“In the middle of the night
I go walking in my sleep…”
Dateline:
It was a tiny glint.
A sparkle.
On the Bass Pro hat.
It was a tiny glint that caught my eye.
A dude who collects pins, I’ve got a B.A.S.S. pin I could give him, so I put the small digital camera away and swung up my Canon with the 300mm lens…
…and zoomed in to see what the dude pinned to his cap.
Maybe I could trade him…
And then slowly the lens turned, and kept going in and out of focus, up and down in the wakes as the dude with the pinned hat bounced in the wake of others as he came in for check-in.
I held my breath and tried to keep the camera steady as possible.
Catch.
Come on catch focus.
Catch.
And then suddenly it did…catch focus.
Crystal clear focus.
And that’s when the dude, became a hero.
And that’s when I knew that I didn’t have any pin I could trade him.
When I knew, all I could do was thank him.
Because when the lens finally caught focus I found myself staring at…
…a Purple Heart Medal.
“…through the valley of fear
to a river so deep…”
PAUSE.
Pause all of this right now, yeah that’s right, I’m bringing the flow of this story to a screeching halt.
Hate it, I don’t care.
Love it, I don’t care.
But I want you to know some stuff…be honest with you…up front.
I didn’t want to do this story. Resisted it. Searched everywhere around here that I could in the hopes another story, ANY other story would come my way.
ANY.
I mean I even thought about writing about how to catch fish…write about the fish for goodness sake, rather than about those who chase the fish.
So know that, know this bottom line…I didn’t want to write this story.
But also, know this…the why.
The why…always the why…why…why…why.
Here’s why.
My best friend in the world died in a swamp in Vietnam.
My best friend in the world died face down in the mud.
I have missed him everyday of my life for the past 40 YEARS.
Most days, I handle this fairly well, I will hear a song he used to sing, a song he would dance around the room with an air microphone pretending he was Smokey Robinson, or one of the Temptations, and I will smile.
And I will move on.
But some days, some nights I will wake up, and he will be standing there, or at other times he will be just out of my sight, but I will catch movement in the corner of my eye, and I know it is my friend.
And I will be a basket case for a bit of time. A very long time.
And I will go to my special place, huge Sennheiser Studio headphones on, music loud enough so I don’t hear any of the planet.
I will walk around listening to one song played over and over again, a song called, “Names On The Wall,” sung by Francesca Beghe…my iTunes playlist shows I have played that song 4,121 times.
And I will cry for my best friend who died in a swamp in Vietnam.
And I will bawl for the 58,261 names etched on the Vietnam Wall.
So I’m trying to avoid being a basket case for the next day or so, I have a long drive from the Central Open here in Branson to the Elite event on Lake Douglas in Dandridge, Tennessee…a long time to be alone.
You need to know before I write one word of a story, I pick the music…the music always comes first. The music always plays.
But I’m having a hard time finding music for this story, the dude with the Purple Heart told me his favorite music was, country, and I don’t have a lot of country in the library.
More reason to bag this.
Then the phone rings, and it’s the dude and he says to me, “You know I thought about what you said…and I wanted to let you know my favorite singer, someone I would listen to a lot in Iraq…my favorite singer is Billy Joel.
And as he says that…Billy Joel is playing through my headphones.
No lie.
I’m listening to Joel…the very song I quoted…as I’m searching for the country music like I thought he wanted.
And I smile, and I tear up because I know my friend, Roger, was behind that call.
I never heard Roger sing a Billy Joel tune…Billy Joel was after his time, but I know it was Roger asking me to do this story because he reached out to me in the way he always would…music.
A song…sung badly and off key…but always a song.
And for a Billy Joel song to be playing while looking for a country song, and then getting the call I got…can only be a message from my friend who died in the mud of Vietnam.
Because, and this is the hardest part for me to type. Because Roger died in the arms of a medic…his mom told me so…a medic who tried to save him.
And on the phone with me, telling me Billy Joel was his choice…is a medic.
A front line, combat medic.
A front line combat medic…who in one week was blown up 9 times.
Who in Iraq was blown up a total of 15 times.
Blown up while trying to save other people.
And his name is Chad Brekke.
So as I take this story off pause, please know I do it for the 58,261 names on the wall.
And for my best friend.
Thanks Rog, for helping me with this.
Miss ya.
Love you.
Hit PLAY!
“…I’ve been searching for something
taken out of my soul…”
Meet the man with the Purple Heart on his Bass Pro hat.
He’s 35-year-old Chad Brekke, married to Stephanie for the past 12 years, 4 children, 10-year-old Brandon, 7-year-old Maria, 4-year-old Sarah, and 3-year-old Charlie.
