9

HONOR MAN

Before sunrise on the first day of BUD/S, Brendan and Sarver drove onto the island of Coronado, blasting an intentionally comical hip-hop song, Fat Joe’s “Make It Rain.” In what would become an early morning tradition, the new roommates shouted the over-the-top lyrics to the song to get fired up before a seemingly impossible day of mental and physical challenges.

It was the first time that Brendan had laughed since Travis died, and Sarver knew how important that was before the relentless BUD/S instructors started trying to break them and every other Navy SEAL candidate down. For the next six months Brendan’s emotional, mental, and physical strength would be tested as never before.

BUD/S got off to a rocky start. Every candidate’s room, uniform, and appearance were required to be spotless and were routinely subject to rigorous inspections that could sometimes last several hours. For twenty-four punishing weeks, nothing mattered more than attention to detail.

Brendan first faced an instructor’s wrath because of his haircut. The night before, Sarver had accidentally nicked his neck with the clippers they used to shave each other’s heads.

“HAVE YOU SEEN THE BACK OF YOUR NECK?” the instructor shouted directly into Brendan’s left ear. “WHO DID THIS?”

Brendan was silent.

“WAS IT SARVER?” the instructor said.

Brendan quickly glanced at his roommate, who nodded.

“Hooyah,” Brendan said. The word is often used as a battle cry inside the Navy, and sometimes as a substitute for “yes, sir.”

“Sarver, you pass inspection,” the instructor said. “Looney, you fail. NOW GET OUT ON THAT BEACH!”

“Hooyah,” Brendan said.

Brendan spent the next ninety minutes doing God knows how many push-ups and other exercises in cold “BUD/S Beach” water. When he returned to the barracks almost completely covered in sand, Sarver wasn’t sure if Brendan would crack a joke or punch him in the face.

“You owe me, bro,” said Brendan, walking in the room, wiping off his face, and throwing his gear on the bed.

“Anything you want, Brendan,” Sarver said. “Just name it.”

“Ice cream,” Brendan said. “After this day is over, you’re taking me to get some ice cream.”

His first run-in with the instructors behind him, Brendan attacked the island of Coronado, where all Navy SEAL candidates train but very few graduate, with the same intensity Travis had brought to the streets of Fallujah. At almost two hundred pounds of muscle, Brendan was running 5½-minute miles. Aspiring SEALs were shocked by Brendan’s physical prowess.

“That guy is a beast,” one trainee told another. “What’s Looney’s story, anyway?”

“I talked to his roommate, Sarver, the other day,” the other SEAL candidate responded. “Looney just lost one of his best friends in Fallujah.”

Except on weekends, when candidates were usually permitted to rest, Brendan hardly slept during his six months of BUD/S training and was rarely able to communicate with Amy. But after one particularly arduous day of running, being sprayed with ice-cold water while doing push-ups, and shivering while carrying logs over his head with teammates through merciless waves, he described to Amy how Travis was still pushing him.

“When Travis died, I think it gave me that extra motivation to make sure I got out there and did everything I could,” Brendan said.

Amy exchanged “see you laters” with Brendan after he yawned and told her the SEAL candidates had to be awake in three hours. She was proud of her boyfriend’s resolve.

Across the room, Sarver was talking on the phone to his girlfriend, Heather Hojnacki.

“Honestly, I’m just trying to keep up with Brendan,” Sarver said when his girlfriend asked how his training was going. “He is a machine.”

One of Brendan’s favorite quotes was one he rarely spoke out loud, but always kept in the back of his mind: “Be strong. Be accountable. Never complain.”

Sarver, as Brendan’s BUD/S roommate, was watching his friend live out every word.

Fiercely committed and quietly confident, Brendan would have excelled in training even if Travis had still been alive. From spending eight consecutive hours stenciling his number on his gear to sometimes staying up all night doing additional administrative duties, he brought an exceptional, sincere brand of dedication to a special operations group that was already among the US military’s most revered.

Despite being tough, smart young men, candidates all around Brendan were quitting or being dropped from Class 265 by the time “Hell Week,” a fierce combat simulation during which sleep is not an option, started after two already grueling weeks of training.

