A Fallen Soldier

In this episode of Being There, I read “A Fallen Soldier,” written by my father, Gene McCalmont, on April 30, 2004.

As the Iraq War dominated the headlines, Dad found himself reflecting on another generation of young Americans who answered their country's call to serve. While restoring a 1967 Triumph Bonneville once owned by a young soldier who never returned home, he wrestled with questions of duty, sacrifice, responsibility, and the human cost of war.

At the heart of the story is Lance Corporal Aaron C. Austin of Sunray, Texas, a 21-year-old Marine killed in Iraq just days before the essay was written. Though Dad never knew him personally, his loss served as a powerful reminder that every casualty is someone's son, someone's friend, someone's future.

Following the reading, I revisit who Aaron Austin was and reflect on a different chapter of this story—the Triumph Bonneville itself. For years, I held onto the motorcycle because it had become part of Dad's story and part of mine. Eventually, I realized I was waiting for him to come back and help me finish what he started. Instead, I chose to pass the bike on to a family who lovingly restored it and returned it to the road, allowing its story to continue.

This episode is about memory, service, loss, and the things we eventually learn to let go.

Transcript

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Welcome to the Being There Podcast. Stories from the Road, where we keep the rubber side down. These are stories written by my father, Gene McAlmott. Commentary by his son, me, John McAlmott. This is episode 16, written April 30th, 2004, titled A Fallen Soldier. The ongoing Iraq War leans heavily on the author and transports him to another time and another unpopular war when he was as young as so many who now serve. And yet the differences between the two wars are pronounced. He asks the unanswered questions about responsibility, accountability, and the uncharted future. This is a fallen soldier. I have sometimes found it difficult pulling myself into the present, especially when surrounded by headlines from the pages of nineteen sixty eight. Two more Marines died today when their vehicle hit an improvised explosive device. Three other U.S. troops were killed in an ambush outside Falua. Another met his death at the hands of an unseen sniper. It had been the bloodiest month since the president declared major combat over in Iraq. That was a year ago. It was a shallow victory that was but part of the story, and these stories were heading too close to home. I thought of other soldiers wounded and killed by a population that saw them as invaders. It didn't help that our politicians were quarreling over past medals from another war and who had served in what regiment for how long. One statistic tells a lot. A hundred and fifty Americans died in the March of Baghdad. A hundred and fifty Americans have died so far this month. I had read that our leadership was apparently hell bent on settling old scores even before nine eleven. An unresolved war had to be finished. A despised dictator must be vanquished. Cold warriors needed someone to hate. There was unfinished business about the land. Isn't it America's role as the world's only superpower to free those who are repressed? It's a hard question, often asked. I switched off the news and left the retired generals and pundits to their analysis. I headed for the garage. My sixty seven Bondevilla was waiting on the lift to be serviced. Oil stains on the floor reminded me of the good times I had had on the machine, not unlike this one. I had purchased this bike from an estate and had restored it to its original condition. It had been sitting unused under a rotted canvas in a virtually abandoned warehouse on Fort Worth's west side. Friends of the family told me it had belonged to a young man who was called to serve his country in nineteen sixty seven. His father had stored the bike for his son's return, but it was not to be. Unable to let it go, he had left the bike untouched for thirty years, as if it were waiting for the return of his fallen soldier. I reached for the radio. The doors were playing on the classic rock station. I became unstuck in time. We were all lined up like meat on the hoof as the sergeant barked out his orders. My number had been called just like every other man standing around me in his skivvies. A line of daunters waited with needles and probes. Next was an often repeated word as we marched through the various inspection stations. I laid my arm on the carved wooden support as the med tech plunged a needle into my vein and drew blood. The room grew unusually hot and I broke into a sweat. The boy behind me hit the floor as the needle was withdrawn, and blood ran down from my arm from the open puncture. He shouted, Get that guy a wet rag. He looked at me. You? You're done. Next When you get drafted, your world changes. You are truly just a number. I wiped at the dust that had collected on the old bike and cleaned away the haze on the single mirror and Smith instruments. A small dab of semi chrome on a polish rag brought back the gleam of the cast aluminum gear case. I wondered if that young soldier would approve of the care I was giving his most prized possession. I wonder if he dreamed of rides through the countryside with his girl while tramping through some forgotten jungle, of what it would be like when he got home, of summer evenings and the sound of a British twin echoing off