Godwinks: To The Stars

The rain beat down, creating puddles on the road that could throw your vehicle around a bit. The passenger window went down again. This time about four inches, I rolled it up and told Scout to quit messing with me. As soon as I got the passenger window back up, my driver’s window started to go up and down erratically. Then it went down and stayed down. Doing 60 mph, drenched by the sideways rain now inside my vehicle, I turned on my blinker and exited the highway in the middle of nowhere Vermont.

I slowed as I approached a stop sign situated next to a smaller sign that simply read “To the Stars” with an arrow pointing right. I was listening now. 

A few months ago, I searched for validation — a sign — before attempting this 10,000-mile journey that currently had me drenched in Vermont. I was being challenged by my internal compass and couldn’t quite articulate why this trip was so important to my heart. What kind of person just gets into an RV with a pup named Scout and sets off on a TAPS briefing tour, stopping at military installations nationwide and looking for the good in the world?

The Godwink I needed arrived as a movie ad on my computer screen, a still shot of the words Ad Astra as the theme music played in the background. I thought about Jon, tears leaking like pouring rain. I kept thinking about Jon. 

Days later, I needed to fill my RV’s propane tank before I started the 10,000-mile journey, so I stopped at a hardware store. As the employee reached down to close my propane tank. Speechless, I stared at the tattoo on his arm — this was a full-blown Godwink; it read, “AD ASTRA PER ASPERA” (to the stars through hardship). Why did it feel like Jon was lurking around? Time is a strange commodity to try to stop, even if it is just for a memory.

Remembering Back

One hot June day 20 years ago, we were driving in this dastardly convoy that was full of nothing and everything simultaneously. When you go for long periods of white-knuckle desert driving, you can be lulled by the serenity of the sand-filled view. The tenacity of the sizzling heat was like driving in an oven. Sand blasting your skin, steering wheels so hot that your skin turns into leather as it cooks on the metal in your vehicle. Every moment was so quiet and so very tense. Your concentration is on the taillights of the vehicle in front of you. 

After driving the treacherous sand trails of Main Supply Route Tampa, all soldiers welcomed a few hours to nap at Camp Cedar, which was just a couple of fuel trucks, barbed wire fence, and armed military sentries. The local Iraqis were on the outside of the sharp barbed wire fences begging for food and water. Young Iraqi men would just appear and stare at our unit’s anomaly of 49 female soldiers driving giant trucks. We parked our trucks in a tight formation and hunkered down for a four-hour sleep break. My boots were off, body armor off, shirt untucked, and pants loosened for comfort. 

Kenny slept on the front grill of the vehicle. Jon lay on the hummer roof with me. We talked about home and the stars in the sky. I told Jon the story about the Stars of Talil and why each one was so beautiful in its own way. I admit to completely making up every fact about astrology as I told the stories of why stars looked like the animals of the arc and Disney characters. He laughed politely, and by the end of the conversation I had convinced Jon that, because we were on the other side of the world, all the dippers were upside-down and backward. The power of belief is amazing. Jon’s power to humor his commander was priceless. We found all the dippers and convinced ourselves that my star theory was the way of the world. 

Startled from a deep sleep by the feeling of someone in my immediate space, I jumped off the top of the hummer like a superhero, yelling in some made-up foreign language gibberish. A small group of young Iraqi men had entered the unit area, and I was having nothing to do with the intrusion. As I started the chase, my bootlaces flapped in the wind. My right hand flailed around as it held my 9mm, which I’d fallen asleep holding. My left hand rhythmically reached out in front of me in a swimming motion to gain speed. I must have looked like Yosemite Sam, who famously ran around shooting his guns in the air and stomping his feet in those oversized boots. 

Those young men were way faster than my 40-year-old attempt to chase them, and I learned later that they were authorized workers. I had acted like a fool, becoming a raging mother hen to protect my soldiers. I was flustered, humbled, and then — energy drained — I flopped onto the ground in the snow angel position. 

Fighting gravity and laughing his dorky North Dakota snort-laugh, Jon ran toward me. Before offering me a hand, he mimicked my absurd running scene — something about puppet legs and swimming on land. Contagious laughter spread through the convoy as I sulked back to the lead vehicle, secretly smirking inside at how sometimes team building comes in the weirdest packages. 

When Jon was killed the next month, all I thought about were the stars. I was overwhelmed with events after the ambush, orchestrating controlled chaos, worrying about the effects of these events, and wondering how each young soldier was faring in the wake. 

As the commander, I was to lead a field memorial service. In my planning and sullen silence, I found myself just walking around the vehicles in the motor pool. The reality of the incident was right in front of me. Tears welled up in my eyes as I read for the first time, beautifully drawn in chalk above a flag on the driver’s door of a truck identical to Jon’s, “‘Ad astra per aspera’ (to the stars by hard ways).” Jon Fettig’s name was carefully drawn with tenderness and respect. And 180 souls from North Dakota would never forget his name or this day.  

Flashing Forward

Loud, pouring rain continued to drench my patch of Vermont. That was enough daydreaming about a past I can’t change, but I tipped my hat to the mere coincidence of a loving memory brought present as I hit my right blinker to follow the sign to the stars. 

I maneuvered my RV up the muddy trails that climbed the back hills of Vermont. 

The trees, a vibrant summer green, shielded the rain, allowing me to navigate the slip-and-slide. Anticipation mounting, the road suddenly turned slightly to the right and ended in front of a pink house. As I parked and bounded out of my RV, a giant of a man came darting out of the house. 

Unsure of what I was looking at, I mumbled to the man about my soldier, the signs, the muddy road, and the RV window as he simultaneously tried to catch me up. I snapped a couple pictures, desperately looking for something — the why.  

The pink house, which turned out to be the 100-year-old Stellafane Clubhouse — one of Vermont’s best spots for stargazing — spoke to me, and I received the message. If it weren’t for the rain or the window, or the trail of signs grabbing my attention, I would have missed it. A fearless warmth accompanied me back to the RV as I imagined Jon saying, “You know, ma’am, been here with you, and I got your back.” 

I drove back down the mountain in silence with a calmness in my heart, eager to call Jon’s family. It’s been 20 years, but I miss my soldier, and I want to tell more stories about him. Before I forget, I want to tell my stories. 

Those of us who served with your loved ones have stories. Ask us. We treasure our connections to your loved ones and any chance to share the side of them we knew and hear the side you knew. We remember our fallen comrades tenderly. Reach out to someone who has a story.

LTC Davina French, North Dakota National Guard, Ret., serves as TAPS' Military Liaison, maintaining the strong bond between TAPS and the military services. Throughout 2023, she visited military installations nationwide to share the support and services available to service members.

Photos: Pexels.com and Davina French