Note: This is a long-ass article detailing my sister’s journey losing her husband, Gunnery Sergeant Brendan Johnson, in the crash over Mississippi on 10 July. This article is a combination of Facebook posts and comments and responses to tell the story. Several links have been provided to fill in details that were too numerous to go into here.
On July 10, the unthinkable happened. Late Monday evening, I received a call from my sister that a Marine Corps transport plane had gone down over Mississippi. The loadmaster on that plane was Gunnery Sgt. Brendan Johnson—My sister’s husband, my brother-in-law—and friend.
She called me from Dallas where she had been attending meetings. Brendan had been stationed in the Fort Worth area until five years ago when he was transferred to Stewart Air Force Base in New York. When it was learned that the plane crashed, friends in the corps immediately contacted her. She recounts one friend asking on the phone, “Where are you at?”(his English) When she told him the hotel she was staying in, he contacted several friends, and that night there were five marines with her, comforting her, while everyone tried to sort out what happened.
While the military didn’t release the names right away, my sister knew the plane, and she knew her husband was on it.
On 11 July, I posted this to my Facebook page:
Well, today has been a very rough day for the Touseys and Johnsons. Most of you have heard on the news about the military plane crash over Mississippi… well it turns out that Anna's husband, and my brother-in-law (and friend) Brendan is one of those sixteen.
We learned about it last night… we know what plane he was on, and so we knew the minute the story broke. So the next few days are going to be difficult as we try to navigate a new life. For Anna this is particularly difficult, and it's killing me to watch her go through this.
But please always remember, these are the people who serve. They are constantly putting their lives on the line for our protection. I salute you Brendan… you are a wonderful husband and dear friend.
My sister flew back to New York from Dallas the next day, Tuesday, and I met her at her home to be with her. As the day progressed, many of Brendan’s friends and coworkers from Stewart Air Force Base began to show up, hoping to offer comfort. Nine of the men lost on that crash were from Stewart, and so the grief was palpable. It hung in the air like rain.
And then, on Tuesday:
Holy fuck! Shit just got real. Two marine officers in full dress came to the house today, knocked on the door to "officially" tell us that Brendan was no longer with us. I can't tell you what that does to your psyche. Last weekend we were pushing through the mob in Times Square trying to find a place where all of us could eat. And today that’s all changed.
On Wednesday, I shared with our friends:
I want to thank Brendan's military family. These people are amazing. I've never seen anyone come together like these people have. They've been by Anna's side consistently, making sure she's okay. They just sat, let Anna grieve, and then hugged her and let her know that they're taking care of her. They've offered to do her grocery shopping, fix her meals, take care of everything she needs.
They all feel the loss. He was a brother… literally, that's what they're calling him. What beautiful souls.
As painful as this is, I'm also experiencing a glimmer of what love feels like amid tragedy. And it's coming from our friends and his military family.
On 13 July, we traveled from New York to Dover, Delaware, where all the bodies were taken to be identified before sending them home. Here I posted:
We're sitting at Dover Airforce Base awaiting the plane that will bring Brendan to the main mortuary before they send him home to his final resting place. It's a profoundly somber moment and we're surrounded by other families. The grief is palpable.
This is the moment. This is where it gets real and hope turns to hopelessness. This is necessary though. The hopelessness says that this is… and so we give up that it will be different… and embrace what is before us.
Once the plane landed, we were escorted to the tarmac where we watched as sixteen, flag-draped caskets, were taken from the plane and placed into a van built to hold them. There were three vans, each of which held three caskets. Because of the number of bodies that were being transferred, they filled each of the three vans: two in the first one, three in the second, and three in the third—making eight, total. The vans took these bodies to the mortuary, and then returned for the second group of eight.
A conspiracy theory had been floating that not all sixteen arrived in Dover, but I counted—and there were sixteen.
There was a moment in the second group where one of the marine pallbearers’ jacket kept getting caught in handle of the casket. It was subtle, but he was doing his best to keep his jacket free. My sister and I both thought that this had to be Brendan. That was his type of humor. Subtle, but brilliant. He could make a comment that was hilarious, and then suddenly you realized he’d just gotten you.
The very next casket, they could not get to sit properly in the van and they struggled with it for several minutes. The whole time that was going in, in my mind I kept hearing the old man from Monty Python’s Holy Grail as he bemoaned, “I don’t want to go on the cart…” Of course, I haven’t shared that with too many people as it seems somewhat sacrilegious.
On Friday, the base hosted a dinner for the military men and women and the families of those killed. On that day I posted:
Well, I finally have a few minutes to relax. It has been non-stop people, and red tape, and memorials. I am so surprised at Brendan’s reach. There are people all over the world who knew and loved him. Having met Brendan, I shouldn’t be surprised, but the amount of people he touched is profound.