He served in the Army, 2/9 Calvary Alpha troop for the past 13 years, did a tour of duty in Korea, did a tour of duty in Iraq, was a Senior Line Medic…a combat medic who specialized in trauma, meaning he was in the action, was in the action trying to save people, crawling through the sand of Iraq, crawling INTO the firefight, crawling towards a wounded soldier…
…until he got blown up.
Got blown up 15 times…9 times in just one week. Blown up by the deadly hidden bombs know as I.E.D’s…Improvised Explosive Device…otherwise called a BOMB.
Listen to Stephanie tell you about her husband:
“Chad got blown up because he was giving his medics a rest…he took their turn (we are sitting at a picnic table waiting for Chad to weigh in at the Bassmaster Central Open, as she talks, her lower lip quivers)…he has Traumatic Brain Injury, he has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, his spine, it’s fused together from C-5 to C-7, his knees are messed up, his back is messed up…”
The Army has classified Chad as 100% disabled.
“We have to go all the time to Speech Therapy, Cognitive Therapy, Physical Therapy, Occupational Therapy…”
My lower lip is quivering as I write it all down.
“…but…but…I’m sorry…”
Stephanie is breaking down while trying to tell me about her husband, she is working real hard to be a military wife, real hard…but it is not the military she is talking about…not a soldier she is talking about…she is trying to tell me about the love of her life.
“…you should see the fear in his eyes when he just wakes up shaking in the middle of the night…sometimes he will just get up in the middle of the night and walk around….”
Frankly, to tell you the truth I want this to stop, she can barely take it, I can’t take it, my whole body is shaking…and it is 85 degrees out and we are in the sun…
“…he will just be like in a trance, sleep walking or something, but he will go to all the windows and check to make sure they are locked, go to all the doors to make sure they are all locked…”
This is a young man, who if you were down would work his way through live fire to get to you.
This is a young man who put you, before himself.
“…I…I…don’t want to sound ungrateful, we are all so proud of Chad and his time in the service…but…but…uhum…when he came back he was just, just, weird, he just wasn’t right…just not himself.”
I don’t know what to say.
I want to apologize, Chad went there for me, went there for you.
I want to hug her.
Mainly…I want a very stiff drink and go crawl into a corner and sob.
“…we have good days, we have bad days, you learn how to balance life, we are just trying to make it, I can’t work, have to take care of the kids, take care of Chad…it’s been tough…”
This is the message Stephanie got about her husband, “I got a text message from one of his buddies in Iraq…it said, ‘Chad is alright, he’s being evacuated, he has all his limbs.”
She never heard another thing for a week.
“…something I’d never lose
something somebody stole…”
Standing in front of me, sometimes looking me in the eye, most time not, is Staff Sergeant (ret) Chad Berrke.
I am face to face, with a hero.
Stephanie has never called him that, Chad has never said that word around me, as far as I know the Army has never called him that, a hero.
But as long as I can write.
As long as I can type.
I will call the men and women who go off to serve, to protect us, me, whether they come home injured, or not, I will call them what they are…heros.
And I don’t care what anyone else thinks about that. You have a problem with that…tough!
Here’s Chad, listen to what he has to say, listen to what he has done to himself, for us:
“It’s not so much all that has happened to me that bothers me…it’s what…it’s what (for a moment he loses his train of thought, or maybe he’s just living it all over again-that would be my bet) it’s what I saw, what I saw bothers me more than the injuries I have.”
I find it impossible to believe that the mind, the mind that creates art, that creates music, that creates love, I find it impossible to believe that the mind that does that can also see the horrors humans do to each other, and not freak out, not look at me with Staff Sergeant (ret) Chad eyes.
“…I don’t know why I go walking at night
but now I’m tired and I don’t want to walk anymore…”
And then, he stops talking, and starts to smile…he has bent down and picked up a crankbait from out of his fishing tacklebox.
“You know, fishing takes my mind off Iraq…”
And to myself I silently say, Thank You, don’t know whom I’m saying that to, but Thank You to whomever for giving the young man before me…an out.
“Fishing gives me peace. All the trauma I’ve been through, all the trauma I’ve seen…Bass fishing gives me peace…when I’m fishing I have no worries, it takes the burden off my shoulders.”
Behind him, Stephanie is smiling and crying as she listens.
“I still have issues, problems you know, have trouble at night, have trouble with little things, I can’t drive a car under an overpass yet without getting all tense inside, but, but when I get out on the lake, out on the boat, it all goes away…my friends in the Centennial Bass Club in Ft. Collins have really helped me out.”
It’s late, past 10 p.m. and Chad is going to fish in the tournament again tomorrow as a co-angler…a tournament he wants to win so his wife can keep the shoes she bought for the kids, “if he cashes a check we can keep them, if not I’ll bring them back, but we haven’t eaten much while here so that money going to the shoes help.”
