GySgt. Curtis Sullivan, 11th Company senior enlisted adviser, paused in the doorway to Room 7345, clipboard in hand. The room’s occupants, plebes Kurt “Nick” Fredland, Daniel “Gunny” Floyd, and Andrew Jacob Torres, stood at parade rest.
Gunny Sullivan’s official assignment was to counsel and advise the plebes of 11th Company and to prepare them morally, mentally, and physically to become professional officers, preferably in the United States Marine Corps. He was well-acquainted with Fredland, Floyd, and Torres. The three roommates were bright, physically fit, and a constant challenge to their higher-ranking upperclassman detailers. Torres, in particular, was viewed as a bit of a troublemaker. Barely 5 feet 7 inches, Torres had been the smallest player on his high school football team, didn’t mind getting yelled at, and wrote home that he was having “an outstanding time at plebe summer.”
On this hot August day, Gunny Sullivan began the room inspection with a visual assessment to ascertain the material and sanitary condition of the room, which was poor. The inspection took a sudden turn for the worse when he saw a silver-framed photograph. The gunny glared at Torres and pulled out a contraband identification form. When he picked up the offending object for closer inspection, he noticed the genetically familiar swagger of another Marine from thirty-two years ago. It was Andrew’s father, a young captain, standing a security detachment on the deck of USS Galveston, wearing Dress Blue “C”—blue trousers with a red “blood” stripe down the leg and a khaki long-sleeve button-up shirt. Gunny Sullivan squinted at the photo. The three rows of war ribbons were barely visible, but he noted a Bronze Star, jump wings, and a Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. Sullivan sighed, put down the photo and tore up his paperwork. The photo would not be removed.
For the next four years, Fredland, Floyd, and Torres never failed a room inspection, though rumor has it that they never truly passed one either. Their decor and amenities expanded to eventually include a working air conditioner, a toaster oven, and a refrigerator, which was never confiscated despite sitting in plain view under Andrew’s desk, barely covered by the original cardboard box. Torres thoroughly believed in honesty and was committed to the Naval Academy’s Honor Concept, but minor rules were meant to be broken. When a plebe detailer asked, “What is in that box under your desk?” he answered respectfully and truthfully. “Sir, that is a refrigerator, Sir.”
Floyd explains, “It wasn’t just that Andrew had charmed Gunny Sullivan. A few years later, when the gunny left, CPO Sanders stepped right in line with the program, although he did make us get rid of the toaster oven. He said that it was a fire hazard.”
Under Torres’s dubious leadership, the room became a safe haven for other midshipmen. “Living with Andrew was like living in a commune,” recalls Fredland. During plebe summer, the roommates began to share their clothes. All the clean clothing was stuffed into two laundry bags; all the dirty laundry was placed in a third. Problem solved—no more folding t-shirts. Nothing fit, but so what?
There was a “quarter jar” in the room. “If you need money for a soda, take some quarters. If you have change, put it in the jar,” directed Torres. There were video games (from Floyd), a string of Christmas lights in the shape of red chili peppers (courtesy Torres), and a poster of John Belushi (Fredland’s contribution but worshipped by all).
With his communal “share and share alike” outlook, Torres didn’t realize that others might feel differently. Floyd remembers that anyone could come into the room, upset with one of the other three roommates, but after a short conversation with Andrew would leave on good terms. Since Torres was so giving with his friends, and everyone was his friend, what he had was theirs, and to some of their annoyance, sometimes what they had was his. Andrew wrote to his parents, “People from outside California are weird.” Survival required a philosophy of “one day at a time,” or as Torres put it, “some days you gotta live chili dog to chili dog.”
As luck would have it, Torres found the perfect sponsor family. Capt. Rick Stevens, a JAG officer, and Connie, his wife, decided, sight unseen, to become Andrew’s sponsor family after noting an interest in “cooking” on his sponsorship application. The Stevenses were accomplished home chefs. Whenever they offered to let Andrew cook, he would decline. Perplexed, Captain Stevens said, “But your application said that you like cooking.” Andrew replied, typically, “I said that I liked cooking because I like to eat.” Soon, the Stevenses were cooking for Andrew’s classmates and friends.
Classmates describe an event during the 1999 Army-Navy game in Philadelphia during Andrew’s “youngster” (sophomore) year. The story is told and retold, even by those who were not present. According to legend, Fredland, Floyd, and Torres had arrived separately at the Wyndham Franklin Plaza Hotel the day before the game. When he unpacked, Andrew realized he had forgotten an important component of his parade uniform—the shoes. All he had were Nikes.