On Saturday, May 26, 2007, three days before the Manions would mark one month since Travis’s passing, Brendan wrote an e-mail to Janet:

          Mrs. Manion,

                Hi, sorry it has taken me so long to write back. I do not get a chance to check my e-mail as much as I would like.

                Things out here are going well so far. We started with 203 guys and are now down to 80. Hell Week begins tomorrow night, so we are all getting geared up for that hurdle. Right now I am not too nervous about it because I know I have Travis looking out for me and that will give me strength when I need it. He is probably laughing at me too with all of the crazy stuff they have us doing.

                Other than that, not much else is going on, we have long days so that leaves time only to sleep when we finish. I have lost a few pounds, but still continue to eat everything they put in front of me. Anyways, that is about it for now. I’ll be sure to send you all an e-mail when I finish Hell Week next Friday to let you know that I finished.

          —Brendan

That Friday an instructor walked up to Brendan and told him what he thought of his Hell Week performance.

“Looney, you crushed Hell Week,” he said. “You beasted it.”

Brendan, who never wanted special attention, simply said “hooyah,” nodded his head in acknowledgment, and headed back to barracks to spend the next few days resting and sleeping. His mom, Maureen, had timed a cross-country trip to help Brendan and Sarver recover before they resumed the first phase of BUD/S training: another month of difficult conditioning exercises. After first phase they would move on to the second and third, which focused on combat diving and land warfare, respectively. Each lasted about eight weeks.

The weekend after his mom’s stay, Brendan welcomed Amy to San Diego for her only visit of the summer. She arrived in Imperial Beach on a Friday night, anxious to see her boyfriend not only because she missed him, but also because she wanted to discuss where their relationship was headed after he became a Navy SEAL.

After a nice Saturday night dinner at an ocean-view restaurant in nearby La Jolla, Brendan asked Amy to join him on the beach.

“I had some time to think after Hell Week,” Brendan said. “That’s when I realized that I couldn’t think about my life without you in it.”

“So I really wanted to ask you something,” he continued. “I’ve been trying to do this all night.”

Kneeling in front of Amy, Brendan pulled a box out of his pocket.

“I got you this ring,” he said. “Do you think you would marry me?”

“Yes,” Amy said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too!” said Brendan, awash with relief. He then kissed his new fiancée.

When Brendan and Amy got back to Imperial Beach, Sarver was waiting to congratulate them. After opening the bottle of champagne that the elated couple had bought on their way home, Sarver proposed a toast to his two friends, who he said were perfect for each other.

After Sarver went to his room, Brendan told Amy about a conversation he had had with his mom while she was in town after Hell Week.

“I told her that after Travis died, I realized there was no reason for you and me to wait any longer,” Brendan said to Amy. “Life is short. . . . Just look at what happened with Trav. I don’t want us to have any regrets.”

The next evening, Amy left San Diego sporting a smile big enough to light up the entire harbor. Although moving from Maryland to the West Coast would be challenging, she couldn’t wait to start her new life. But first, Brendan would have to finish training to become a Navy SEAL.

At BUD/S, officers train alongside enlisted personnel, which gave the Naval Academy graduate a chance to start blossoming as a leader. Before grabbing paddles and starting boat exercises, Brendan would underscore what the instructors were always hammering home: teamwork and paying attention to the small things. Whether it was lacrosse, football, the classroom, Iraq, or Korea, Brendan’s experience helped guide other candidates through the choppy seas. Even Sarver, who knew Brendan better than any other trainee, marveled at how instinctively his roommate adapted.

Before embarking on long beach runs through the island’s chilly morning wind, guys would sometimes gripe, understandably, about lack of sleep, persistent hunger, or physical exhaustion. One time Sarver himself was commiserating with a group of SEAL candidates about the consistently tough training conditions.

“Okay guys, it’s time to shut up,” Brendan said. “Let’s get started.”

During the third phase of what seemed like six years of BUD/S training rather than six months, Brendan once joined his team on the beach for a morning “ruck” run, during which each SEAL candidate would carry forty pounds of gear in his backpack. Brendan, who had been up more than thirty straight hours after working his administrative job all night, didn’t have time to pack his bag before the five-mile run started at 5:30 a.m. Instead, he arrived at the beach a few minutes early and found a huge rock that he thought would satisfy the ruck’s weight requirements.

