The army had been good to SFC James C. Connell. Born in Lake City, Tennessee, he enlisted in the army in 1989 and since then had been to forty-two different states in the U.S. and thirteen different countries around the world. His son Nick once asked him why he stayed in the army.
“It’s always what I wanted to do—so no one else has to do it.”
At first after CSM Alex Jimenez gave him a platoon, Connell seemed happy to be back in the field with Delta Company and his “boys” in First Platoon. That was where he belonged, in the middle of the action where he really contributed to the American effort rather than riding out the war in a relatively safe zone behind a desk. It was his first combat leadership assignment. He remained a contradiction—a former Ranger running a rifle platoon, carrying weapons, and at the same time carrying a heart full of compassion for the Iraqi people and love for the Iraqi children.
“I have kids,” he explained. “But for the grace of God they might have been born in a place like this. The children are innocent of what happened here. We have to give them a chance at a better life.”
For some of the soldiers in First Platoon, he provided the only true father figure they had ever known. Byron Fouty sought him out frequently for advice and reassurance, as he might have from a real father. Connell was never too busy to sit down with a soldier and talk out a home problem or other concern. He was always there for them. Often, even in the middle of his sleep time, he would get up to take a hot cup of coffee or a sandwich to a Joe on roof guard or crater watch. For reasons he never explained, his friends and relatives back home had nicknamed him “Tiger.” To First Platoon, he became known as Daddy Connell.
A few weeks after he was transferred to First Platoon, an IED blew up underneath his vehicle, puncturing the floorboard and salting his leg with shrapnel. It wasn’t much of an injury. Doc Michael Morse, the platoon medic, patched him up. He recovered almost literally over a cup of coffee.
Afterwards, those closest to him detected a subtle, almost imperceptible difference in his demeanor. First off, he grew increasingly cautious, watchful, protective of his boys. The second difference was more difficult to pin down.
“Do you believe in predestination?” he once asked another platoon sergeant. “I need to go home and see my family while I have a chance.”
Captain Gilbreath approved leave for the forty-year-old. Connell caught the next Freedom Bird to Tennessee where his mother and father were looking after his two sons and daughter while he was overseas. Nick was sixteen, Bryan twelve, and Courtney fourteen.
Lake City was Norman Rockwell Middle America. Mom and Pop, apple pie, Fourth of July celebrations, baby Jesus in the Christmas manger, sitting on the front porch watching lightning bugs, chatting over the yard fence with the neighbor, strolling the sidewalks where people smiled and called out greetings. “Good to see you, Tiger.” That kind of America.
James had played Little League baseball in elementary school and first-string football for Anderson County High School before he graduated in 1984. James Senior always showed people photographs of his son in uniform.
“He’s just a real good son,” he said. “We’re all so proud of him.”
Connell’s parents still lived in the same comfortable old porched house where he grew up. He arrived home just in time for Sunday dinner after church, a family tradition attended by his parents, three brothers, one sister, and their respective broods. There was laughter and hugs, and James seemed loose and happy. He avoided most questions about the war with a terse, “It’s hard. Mostly it’s hard on my boys.”
He ran at full speed the entire time he was on leave. Catching up on old friendships, visiting and chatting with chums from high school, having dinner with relatives. Soldiers on leave were always on the go, but James seemed to bring a certain urgency to it. Someone observed that it was almost like he was trying to live an entire lifetime, make every minute count, in the couple of weeks before he returned to Iraq and The Triangle of Death. Those closest to him detected a sense of melancholy poking out through his normal cheerfulness and optimism.
He spent much of his time with Nick, Bryan, and Courtney. He wore the uniform in which he so proudly served and spoke to Bryan’s and Courtney’s classes at Lake City Middle School. The newspaper ran his picture in the paper. Father, two sons, and daughter took an all-day outing to Dollywood where they rode all the rides and stuffed themselves with hot dogs and cotton candy. Everybody took lots of snapshots. One showed him standing on a trampoline with the two younger children. In another he was sitting in uniform on a sofa with both sons.
Each of his kids was allowed to skip school for one day in order to do something special one on one with their father. Courtney wanted to go to West Town Mall to get a pedicure; father and daughter, laughing uproariously, took off their shoes together. Bryan chose Knoxville Center and a movie. Nick decided to go horseback riding in the Smoky Mountains.
James’ melancholy appeared to build as his time at home came to an end. One morning he was standing at the kitchen window drinking coffee and watching the sunrise. When he turned back around, his eyes were moist.
That afternoon while the family was sitting around laughing and talking in the living room, James got up and returned a few minutes later carrying the uniform he wore home. He presented it to his Uncle Charles.
“To remember me by,” he explained.
“You’ll be home in another few months,” he was reminded. “You’ll soon have your twenty years in. What are you going to do?”
“I’m never getting out of the army. I don’t know anything else.”
The day before he returned to Iraq, he took his brother Jeff aside for a confidential talk. He watched Bryan and Nick working on a bicycle in the front yard. He looked up at the clear bright sky. America was such a wonderful, safe place to live. No one was afraid here. Any time he felt the urge, he could jump in a car and drive down to the local convenience store for a Coke without having to worry about snipers and IEDs.
“Jeff,” he said, “some of my soldiers are not much older than Nick. They’re just kids. I don’t want Nick or Bryan to ever have to be one of them.”
“You’re their hero. They’re like you. They’re following in your footsteps.”
James nodded. He continued to watch the sky. Then he turned to his brother.
“I need you to make me a promise, Jeff. Look after my kids. I probably won’t be coming back.”