“Didn’t you bring my shoes?” he asked Fredland.
“No,” said Fredland. “Why didn’t you pack them?”
“I thought you would bring them,” exclaimed Torres. “Did you bring any shoes?”
Nick Fredland handed over his one extra pair of civilian shoes—size ten, brown Timberland dress loafers. Andrew wore a size nine. “Apparently Andrew thought my brown loafers were more uniform-like than whatever pair of sneakers he had brought with him” recalls Fredland.
The next morning, exhausted after a raucous evening in Philadelphia, Torres and Jay Consalvi boarded the subway from downtown Philadelphia to Veteran’s Stadium. They were dressed in Service Dress Blues, complete with overcoats, scarves, and covers, with one difference: Consalvi strode purposefully in the regulation black Corfams, while Torres slid along in Fredland’s oversized, brown loafers. “It’ll work out,” Andrew told Consalvi.
Inside the subway car, Andrew spied a white-haired alumni. A true fan, the gentleman was dressed in a USNA jacket, a “Bill the Goat” scarf, dark slacks, and government-issued black Corfams, a relic from his days in service. Problem solved! Torres approached the gentleman. “Sir, I forgot my shoes. May I please borrow yours for the march on?” Of course, the gentleman agreed to the swap. Torres exchanged Fredland’s loafers for the gentleman’s size eight Corfams, wrote down the man’s seat number, and arranged to switch shoes again during halftime. Trusting and trustworthy, likeable and charming, Andrew’s defining characteristics avoided bringing the dishonor to the Academy’s good name (and demerits to his record) that a march on without Corfams would have caused.
In the summer of 2001, just before his senior year, Torres signed up for a four-week training course called Leatherneck, held at Marine Corps Base Quantico. The course is required of all midshipmen who wish to be commissioned into the Marine Corps. Andrew made a point of calling home every night at midnight. He would ask for his father so that he could complain: It was hot. Why did he have to iron his uniform? There was nothing to do at night. After several weeks of such calls, his mother told him, “Well, at least you gave it a try. You don’t have to be a Marine.” Andrew immediately shot back, “What do you mean, not be a Marine!? Of course I want to be a Marine!” Later that summer, instead of returning home, he volunteered as a research intern at the USMC Historical Museum, then housed near the Navy Yard in Washington, D.C. In his spare time, Torres located his father’s declassified Force Recon patrol reports.
From early childhood, Andrew Torres had wanted to be a Marine, like his father. “If I don’t get into the Naval Academy,” he said, “I want to enlist.” In addition to his father, his great uncle had fought on Iwo Jima. Andrew grew up surrounded by heroes, including a little league coach who battled rheumatoid arthritis, who faced adversity but never complained.
Even after September 11, 2001, with war looming and uncertainty on the horizon, Andrew didn’t falter in his desire to be a Marine officer. A high school friend asked, “Why do you want to be a Marine in wartime?” Andrew replied, “I think I can do some good, take care of my Marines, keep them safe” In January 2002, Torres got one step closer to his dream when he received a service selection from the Marine Corps.
A few weeks later, Torres confronted a danger different from war. Up to that point, his medical record at Hospital Point, where the midshipmen received medical care, had just two entries: a sore shoulder from a field ball game and a sore throat. He appeared to be strong, athletic, and healthy as a horse. On January 30, 2002, however, Torres was diagnosed with cancer. There were no symptoms other than some recent weight loss. He had no known risk factors. The cancer, a form of liver cancer called hepatocellular carcinoma, is generally fatal. The odds of developing this type of cancer are one in three million.
On February 14, Torres underwent extensive surgery at the National Naval Medical Center, in Bethesda, Maryland. The operation, which lasted five hours, included a liver resection. Before the surgery, the doctors told Andrew that there was a one in three chance that he would die on the operating table and a one in four chance of dying during the first week of recovery. The day after the surgery, Col. John Allen, USMC, the Naval Academy commandant (later promoted to four-star general), made a hospital call. Torres, lying in a bed in the ICU, was in great pain, attached to dozens of tubes and monitors. When Colonel Allen entered the room, Andrew seemed to stretch out, as if standing at attention.