As he had done in his races through Annapolis with Travis, Brendan ran as if his life depended on it. The ocean breeze didn’t affect his tired eyes, nor did the wet sand slow his aching feet. When Class 265 crossed the five-mile mark, Brendan finished first, standing at the finish line shouting words of encouragement to every fellow SEAL candidate who followed.

“Looney, what the hell is in your pack?” one fellow trainee asked.

“It’s a rock,” Brendan said. “I didn’t have time to pack up.”

“Well that’s one big fucking rock!” said another classmate, who thought the rock looked much heavier than forty pounds.

Though downplaying his own toughness, Brendan grinned and admitted that the rock felt “pretty damn heavy.” When a few of his teammates later put the rock on a scale, it weighed fifty-five pounds.

“Hooyah!” the guys shouted.

For instructors and trainees, the easiest part of BUD/S was determining who would finish at the top.

“Now we will announce the Honor Man of Navy SEAL BUD/S training Class 265,” an instructor said. “This award goes to a leader who not only excels in physical training, but makes every Frogman [as SEALs are nicknamed] around him better. I’m proud to name Brendan Looney the Honor Man of your class.”

After twenty-four weeks of a meticulous, exhausting regimen that had encompassed physical conditioning, diving, and land warfare, Brendan, who had almost missed the chance to train at Coronado because he was colorblind, received the ultimate recognition from his instructors and peers.

All fall 2007 graduates of BUD/S would almost certainly go to war at some point in the next few years after completing SEAL Qualification Training (SQT) and receiving their tridents. Brendan and Sarver would have to wait longer than the enlisted BUD/S graduates to complete their twenty-six weeks of SQT, however, as all SEAL officers are held back one class to complete the required Junior Officer Training Course (JOTC). But as the valiant men of Class 265 gathered one last time on BUD/S Beach, they applauded Brendan for not only overcoming the loss of a close friend, but also inspiring all of them with his sheer willpower, ability, and character.

“In times of war or uncertainty there is a special breed of warrior ready to answer our nation’s call,” the Navy SEAL ethos and creed begins. “A common man with an uncommon desire to succeed. Forged by adversity, he stands alongside America’s finest special operations forces to serve his country, the American people, and protect their way of life. I am that man.”

Brendan said only “thank you” when he received the rare, coveted award, and he didn’t even tell Amy until she later discovered the “Honor Man” plaque in a drawer. When she asked Brendan what it was, he said it was “no big deal.”

Since he was a little boy, when his mom would find ribbons and tests with A+ grades crumpled up in his backpack and trophies hidden in his drawers, Brendan had never been interested in recognition. Sure enough, when Amy later asked some of her husband’s peers about the Honor Man award and discovered its significance, Brendan had already mailed it to his parents’ house in Maryland.

The Honor Man of BUD/S Class 265 sent his plaque home as a symbol of appreciation and respect. In Brendan’s mind, no award was ever his; it belonged to the people who had sacrificed to give him a chance at success. Indeed, there was no one prouder of what Brendan overcame the odds to accomplish than Kevin and Maureen Looney.

Though also proud of Brendan, those same six months were brutal for Tom and Janet Manion. Since Travis’s death they had attended two more funerals for US service members killed in Iraq. The first was for First Lieutenant Colby Umbrell, the Doylestown soldier who had died four days after Travis, and the second was for a Marine and Naval Academy graduate who was killed in Baghdad less than two weeks after their son.

Major Douglas Zembiec, the “Lion of Fallujah” from Albuquerque, New Mexico, whom Travis knew, worked out with, and deeply respected, was killed on May 11, 2007, in Baghdad. Due to his already famous battlefield heroics, Zembiec’s death received a high level of attention inside and outside military circles.

“After the Battle [of Fallujah], he said that his Marines had ‘fought like lions,’ and he was soon himself dubbed the Lion of Fallujah,” Defense Secretary Robert Gates said to a large group of Marines on July 19, 2007. “He volunteered to deploy again, and was sent back to Iraq earlier this year. This time, he would not return to his country, or to his wife and his one-year-old daughter.”