the walls of the city. Another Bonneville, another road, another girl were part of my past. If you had to, could you kill for your country? asked the man in the white coat. Is there any reason why you shouldn't serve in your country's armed forces? I felt her arms around me, seeing her red hair billowing in the wind in my rear view mirror. How could I answer these questions? My life today, by most measures, is relatively comfortable and secure. My family has not been touched by this current conflict, and like most Americans, we have had to sacrifice little since September eleventh. Nor have we been asked to sacrifice, and that troubles me. It makes this war feel somehow remote, as if we have no responsibility for it or for those who serve. But I know this to be untrue. Today I heard that the draft might be reinstated, and that truly frightens me. I saw images of young men dancing in the streets with weapons held high, jubilantly celebrating the death of another U.S. soldier. There are important questions to be asked. There are important decisions to be made. Lance Corporal Aaron C. Austin was from Sunray, Texas. He was one of us. He was also a Marine serving his country in Iraq. He was killed by hostile fire in A1 Anbar province on April 26th, along with the others of the 2nd Battalion. I did not know Aaron, nor do I know his family. But his death diminishes me nonetheless. Aaron was twenty-one years old. Somewhere, a father waits for the return of another fallen soldier. Lance Corporal Aaron C. Austin. I looked it up back then and I looked it up again. A Marine. And honoring a Marine no matter how long ago his death was is always something that we do. So I thought maybe you'd like to know a little bit about him. On April 26, 2024, at 1100 hours, a numerically superior enemy force attacked Lance Corporal Austin's platoon from three different directions. The enemy fired dozens of rocket-propelled grenades, thousands of machine gun rounds, and then assaulted within 20 meters of Lance Corporal Austin's position. While throwing grenades and spraying their positions with AK-47 fire, sixteen of his fellow Marines on the rooftop position were wounded, some severely. After ensuring his wounded platoon members received medical treatment, he rallied the few remaining members of his platoon and rushed to the critical rooftop defense position. Braving enemy machine gunfire and rocket propelled grenade fire, he reached the rooftop and prepared to throw a hand grenade. As he moved into position from which to throw this grenade, enemy machine gun fire struck Lance Corporal Austin multiple times in the chest. Undaunted by his injuries and with heroic effort, Lance Corporal Austin threw his grenade, which exploded amidst the enemy, halting their furious attack. By his bold leadership, wise judgment, and complete dedication to his duty, Lance Corporal Austin reflected great credit upon himself and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service. As I read this, I'm sitting here looking at a photo of the man. Good-looking guy. A warrior. A true hero and a protector of our freedoms. And yes, a family that did not get to see their son come home. And a writing from my father that shows you his deep ability to feel and experience life. That old Triumph motorcycle, well, couple of years ago, I made the decision to let it go. It hadn't been written in years. It hadn't been written under my father's care in years as well, and it had once again decayed to a point of waiting for somebody to come back. Me waiting for my father to return. I would oftentimes just go sit on the bike, think about getting it started, but knowing what I would need to do to get it to a place where I could ride it again was just not within my means at the time. By myself being a father and full-time working like my father did at one point in his life, things like the motorcycle just sat in a corner and did not get the attention paid to them that they needed. But I found a marvelous home for it. I placed it up for sale, and phone calls came in like mad people wanting to buy it. Most people wanting to part it out, and I didn't need to sell it. I just wanted it to go home to somebody that would restore it back to its originality and write it again. I got an email from a man up in Utah, and he had a story to tell. A story that made me know that would be a good home for this bike. He and his son drove down and picked it up, took it back up to their house, started the restoration project, shared all the photos with me, and it was something that truly brought joy to my heart. We all come to a point in our lives where we have to start weeding out the hobbies, focusing in on the simple things that matter. And although motorcycles may become a thing of my future again at some point at the time that I sold everything, it just wasn't in the cards. So it's nice to know that that tribe is living another life with a family that truly cares about it and has restored it back to its grandeur and wonder. In fact, I need to reach out to that guy. He was restoring four tribes so he and his brothers could recreate a trip that his father had once made. This recording is for personal listening only. My voice lightness and performance are protected and may not be recorded, reproduced, or used in any form of AI training, cloning, or synthetic replication without my explicit written consent. Thanks again for being here. Until next time, keep the rubber side down and save travels.