We were touring the base on Friday, and a very young Corporal came out to meet us because he wanted to tell us just how much Brendan meant to him when they flew together. He told us that Brendan was a great teacher, patient leader, and someone he could trust. His eyes watered as he told us his story of working together.
And this is just one of the many stories I heard over the past week.
I would see this corporal on a couple more occasions, including the funeral, and he was respectful and humble. He called me “Sir,” which I can forgive him for since he’s a corporal and that’s how they address their superiors.
There have been some stories that one of the marine’s bodies didn’t make it to Dover with the rest of the group, but I can tell you this is false. I was there. I counted. All sixteen were delivered together and treated with the utmost respect.
There are currently several investigations into the incident, including the military, the FBI, and the NTSB. Nobody knows what happened yet, but we were told that it was not pilot error, nor did it have anything to do with the crew. Please ignore the conspiracy theories. I promise you, nobody cares more about the truth of what happened than me and Anna, so please keep that in mind.
A lot of people are posting about the flags flying half-mast, and I agree. There are many flags flying half-mast out here, but the protocol is that the President calls for this to happen, and he hasn’t called for that, and I don’t know why. So, the buck stops there.
By 17 July, there had still been no acknowledgment from our Commander-in-Chief that such an event had taken place, and my sister was beyond frustrated. She sent out a letter which ended up being posted in News and Guts, and was then picked up by Patch.com
Of course, we then got a beautiful (sarcasm dripping) response from some lady named Beth:
Would she like him to come to her home, polish her fanny, then kiss it? If this is true, she needs psychological help for either debilitating grief or narcissism. You folks who are devoting your lives to hating Trump might also consider getting help. There is a disturbing level of crazy on display here!
Normally I had been steering clear of the comments but my sister saw this, and so I felt compelled to respond.
Beth,
As Anna’s brother, I can assure you that the last thing she is worried about at this moment is her fanny: the size of her fanny, how her fanny looks, does it jiggle when she walks. These were all questions that may have been relevant two-and-a-half weeks ago, but pale in comparison to what she’s dealing with at this moment. In fact, she isn’t worried about her body at all, but she is worried about when she gets her husband’s body home. She still doesn’t have that.
We need to have a serious discussion on hate. It is not “hate” to ask someone to do their job. Trump is Brendan’s boss… ultimately. The COMMANDER IN CHIEF! When an employee dies on the job, it’s not asking too much for the boss to at least express their sympathies.
Surely there have been times in your life when a simple “I’m sorry,” would have made all the difference in the world. You have no idea what a simple comment of condolences would do to the families of the sixteen men killed, not to mention the hearts of the country they served.
Like Anna said, he didn’t even have to write it. He’s got staff writers. They could write something up and he could put his name on it. We’d never know the difference… unless they used complete sentences. Still, it would be something.
The question I would ask is, “what is it about compassion that you find so repugnant?” Or maybe you don’t know what compassion is? Maybe you wouldn’t recognize compassion if it were inside of you…
I know you say you "love Jesus," but here’s the irony. Jesus loves Brendan—obviously more than you do. And he loves Anna, and he loves those fifteen other men. In fact, he feels compassion for them. And he would waste no time making sure that everyone around him realized that he was hurt by what happened and that he loved these men, each and every one. And then he would name then by name. And he would have done this immediately, from wherever in the world he was, or whatever golf course he was playing on. He would have stopped at the back nine to make sure this was done first.
Is not Trump Christ's representative in the White House according to you? It would make sense, then, that he would do what Jesus would have done. That is, if he's truly Christ's representative. But that's not looking to be the case.
Now! Here’s my final question to you: "Do you pray to Jesus with that mouth?"
The post on News and Guts garnered a lot of questions as to how people could help, and so we referred them to the Wingmen Foundation where they could donate. This origination is designed to make it possible for families to be with their loved ones when it comes time to say goodbye. Well, some woman named Dinah found this reprehensible:
When you, or he, or I… join the military… WE ACCEPT THAT RISK… we don't come back whining, saying ' gee, I never thought I'd die in a plane crash, I want money', or do we?
There is no draft. All volunteer now…
For the record, I am in favor of a UNIVERSAL draft. A training & service stretch for everyone. With college deferments, and college credit for service.
Of course, that’s the challenge of an all-volunteer military… people like Dinah have no idea what our military and their families face on a daily basis. They can ignore it since it doesn’t involve them. So I had to respond to that as well.
Wow! Dinah. I’ll say it backwards. !woW. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone so flippantly dismiss the suffering of another, and bastardize that suffering by bringing it down to some ploy to make themselves rich—completely missing the point of what was asked.
As Anna’s brother, I would like to make it perfectly clear that my sister would rather have her husband than any money she might get from his life insurance. Which, as has been pointed out, is doled out in bits and pieces, and represents only a handful of years’ worth of salary.
