Home » Archives » "Father's journey to Iraq chases son's ghost"

Father's journey to Iraq chases son's ghost

Oct- 8-2007 » Filed Under: 3/2 SBCT

This is one of those must-read articles. It discusses a father's journey to fulfill the wishes of his fallen soldier-son. You can read more about SSG Darrell Griffin, who has been mentioned here many times before.

By Brent Hopkins, Press Telegram

Darrell Griffin Sr. tensed with anticipation the moment the C-130 Hercules hit the tarmac.

As the noisy turboprop cargo plane's wheels rolled along the runway of Baghdad International Airport, the September heat felt like 140 degrees. Griffin Sr. stood up, shifting under the weight of 80 pounds of body armor and a Kevlar helmet.

The 55-year-old Van Nuys accountant grabbed his bags, stepped out the door and ran for his life toward the terminal.

There could be snipers, he was told.

He knew all about snipers.

March 21, 2007, Camp Striker, Iraq

Staff Sgt. Darrell Griffin Jr. met his squadmates at 0800, grinning and upbeat. The other soldiers of Charger Company were tired and restless. They'd been in Iraq almost a year and the deployment was wearing on them.

Too many long patrols in their massive, wheeled Strykers. Too many bodies blown up by roadside bombs. Comrades shot to pieces.

They hadn't slept well or showered for days. They didn't even have food.

But Griffin Jr., all 6-foot-2, 240 pounds of him, couldn't stop smiling.

He'd been blessed in his time with 2nd Battalion, 3rd infantry regiment, Third Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 2nd Infantry. He'd been writing a book about his experience and had hundreds of pages of material.

"I feel like God's got something really big planned for me today," he said.

Two hours later, a sniper shot him through the back of the head.

March 21, 2007, Van Nuys

Darrell Griffin Sr. was visiting a client. His cell phone rang.

It was Kim, his wife. He answered and found her upset.

"Skip's been shot," she told him, using Darrell Jr.'s nickname.

"How bad is it?" he asked, hoping this was just another flesh wound requiring stitches.

His wife began to cry.

"It's fatal," she told him.

He dropped the phone and ran out of the office in tears. That night, he got a knock on his door from two men, dressed in green Army uniforms - casualty assistance officers.

His 36-year-old son's mission was over.

His own was just beginning.

[...]


Advertisements