On top of everything else, money is an issue. Chad wants to fish in the 3rd and final Central Open…but at this point, that is doubtful…four kids…four pairs of shoes and clothes and food and….
I want to give him my Visa card, I want to pay for the shoes myself, but in his eyes I see that you don’t do that to a man who was willing to get blown up 15 times…for other people.
If the war has taken everything from this young man, I will not take his pride.
So then, instead of giving him cash, I just grabbed him and give him a hug, and he hugs back, the hug of a medic who is used to comforting others, as he comforted me, sensing maybe that as I hugged him, that maybe I was hugging someone else too.
And I was.
A person I never got to hug goodbye.
The person who whispered to me to do this story.
And then I found out why Rog wanted me to meet this young man, and write his story, share him with the world, share all the young men and women like him with the world.
Because as I stepped back from the hug, Staff Sargeant (ret) Chad Brekke, shakily, gently reached out and held my arm for just a second, and looked into my eyes, as his eyes brightened, as his eyes glowed as he said to me…softly, but with power that I hadn’t felt from him before…
…said to me, simply this…
“If I had to do it all over again, I would do the same thing, in fact if I could, I would go back…
…go back, IN A HEARTBEAT.”
Heroes.
“…I hope it doesn’t take the rest of my life
until I find what it is I’ve been looking for.”
“The River Of Dreams”
Billy Joel
“Where’re the eyes…”
Dateline: Branson, Missouri
If we do not come to the aid of our heartland, who will it be that will come to the aid of our shores.
Who will put the food on our table.
If not for the middle of us, what will balance America.
If not for the Heart of our Land, where will rest our soul.
“…the eyes with the will to see…”
It comes in the darkness of night.
It makes the light of day dark.
It is a war, a battle between the sky, and the earth.
Wind vs soil.
Rain vs tears.
And when the sky comes for the earth, sky wins, and all those in its path become nothing more than grains of sand.
Splinters of wood left by the clouds.
Splinters of wood, all around me, here in Branson. Missouri.
But know this…Branson is OPEN.
Scarred, but open.
Bruised, but open.
The sky may take with it our splinters, but it will not, has not taken with it, our spirit.
Our spirit is stronger than the soil we stand on.
Our spirit is what holds us together, not the wood, not the concrete around us.
It is our will, not the wind, that will ultimately win.
“…where’re the hearts…”
“db, the morning after the tornado hit, one of the reporters in a news helicopter called me to say that from his vantage it looked like a colony of ants down here…”
Tammy Scholten, the director of marketing & something for the Branson Landing area, is walking through Branson Landing, the site of the final Bass Pro Shops Bassmaster Central Open weigh-in on Saturday, and pointing out various spots to me where the tornado came through and left its mark.
“…from the helicopter we looked like ants but it was the whole town who with contractors and clean up crews came together to put things back the way it was.”
Tammy is a pretty cool lady, a working stiff just trying to do her job, which right now might not be the easiest job on the planet, what with trying to market a tourist town that an EF2 Tornado touched down in almost just two months ago to the day.
“We are open db…Branson is open…we need our guests to come back, please tell them we are open.”
“…that run over with mercy…”
I sat in traffic waiting for a light to turn my way, green, sat in front of some old time five-and-dime store decked in red, decked in white, decked in blue.
I sat and watched an older lady walk down the street with string in her hand.
I sat and watched as the lady got down on her knees and gently propped up whatever flower she saw that was drooping.
I sat and watched as she wiped the dirt off the petals, sat and watched as she patted the earth, sat and watched as she struggled to get up, sat and watched as she willed her aching body to bend one more time, one more flower to be rescued.
I don’t know for sure, but I bet you money, this lady wasn’t getting paid a dime to do this.
She never looked at the people walking by her, she never looked at the traffic around her, she never asked for help, she only gave help, to the flowers…to her town.
Don’t come here because someone who markets this town wants you to come here.
Don’t come here because of some line the politicians are feeding you.
Come here for the lady of the flowers.
Come here for the folks you will see when you look in your mirror.
Working stiffs.
Come here…for the person on the breakfast grill who cooks your scrambled eggs.
Come here…for the waitress who brings the eggs to you.
For the lady who cleans your hotel room, for the guy who wraps your souvenir coffee cup in the paper so it won’t break before you get home, for the kid in the drive-through.
I’m told this is a family area, and I can see that, so bring the kids for the kid things, for the shows, but also show them something they may never forget.
Show them…America.
Show them, the Heart-Land.
“…we take care of our own…”
We, our own selves, are a nation of people who will get down on our knees to help a flower.
We are a nation not afraid of picking up a broom, picking up a hammer, if we have to duct-tape the Midwest together for now, if that’s what we need, brother pass the tape.