Their visit was private. When the commandant came out of the room, he approached Anita and Len Torres and said, “I asked your son if he needed anything. He asked for only one thing. He said that the two of you have been staying here around the clock. He asked me to make sure that you leave the hospital and go to dinner.” Colonel Allen then turned to Len Torres and said, “Captain Torres, your son is very brave. I look forward to welcoming him into the Marine Corps.”
A few weeks later, Andrew returned to the Naval Academy. The Stevenses opened their home to Andrew and his family and loaned them a car. The first night, a bed had been made up for Andrew in a nook on the ground floor, but he gritted his teeth and walked up the stairs to one of the guest rooms. As the weeks went by, Andrew grew listless and unable to walk long distances. There were complications from the surgery. Captain Stevens sat him down and asked, “Do you want to graduate with your class?” Andrew thought a while, and then said that he did. “You have to study,” advised Stevens. “You need to call your professors.” Stevens had a heart-to-heart with Andrew’s parents, who reluctantly returned to California.
Andrew called his professors, who gladly agreed to help. Four days a week, different professors would come to the Stevens’s house to tutor Andrew. On some days, Andrew read and wrote papers, and on others, he went to Bethesda for tests and treatment. “I’m not sure he can do it,” said one of the professors. “He can do it” insisted Captain Stevens. At the end of the semester, Andrew passed every one of his final exams.
Dan Floyd remembers, “One thing that was remarkable about Andrew was how he was able to graduate alongside of us. He was really tired and he couldn’t eat much food. He lost a lot of weight. Throughout this, he kept his studies on track and ended up graduating from the Naval Academy. I don’t know how many people would have been able to do that.”
The night before commissioning and graduation, Torres returned with Fredland and Floyd to sleep in Bancroft Hall for the first time since his diagnosis in January and for their last night as midshipmen.
As a young second lieutenant, Torres’s first assignment was at the Senior Marine’s Office at the Academy. By July 2002, the cancer had returned. During the next twenty-one months, Andrew participated in three separate clinical trials for the cancer, at MD Anderson, in Houston; Stanford Medical Center, in Palo Alto; and USC Norris, in Los Angeles. Regardless, Torres developed a routine. “Stashed” at the Naval Academy, he threw himself into his work. In his spare time he coached a soccer team of four-year-olds, all children of service members stationed at the USNA.
Classmate Ryan O’Connell remembers, “Andrew never said anything about the battle he was fighting. Our conversations were always about his life that he was living (seemingly to spite cancer) and never centered on his cancer or pain.” The tumors would disappear for a while, but then return. There were more surgeries, more treatments, and new side effects. In December 2003, a gunnery sergeant told him, “Sir, you need to get your house in order.” As things got worse, a high school friend asked Andrew, “If you knew it would turn out this way, would you still have gone to the Academy?”
“Yes,” Andrew said, “for the friendships.”
In his final hours, Torres said his goodbyes. He told the people he loved that he indeed loved them. Nothing was left unsaid. Andrew’s courageous battle with cancer ended on April 3, 2004, at USC Norris. His parents, Leonard and Anita, his sister, Rachel, and his girlfriend, Ana Ortiz (USNA ’03), then a Navy ensign, were at his bedside. Dozens of his friends were outside, sitting vigil. At Torres’s funeral, Rabbi Gilbert Kollin, a retired Air Force chaplain, offered these words:
Andrew was a remarkable person, blessed early on with a clear sense of self and a clear sense of purpose. In a world in which so many people transit youth and even middle age while still searching for their calling and purpose, Andrew focused clearly on what he wanted. He wanted to be an Annapolis graduate and a proud Marine, and that is what he became. And when he was knocked down and fearfully wounded by his illness, he fought back valiantly, and like the leader that he was, he marched toward his goal as long as his strength remained.
And when his illness ambushed him a second time, he accepted the fact that this was not a battle he could win. And it was here that he showed us a special form of leadership rooted in courage and compassion. He had the courage to face reality and—even as he hung on with all of his dwindling strength—to say fearlessly, “I am dying!” while at the same time reaching out to say farewell and try to comfort everyone he could reach.
The enemies we confront are not always other people or even the demons in our own souls. Illness can be a relentless foe as well and can test the qualities of our leadership and our love. Andrew fought with courage until he could fight no more, and then he faced his destiny with dignity. Cancer took his body, but not his soul; it sapped his strength, but never crushed his spirit. He was eminently worthy of the uniform he so proudly wore.