I’m very confused as to why you conflated our request that help go to the Wingman foundation with some sort of money grab for ourselves. The point of this request was to offer hope and aid to our military families. We didn’t ask for money—not for us. We asked for donations to be made to an organization that reaches out to those whose lives have been profoundly changed by the death or dismemberment of a loved one serving in the military.
As it turns out, death is expensive and can quickly change the financial landscape of a family so quickly that they may not even have time to prevent themselves from going over a cliff into debt.
I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but the men and women who serve in our armed forces also have families: mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, and dare-I-say, children. In other words, it extends well beyond just the spouse.
According to their Website: “We are an all-volunteer, veteran-run non-profit organization dedicated to providing immediate post-mishap support for the Navy and Marine Corps Aviation community and their families.”
Let me just give you a sampling of what the Wingmen foundation does:
Help families get home to attend funerals by helping with a plane ticket, or hotel rooms—or both. Rental cars, if needed, even meals for extended family members. They also offer scholarships in honor of those fallen.
And you think that the families don’t deserve this because… life insurance?
So, I’m confused as to what it is about this organization that you find so repugnant. Or is it just helping people in general that bothers you. Or is it a military thing—you just hate the military.
You wrote: “When you, or he, or I… join the military… WE ACCEPT THAT RISK… we don't come back whining, saying ' gee, I never thought I'd die in a plane crash, I want money', or do we? There is no draft. All volunteer now…”
How ironic that you should totally miss the point of your last statement. They VOLUNTEER. Why do they volunteer? Because, unlike you, they love America and want to protect it. They volunteer their time, their resources, their families… and sometimes their lives. These people are willing to give up everything for us. Something tells me you couldn’t even be bothered to give up a Sunday to help at a bake sale.
And how quickly you forget the most important part: they volunteer because we ASSURE them that we will take care of them and their families. Those who give the most, should at least be taken care of: as well as their families.
Also try to keep in mind that when “you, or he, or I ask these people to serve us in the military,” WE accept that risk too… We don’t come back whining that we may have to help their families deal with the cost of their child's death or that we may have to help make sure their children are fed or that their families get to attend their funerals.
I’ve seen more compassion in Freddie Krueger than I see in you. Which begs the question: What’s where your soul should be? Is your soul in a horcrux? Is it named Nagini?
Thank god my sister never saw this one. And I hope that she never does.
Brendan’s body (what remained of it) was released on Wednesday, 26 July. Anna traveled to Dover on Tuesday, and spent the night on base. At 9:00 am Wednesday, Brendan was placed in a hearse which, followed by Anna and her driver, was given a police escort from Dover, through New Jersey, into New York, ending at Fishkill, where he was brought to the funeral home. We all waited there, where Brendan’s body was transferred from Dover’s hearse into another belonging to the local funeral home.
Once the transfer was made, we followed behind where he would be taken to Stewart Air Force Base. As the escort traveled down Main Street, along the side of the road were police and firefighters, all in full dress and saluting as we passed. Former vets, along with citizens, lined the streets, and at the funeral home a group of former vets arrived carrying flags saluted us as we left.
From there we were escorted down I-84. At one point, some of the cars pulled off to the side, and we saw people get out of their vehicles and salute us as we passed. Some guy in a Jeep tried to pass us, and the cop pulled him over, held him there until we were gone, and returned to the processional.
We arrived at Stewart Air Force Base where Brendan received an “official” transfer. We were in a hanger with hundreds of military men and women, all standing at attention on either side of us. It was so quiet in that I was sure people could hear the voices in my head, even now, arguing that what I was “seeing” wasn’t real.
Then, once again, he was transferred back to the town of Fishkill.
And finally, on Thursday, 27 July, we had the funeral service. Hundreds of marines were there to pay their final respects. People came in off the streets, veterans of all ages stopped in to say thank you to his widow…(my sister). Afterwards, he received a fully military sendoff, and he was sent away.
His next stop is Arlington, where he will rest alongside so many other of his brothers and sisters who gave their lives in service for their country.
One of the challenges my sister has faced is that so many people don’t understand how difficult it is for military families. Their spouses are often away, usually to one of the world’s hot spots, while they’re left to take care of the everyday challenges that face them and their children. Because it’s an all-volunteer force, so many don’t have to get involved at any level, and so they don’t know what goes on with our military families. As this accident as proved, even though they’re not overseas, they’re still putting their life in danger, and people like Beth and Dinah have no idea what they go through.
The investigation is ongoing, and so we await word on what caused the accident. But what we know at this moment is that sixteen men left us so suddenly, and none of us (those who loved them) were ready to say goodbye.
Which takes me back to a saying on a card I like to quote:
Sometimes life hands you lemons, so you make lemonade. Of course, sometimes life pulls down your pants, rubs a power-sander across your nekked ass and then pours that lemonade on your raw, abraded, skin.
Life is so often unfair. But then, the universe has never been accused of being fair.