Don’t come here to take pictures of the rubble. Come here to get on your knees with the flower lady.
This is what happens, the sky scars the earth, we all see photos of it, we all see the Live At Five video of it so we go out and we buy jugs of water, staples, clothes and send it to the land the sky attacked.
And then, if we don’t live there, we forget.
And then, when the news people leave, we forget.
But that’s when the areas hit need us the most…they need us to COME BACK.
They need life to return to normal, and that is for us to bring.
They need business to return to normal, and that is for us to bring.
Working stiff, to working stiff.
Cruise the Caribbean some other year.
This year, cruise I-40, cruise I-80, cruise I-70…and when you see the “amber waves of grain,” stop.
Get out and buy stuff from the working stiffs like yourself.
You want to settle this balance of trade thing…buy a few bags of tomatoes from the roadside stand of a farmer who lost everything in the storm.
You want to settle this balance of trade thing…leave a big tip for the restaurant singer in Branson, leave it so she can pay the roofer to pull the blue tarp off and start putting the roofing back on her house.
You want to settle this balance of trade thing…buy roses for the old flower lady on her knees.
“…wherever this flag’s flown…”
I was here last year when the floods came, almost came for me. Saw bridges being closed, roads being closed, saw mean faces in the sky, saw the ugly skies.
I saw homes under water.
I saw businesses under water.
I met a man who told me his house, “was underwater,” I didn’t know what to say, just looked at him, touched his arm, put my pen and reporters notebook away and just asked, just said, “Sorry…is there anything I can do.”
“Nope…gotta wait until the water goes down.”
“Then what.”
“Rebuild her.”
I don’t know a person who lives in this city. Probably not even in the entire county.
But it was those two words that brought me back. To be honest, I have to cover 3 Bassmaster Opens, they can be any 3, but it was those two words that made me pick, here.
“Rebuild her.”
I came back here, because I fled here.
I came back here, to do this story.
I came back here, for the people of this town who have had to face back to back disasters, one from the water, one from the sky.
I came back here because B.A.S.S did as well, with all the lakes around, they didn’t have to come back, but back they came…twice now.
I don’t normally give a shout out to the bosses of B.A.S.S, ‘cept now, because they did the right thing.
After fleeing the floods, they came back. Even when they heard about the recent tornado strike.
“You can notice some damage around here from the tornado,” Bassmaster Opens Tournament Director Chris Bowes told me while also trying to eye if I had a charge card to pay for dinner tonight. “It is still full-service around here, places to eat, places to stay, shows to enjoy. There was never a doubt in my mind about coming back here, never a doubt.”
For an hour and a half I sat behind the B.A.S.S. registration table…and watched America come through the door.
We have 170 boats…340 anglers…and they came here from: all over Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, Arizona, Illinois, Kentucky, Colorado, Arkansas, Ohio, Washington, Nevada, Wisconsin.
One dude came from Canada.
One dude, and it stunned me, one dude came from Queensland, Australia. Carl Jocumsen, “It took me 18 hours in a plane and three hours driving.”
More than 15 hotels are being used. Several campgrounds. The Ramada alone told us they got 250 room nights, “at a real time of need.”
“…we take care of our own…”
The other day I went to breakfast at some restaurant with old taxi cabs out front…looked like a throwback to the ’50s. Went there with Elite angler Kevin Short’s wife Kerry as K-Pink was out practicing.
It was 9:15 a.m.
And inside, a lady was singing, putting on a show for the few people eating breakfast.
Off to the side was a glass vase.
The glass vase had a handwritten sign on it that said this, “The singers only get paid in tips.”
In the vase, was 3-bucks.
The lady who sang Country Western during breakfast isn’t named…Cher.
She isn’t named…Celine.
Nor is she Bette.
Her name, is Melissa.
And she sings.
She sings for tips.
She does not have a 3-dollar voice. She does not have a 3-dollar heart. If the restaurant was filled, so would be her jar.
You and me, we are the farmer selling roadside corn amongst the amber waves.
You and me, we are the flower lady who bends on stiff knees to care for daisies.
You and me, we are Melissa.
We hold the key to the 3-dollar tip jar.
Forget not the people of the storm just because the cameras leave.
Because they are us.
If not for the Heartland, there would be no coasts.
From sea to shining sea, lies our soul.
And crown thy good, for each other.
Till all success, fills the 3-buck tip jar.
For the flower lady.
For the farmer.
For the breakfast singer.
I tossed 5 bucks into the 3-dollar jar.
Not because I particularly like Country Music.
I did it because…
…this is the Heart-Land.
Every damn inch of it.
“Wherever this flag’s flown
We take care of our own.”
“We Take Care of Our Own”
Bruce Springsteen
