Richard was a G.I. Joe and Microforce kid. He and his friends would play for hours, and I would occasionally find Sgt. Slaughter or a comrade safely tucked away between two cushions—or rock formations, depending on your point of view. He enjoyed building model airplanes and helicopters and of one day flying the real thing, and dreamed of attending the United States Naval Academy.
As always, hard work and focus was the order of the day, but this was never a difficult task for Richard. Part of his enjoyment of life was applying hard work and focus to every task he endeavored or had thrust upon him, and he did it all with a smile and a warm heart. As an NJROTC officer in high school, he earned the respect of all in the unit for his intelligence and nonjudgmental attitude, and his ability to make one want to strive a little harder. A few years later, we were reminded of all this, and were so proud.
Apply, accepted, depart—looking back it all seems to have happened so quickly. The Naval Academy beckoned, and Richard, like so many eager others, went forth into the jaws of plebe summer. The degradation of no hair, a silly hat, and a too big uniform, marching, drilling, push-ups, more, more and more pushups, humiliation, square your shoulders, square your step, square your arm to eat—he loved it. Well, maybe not at the time, but at Parent’s Weekend, the smile that greeted his father, his sisters, and me said it all. “We have endured, and will continue on,” and they were all so bright and beautiful to behold.
Four grueling and demanding years don’t go by so quickly, but one day (sometimes, I think, only yesterday), we watched them once again in their final march on Graduation Day. He had grown in so many ways over these years—physically, mentally. And yet, that inner strength and sense of honor he possessed all his life, his smile, his sense of humor, his humility had not changed, and I saw before me not only a naval officer who had become part of the glorious history of the Naval Academy, but my little boy.
Orders arrive; duty calls. Ensign Andersen spent the next two years in training at Pensacola, Corpus Christi, and Milton. He and his instructor flew from Pensacola to Norfolk one day, and his dad and I got to see him. You know—pictures with him and us, pictures with him and the jet, pictures of them taking off for their return flight. I wonder how it’s possible that so much love and pride can be attached to such an insignificant moment in life. Anyway, Richard eventually chose helicopters and was off to Milton.
After he was winged and that childhood dream had become a reality, Lt. (jg) Andersen completed NATOPS and SERE at North Island and Naval Justice School in San Diego before receiving orders to HS-7, the Dusty Dogs, in Jacksonville. He enjoyed being in the squadron. He found it challenging and liked the guys he worked with, and when he called or could come home, we thoroughly enjoyed hearing about his life that we were no longer a part of. I could tell from that wonderful and sometimes mischievous smile that he was where he belonged.
When Katrina hit the Gulf of Mexico, HS-7 was one of many squadrons called in to support the hurricane relief efforts. Richard found this gratifying, but wished that there was more they could do. He wrote an article, “Behind the Heroes,” in which he said that “a hero is not just one who goes in harm’s way” but “anyone who takes a strain to get a job done, . . . whose actions are worthy of the respect of others” He was speaking of the maintenance crews who kept the pilots and aircrew on the job. He spoke of how the Dusty maintainers worked arduous hours, taking on roles in addition to their regular maintenance duties, and “rose to the occasion,” and how maintainers from several squadrons put aside rivalries and worked together to get the job done. He did, temporarily, lose his computer at this time, and for Richard, this could be a “damn the torpedoes” kind of moment. Before they embarked on rescue missions, they dropped off their gear on the USS Truman, which was also hosting news crews. Apparently, when the news crews departed, someone accidentally picked up Richard’s computer bag, which was the equivalent of his firstborn. When it was finally located several days later with the help of several people on each ship, to say that Richard was ecstatically happy would be an understatement. A couple of years later, guys from the squadron would confirm that this was all true.
Yosemite National Park has always been a favorite vacation spot for our family, but none of us had ever trekked to the top of Half Dome. The summer of ’06, Richard and his father decided to change all that and set out on their “guy thing.” They had a wonderful time, and although his dad didn’t quite make it, Richard made it to the summit to take in the beauty around him. Two years later, his father would make the trip once again to finish a journey he started with his son, to stand where Richard once stood and see through Richard’s eyes.
Richard’s older sister had gotten engaged to be married that spring, and since HS-7 was scheduled to deploy sometime in the coming year, her wedding was planned for that same summer of ’06. We could not take the chance that Richard wouldn’t be able to attend because he was involved in training cruises or deployed, and looking back, we were all so grateful for that decision. The following March, his cousin also got married in Jacksonville, and Richard got to attend yet another very special family event, the kind of thing he always loved.
One evening in the middle of April ’07, his father and I impatiently waited for him to call. The USS Truman was scheduled to return from a training cruise and with it HS-7. We would pick him up at the ship and take him for some dinner before they returned to JAX, which would be the last time we’d see him before the squadron left for Fallon, Nevada, in a couple of weeks. He finally called, and as always, I could not wait to put my arms around this young man—our boy.