Gates, who had been nominated by President Bush to replace Donald Rumsfeld at the Pentagon less than a year earlier, paused before continuing. He was clearly moved by the thirty-four-year-old Marine’s courage.

“In May, the Lion of Fallujah was laid to rest at Arlington, and he was memorialized at his Alma Mater in Annapolis,” the defense secretary said, his voice cracking with sadness. “A crowd of more than a thousand included many enlisted Marines from his Beloved Echo Company. An officer there told a reporter: ‘Your men have to follow your orders. They don’t have to go to your funeral.’”

Gates concluded his speech with a touching tribute.

“Every evening, I write notes to the families of young Americans like Doug Zembiec,” he said. “For you and for me, they are not names on a press release, or numbers updated on a Web site; they are our country’s sons and daughters.”

For Tom and Janet, the months after their son’s death were filled with devastation and daily reminders of their enormous loss. They were lifted up, however, by the many visits from Travis’s friends and Marine Corps brothers.

The Manions were also getting hundreds of messages on a Legacy.com page set up to memorialize Travis. During many late, sometimes sleepless nights, Tom, Janet, Ryan, and Dave would scroll through the words of support, and they were particularly moved by posts from men and women inside the circle of 3-2-1 MiTT:

       I was with Travis when he was killed. There is no doubt in my mind that he saved my life and the lives of all of us that were there that day. Know that Travis is missed and remembered. He was one of the best Marines and men I have ever had the luck to meet and I’ll never forget his gift.

             ~1st Lt. Jonathan Marang

             I’ve been getting stronger. I see the progress every 2–3 weeks or so. I’m pushing to get back to full duty status before April [2008] is over. I know that when I take the PFT [Physical Fitness Test] I’ll think of what we talked about, of how we could look back on the days spent in Iraq and know that we did our part. We wouldn’t be the ones wondering about whether we had an effect or not.

             R.I.P. brother,

             ~Ed (“Doc”) Albino

             I served with Travis during his first tour in Iraq as his battalion surgeon. Last year when I heard of his death I was deeply saddened due to the loss of an exceptional man and Marine.

             Travis built our gym in Fallujah and this is where I had most of my conversations with him.

             Every day I work out now, even in a gym far away that he has likely never been in, I remember Travis and am grateful to have had an opportunity to know him.

             ~Reagan Anderson

             I am the wife of 2nd Lt. Scott Alexander, a member of Travis’ MiTT team and his great friend. I want to let you know what joy Travis was able to bring to the team. Scott called last night and for an hour relayed stories of all the ways Travis would make the guys laugh and keep up the morale of the team. Throughout the deployment he spoke of Travis with the utmost regard and he was a true mentor, friend, and brother to my husband. Thank you for raising such a wonderful young man, I know he impacted each one of our guys out there and is now watching over them. My sincerest apologies for your loss.

             ~Catherine Alexander

Although her husband made it home safely, Catherine Alexander, who served in the Navy Reserve, would lose her brother, Marine Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Budrejko, almost five years later on February 22, 2012, in a helicopter training accident near Yuma, Arizona. Six fellow Marines were killed in the crash, which along with tragic events in Afghanistan, Iraq, and around the world, served as a painful reminder of the military community’s continuing post-9/11 sacrifices.

On one quiet day in September 2007, the phone rang at the Manion house. It was Brendan, who asked Tom how he, Janet, and Ryan were holding up.

“It’s great to hear from you, Brendan,” Tom said. “We’re doing alright up here. . . . How was BUD/S? . . . Did you make it out in one piece?”

“Yes, sir,” Brendan said. “It was tough, but I made it, and I think you know who was looking out for me the whole time.”

“Congratulations, buddy, and I also heard you got engaged, so congratulations to you and Amy, too,” Tom said. “Janet and I are proud of you, and I know your parents are, too.”

Brendan told Travis’s father that he was in Maryland to visit his folks, and if it was alright with Tom and Janet, he would like to drive up to Pennsylvania and spend time with the Manions. After agreeing on a day, Tom invited Brendan to stay the night on the same downstairs couch next to the bar and pool table that Travis had loved to sleep on when he visited from California.

“Brendan, it really means a lot to us that you’d come up here,” Tom said.

