that in some way, we were able to make an impression on that son who does not seem to be able to cope with the guilt of the missed relationship with his father. We cried about the loss of the future that Leilani should have shared with her father...and beautiful, strong Destiny...which is where this story comes full circle. Karoni and I found our Destiny over a bottle of Dutch's scotch. 

Addendum to Dutch’s Scotch:

Shortly after returning to Louisiana, I penned this story because that is what I do: I write. I sent it to Karoni who became a blubbering basket case after reading it, and she then asked for my permission to send it to Dutch. I had absolutely no idea that the fate behind this story would once and for all be explained in the following words from Dutch:

The "Royal Salute" Scotch ……. A Celebration.

Upon arrival in Grand Prairie Saturday afternoon, I seriously considered going home to North Dallas. The idea of repacking some clean clothes and a good night’s sleep did appeal to me. After getting all the riders into Dubiski High School I continued North on George Bush Freeway. While riding home that late Saturday evening, I began to think about relaxing in my recliner and having a scotch. All the way home I thought about Chivas Regal…and wondered if I had any left in my bar. When I arrived home I immediately threw all my clothes in the washer and took a shower, all the time thinking about that scotch.

Later that night I went to my bar and discovered I had an unopened bottle of Chivas Regal …The "Royal Salute.”  I thought about how nice it would be to have a glass of"Royal Salute" in DC upon arrival. As a result of my thinking process, I filled a flask, which was quickly packed away in my saddle bag. I still cannot explain why I continued to think about scotch, especially "Royal Salute." I would not find out until I returned home. 

When I ended the run in Monroe due to my ailing knee, I was let down to say the least. I felt I had failed the mission, my fellow riders and David Earll, whose remembrance card Karoni took to the Wall for me. All I could do was donate the scotch to friends, and to one particular person whom I have grown to love very much. 

When I returned home from Monroe I did a private toast to Karoni and Angela without knowledge of the story I would read. That night I read the following tag attached to the bottle: "The Royal Salute scotch was created to celebrate life among new, lost and yet to be found friends."  I now know the reason for my bringing the "Royal Salute." 

Had I not gone home I would have never brought the scotch…my girls may not have "celebrated life" had I continued the mission. The decision for Angela to fly to DC may not have been made…and the story Angela shared may not have taken place.

"Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by those that take your breath away."