One might wonder how such a little thing as entering an Applebee’s restaurant can become worthy of a full measure of pride. Sometimes the little things are a great deal of what a mother might reason, and when I heard so many young enlisted people greeting my son with “Hello, Mr. Andersen,” “Good evening, Sir,” or “Hi, Lieutenant,” I heard in their voices a great respect and a strong liking for our son, and once again felt the pangs of loving pride. When we dropped him off back at the ship, I asked my husband to wait a moment so I could watch him until he was through the gate. My mind reasoned that we might not see him for a very long time, and that I would miss him so much.
The squadron left Jacksonville for Fallon a week or so later. The last we and his sisters spoke to him was Saturday, 28 April—his birthday. He and some of the guys were just arriving in Las Vegas where they had decided to spend a day before work began at Fallon. He sounded happy. Why not; twenty-seven years old, setting off on a new adventure, work that he loved, people he liked, life ahead of him. He wrote in an email a couple of weeks earlier about being in the desert and “doing a lot of cool low level flying. It’ll be busy, but it’ll be worth it,” he said. They would be practicing search and rescue in preparation for the upcoming cruise to the Persian Gulf.
Sometime during Monday night, or rather the wee morning hours of Tuesday, 8 May, I had a dream. I dreamed that I heard a commotion outside Richard’s bedroom window and went to look. I saw two people in silhouette in our backyard, one with very dark hair, one with light. They spoke, and the one with light hair turned and walked away, and the one with dark hair became very angry. I won’t go into the rest of the dream because it became quite frightening, and before I finally fell back to sleep, I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell that was all about.
Maybe something, maybe nothing, but I thought of that dream when I opened our front door at about 9:30 a.m. and saw five uniforms standing there. Someone asked if they could come in, and I said no. Maybe if I didn’t let them in, it didn’t happen. Richard’s younger sister had just come home for a couple of days. She loves him so much, and this would devastate her. I yelled for my husband; I don’t remember why he was home that day, a Tuesday, but he was. I yelled again for him; where was he, make this stop. When I finally saw him behind me and heard his sharp intake of breath, I let them in.
Richard, his CO, and three crewmembers had died in the desert the previous evening in a naval “mishap.” We would learn so much more about this later, but frankly, at the time, how didn’t seem to matter. Richard was gone, and life would never be the same. It’s so true that children should never die before their parents, but it happens all the time, doesn’t it. Young, bright, beautiful lives—snuffed out; gone from our yearning arms in a moment. That pure and wonderful mind and heart, that contagious smile, that patience and unlimited supply of love and caring—all gone, except in memory.
I didn’t mention it earlier, but I had another dream about a year and a half before. I dreamed that Richard was going to die, and I’m pretty sure part of it took place at the Naval Academy. “Bunk” you might say, or “Oh yeah, sure,” but I did. I tried to put it out of my mind because, after all, it was just a dream, wasn’t it? I told myself God would never let anything happen to Richard even though it sometimes nagged at the back of my mind and tugged at my heart. I guess all kinds of dreams can come true.
Richard was buried the following Monday after Dover released his body. The previous day was Mother’s Day, and thankfully, I didn’t even know it. Much of the week is a blur, but the things I remember most are all the wonderful things that were said about him. Funerals are a time for saying nice things about the departed, aren’t they, but the one thing that stays in my mind is the consistency of those precious comments about his good heart and kind ways, his desire to help, his ability to be nonjudgmental.
A young lieutenant from his squadron asked to speak on Richard’s behalf at a memorial service out in Fallon, and later sent us an email and a copy of his comments. He said that he and his wife cared a great deal about Richard, and that “he was a truly good man.” “What I saw was a quiet man, a humble man,” he said, “without bitterness or ill will toward anyone.” He called him kind, giving, forgiving, selfless, and said that his was a life worth emulating, and that he would always strive to be the man Richard was. I was so proud to know that others saw in him what I had always seen, and that Richard’s life had, in some small way, touched so many we spoke with.
So—even though “Why?” never gets answered, faith is shaken, and a world gets turned upside down, it’s true that life goes on. Richard lives in our memories now, and oh, what wonderful memories they are. I miss him more than anyone could ever imagine, and hope with every breath in me that I’ll see him again someday. Do I wish I had encouraged him to choose another path? For myself—selfishly, yes; for him—no; he was doing what he dreamed of, and I think he was happy.
Strangely, when he was still at the Academy, he called me one day about his class ring order. I had requested to have his ring engraved with his name and “May God grant you strength, wisdom and long life.” He said that the engraver could not accommodate all of that, and so it would only have his name and “May God grant strength and wisdom.” He did. I don’t pray a whole lot anymore; not yet, not ready, but I do wish fair winds and following seas to all of his mates and to Richard, our beloved son, wherever he may be.