After hanging up Tom went into the kitchen, where his wife was immersed in the roots of what would later become the Travis Manion Foundation. Hearing that Brendan was coming to visit, Janet smiled for the first time in weeks.

“It will be so great to finally see Brendan,” she said.

Many other friends and fellow Marines who knew Travis had made the pilgrimage to Doylestown, and Tom, Janet, Ryan, and Dave appreciated every visit. But few, if any, came without their spouses or significant others and spent the night. It was obvious that Brendan cared deeply about his friend’s family and wanted to personally ensure that they were okay.

After opening the front door, which the Manions had not fixed since Janet had broken it six months earlier, one of America’s newest Gold Star mothers embraced the soon-to-be Navy SEAL. With tears in her eyes, she profusely thanked her son’s dear friend for making the trip.

Brendan, who felt guilty for being stuck in California during the funeral services, started apologizing to Travis’s grieving mom.

“You can stop that right now,” Janet said, patting Brendan on the back. “We all know you would have been here if you could have.”

A collection of medals and letters, including one from the president, was sitting on the living room piano. Brendan paused to look at them for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and went inside.

Tom and Brendan exchanged a firm handshake and quick hug. Janet brought Tom and Brendan beers before they headed to the lower level to sit at the Manion bar, where they discussed BUD/S, Brendan’s family, and Amy.

Surrounded by more of Travis’s medals and mementos, sitting at the bar felt like having a drink in a Marine Corps museum. It was the first time Brendan had spent time with the Manion family since before Travis was killed.

Janet and Tom told Brendan they were proud of him and asked him to explain his upcoming SQT training, which would take him to Kodiak, Alaska, to simulate combat in bitterly cold weather. As she would have said to Travis, Janet told Brendan to take his heaviest winter coat. With a smile that evoked laughter, Brendan assured her that his own mom had been telling him the same thing.

After talking more about Brendan’s next round of training and learning that he would likely become a Navy SEAL in June 2008, Janet proposed a toast.

“Let’s have a drink for Travis,” said Janet, pouring three shots of Patrón tequila. “He cared about you so much, and you were always—and still are—such a great friend.”

“To Travis!” Brendan, Tom, and Janet said in unison.

The next time Brendan saw Travis’s parents was the Friday night before the 2007 Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, DC, which was held on the Sunday just before Halloween. At long last Brendan had his chance to pay his respects to Travis, while spending the weekend surrounded by his buddy’s relatives, friends, and fellow Marines. But he was also confronted with the full breadth of the mark that Travis’s passing had made on people from all walks of life.

Before Brendan ran Sunday’s Marine Corps Marathon with the Manions, his brother Steve, and their uncle, Chris Parker, the soon-to-be Navy SEAL attended a prerace “Team Travis” Saturday night dinner banquet in Arlington, Virginia, with his parents and Amy. Janet and Tom, who had created the special marathon group along with relatives and friends, began the emotional evening by standing at the podium to thank the hundreds in attendance. Nearly six months after an enemy sniper ended their son’s life in the Pizza Slice, the grief on the Gold Star parents’ faces was clear. But as Tom began to speak, their strength was even more apparent.

After expressing his gratitude and talking about how his son’s constant desire to push himself further could serve as a theme for Sunday’s 26.2-mile run, Tom talked about a significant moment earlier in the day.

“Janet and I went over to Arlington [National Cemetery] this morning,” Tom said with his right arm around his wife. “We spent some time over there, and if you get a chance, that’s a place to go and visit. . . . It’s a special place. You feel a certain energy . . . when you go over there and see what’s there and certainly feel all the brave men and women who’ve given their lives for our freedoms. You feel their spirits there, and it’s really a special place and a special time. And this is really all about getting behind those who are over there now, continuing to fight for our freedoms, and those who have given their lives and made the ultimate sacrifice.”

Family friend Bob Schumaker, who had helped organize the event with his wife, Kit, then introduced Steve Brown, a close friend of Travis’s since elementary school. Steve, who is African American, stepped up to the podium and told a childhood story that very few in the audience had ever heard.

“A time that stands out to me the most was the summer between sixth and seventh grade when we set out to get a slice of pizza from a local pizza parlor,” Brown said. “I remember stepping up to the counter and asking for a slice of plain, and was ignored. I asked again, and still no response.

“But before I knew it, the man behind the counter was already asking Travis for his order,” Brown continued. “Travis, without hesitation, replied and said ‘what about my friend? . . . What about my friend?’ The man stood there in silence, and Travis quickly processed the situation and ordered three slices, and then handed two to me.”

Brown finished the story, beginning to smile.

“He then looked the man in his eyes, and said with his 12-year-old voice: ‘What you’re doing here is wrong. He’s just the same as me.’”

Brown ended his remarks by saying how much he missed and loved his friend. He received enthusiastic applause, then introduced one of Travis’s best high school buddies, Sean Kent. After making the audience laugh with several creative lines, including “you can’t send a boy to do a Manion’s job,” Kent introduced the next speaker.

“At this time, I’m going to hand it over to Brendan Looney, who was Travis’s roommate at Navy,” he said.

Brendan, who hadn’t been nervous before Hell Week or during a deployment to Iraq, had confessed to Amy that he was petrified about speaking that night. He was worried not about himself or his image, but about adequately honoring Travis in front of so many loved ones and friends.

Amy had also been surprised when Brendan, who didn’t care about fashion and usually dressed in a relaxed style when he was out of uniform, had asked her to take him shopping earlier in the day. He had bought a new button-down, blue-striped dress shirt and a pair of brown khaki pants.

“Amy, what if I break down up there?” Brendan had asked as they walked through the mall.

“Then you cry, Brendan, and everyone will cry with you,” Amy had replied. “There’s nothing wrong with crying.”

But the aspiring Navy SEAL never wanted to show weakness, especially while paying tribute to Travis, who in Brendan’s mind defined what it meant to be a warrior.

Brendan looked solid, handsome, and lean as he settled into the podium, which had a gold poster on the front that read “GO TEAM TRAVIS.”

Looking out over the hotel ballroom, Brendan suddenly felt pressure building in his throat after wishing everyone “good evening.” Despite spending the entire day figuring out how to avoid becoming emotional, seeing everyone sitting in front of him, especially Tom, Janet, Ryan, Dave, and Maggie, hit him harder than any explosion he had experienced during combat simulation exercises. Less than a year earlier, Travis and Brendan had still been hanging out, laughing, and going to Redskins-Eagles games. Now he was giving a speech after Travis’s death.

As Brendan looked down and briefly covered his mouth, the only sound in the room was a barely audible whimper from little Maggie, who was up past her bedtime. Everyone else was quiet and motionless as the sorrow on Brendan’s face became more evident.

Almost no one in the room knew this young man was about to become a Navy SEAL. They just knew he was a very close friend.

After beginning by thanking the Manion family and again looking toward their table, Brendan stopped. To his astonishment, tears were starting to form. In that moment he realized, as he never had before, that Travis really wasn’t coming home from Iraq.

After again covering his lower lip, gently shaking his head, and taking a breath so deep it was audible through the microphone, Brendan continued his speech.

“I was lucky enough to room with Travis at the Naval Academy for two years,” he said, pausing and taking a deep breath. “Throughout our time, we became very close.”

Brendan was now on the verge of tears, and many could hear it in his voice. Though Brendan believed he was showing weakness, those watching him marveled at his courage in stepping up to the microphone. Clearly this young man was in pain after losing someone so close.

“I think it was mostly because we had very similar views on many things and enjoyed a lot of the same activities,” Brendan said. “In a very short time, he became another brother to me.”

Still fighting tears, Brendan began to hit his stride, launching into a story about taking a trip to Texas with Travis for a wedding. Slowly but surely, he was overcoming his emotions, taking a few more deep breaths in between speaking.

“It was on this trip that Travis solidified his position in my family . . . as an extended member of my family,” said Brendan, who added that his mom, sister, brother, and fiancée were all there.

After sharing several humorous anecdotes involving his brother Billy and his unique rapport with Travis, Brendan had the tearful audience laughing. He showed them a funny picture of Billy and Travis from the trip, which helped everyone smile, including Brendan.

“It reminds me of all the good times we had,” Brendan said of the picture. “I think it also shows how easygoing and likable a person Travis was.”

As his voice began to crack, Brendan’s well-guarded emotional levee finally broke.

“He was a great friend, and I’ll never forget him, and I miss him,” Brendan said.

The ensuing ovation was universal, heartfelt, and lengthy. As Brendan stood there listening to the applause, he may have realized that his fiancée was right. If there was ever an appropriate time to reveal his emotions, this was it.

“Your speech was beautiful, Brendan,” Janet said afterward as Tom nodded in agreement. “I know Travis was up there smiling.

“We also brought two things that we thought you should have,” she continued. “We meant to give them to you that night at the house.”

“This is Travis’s knife,” Tom said. “He got this when he first joined First Recon and took it with him both times to Iraq. . . . It was given back to us with his things. I couldn’t think of anyone who deserved this more than you.”

Before Brendan could say “thank you,” Janet put her arm around him to give him the second memento.

“And here’s a bracelet we had made to honor Travis,” she said. “It’s the same one that we all wear, and when things get tough or dangerous, I want you to make sure you’re wearing it.”

The bracelet was black and engraved with three lines of silver lettering:

1ST LT. TRAVIS MANION, USMC

SPARTAN, HERO, LEADER

KIA IRAQI FREEDOM, 29 APR. ’07

“Always remember,” Janet said. “Someone is looking out for you.”

Brendan hugged Janet, shook Tom’s hand, and thanked them both, then held up the bracelet and promised, “I’ll wear this every single day for the rest of my life.”

Two days later, on the Monday morning after the Marine Corps Marathon, Tom, Janet, Ryan, and Dave stood in the Oval Office as President George W. Bush opened the door and walked straight toward Travis’s mom.

He gave her a hug.

“Janet, I am so sorry,” the president said. “Your loss is my loss.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Janet replied.

After hugging Ryan and shaking Tom’s and Dave’s hands, President Bush expressed his appreciation for the men and women who had served so bravely overseas, including Travis.

“Today, I’m not the commander-in-chief,” the president said. “I’m the consoler-in-chief.”

As the visit concluded, Ryan gave President Bush a T-shirt from Sunday’s Marine Corps Marathon.

After thanking Ryan for the shirt, the president said he would make sure it was stored in a safe place. Ryan then shared a detail about the marathon.

“Travis was going to run the marathon this year and actually signed up for it before he left,” she said. “So after he was killed, we all started training.”

Ryan told the president that her dad wore both his and Travis’s numbers during the race. At the marathon, she explained, runners are given computer chips to put in their running shoes so they can accurately record race times.

“My dad had both his and Travis’s chips, but before the race started, he forgot to note which chip was on which sneaker,” Ryan said. “He wanted Travis to finish first, but now we’re not sure how it turned out. . . . We’re going to check tonight.”

The president, who was moved by the story and the Manion family’s courage, met with and wrote letters to thousands of military families during his eight years in office. With no end to the wars in Iraq or Afghanistan in sight, President Bush would soon pass the torch to his successor, who would be thrust into the dual wartime role of commander and consoler-in-chief.

After giving an emotional speech on Saturday night and running the full Marine Corps Marathon on Sunday in the nation’s capital, Brendan reported for duty first thing Monday morning on the Southern California island of Coronado. SQT was just a few months away, and in the meantime, he and Sarver would tackle JOTC and Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape (SERE) training. Though Brendan had cleared a major hurdle toward becoming a Navy SEAL, much hard work still lay ahead.

As Monday began, few of those stationed at NAB Coronado knew that just twenty-four hours earlier, Brendan had been running 26.2 miles on the East Coast. While he drank a lot of coffee and took plenty of Advil that day, not once did Brendan complain about being weary, achy, or exhausted. No matter what it took, he was going to salute Travis by running the entire marathon.

In the shadow of the Iwo Jima Memorial, Brendan could picture Travis running next to him as he summoned his last ounce of strength to cross the finish line. The marathon may have symbolized their last race, but no matter what was on the horizon, Brendan knew Travis would always push him forward.

Later, when the Manions got the official results of the 2007 Marine Corps Marathon, they learned that Tom had finished in 7,567th place. Sure enough, Travis finished 7,566th, a split second before his dad.