What We Carry on Memorial Day
On Memorial Day, we pause—not to celebrate, but to remember
On Memorial Day, we pause—not to celebrate, but to remember.
We remember names spoken in reverent tones and etched into stone. We remember the brothers and sisters who didn’t come home—and the quiet weight we carry for them every day after.
For me, one of those names is Staff Sergeant Eric T. Duckworth.
I met Eric in 2005 when I took command of the 148th Military Police Detachment, part of the 759th Military Police Battalion at Fort Carson, Colorado. He was assigned to the Traffic Section of the Provost Marshal’s Office and the Special Reaction Team. He was one of those soldiers every leader hopes for—hard-working, smart, and driven. The kind of soldier you never have to check on because you know the job’s already done—and done right.
In the summer of 2006, before the 758th MP Battalion’s deployment to Iraq, I recommended Eric for a critical role: team leader for the battalion’s Command Sergeant Major’s personal security detail. My recommendation was accepted.
Eric and I both deployed to Forward Operation Base Rustamiyah in the south eastern part of Baghdad as part of the 759th’s advance party—he as the team leader, I as a Battle Captain and Assistant Operations Officer in the battalion’s tactical operations center.
When we left Fort Carson, our deployment was scheduled for 12 months, from August 2006 through August 2007—or so we thought. But we were extended by 90 days as part of what became known as “The Surge.”
During our time on Rusty, we faced indirect mortar and 107mm rocket fire multiple times a day for 300 days straight. Every movement off the FOB carried the threat of IEDs—EFPs, buried artillery shells, and anti-tank mines. Through the heat, the fire, and the constant tension, Eric was steady. He and his team were always prepared—ready to take the CSM wherever he needed to be, without hesitation.
On the day he was killed, the Battalion Commander and Command Sergeant Major were returning from a memorial service in another part of Baghdad. Eric’s vehicle was hit by an Explosively Formed Penetrator—one of the deadliest threats we faced.
I was in the Tactical Operations Center when the “Troops In Contact” call came in. I remember the moment in sharp, painful detail. I remember the follow-up radio call of “Fallen Angel.” In that moment, we all knew one of our own had been killed. That kind of radio call never fades.
I still think about how close we were to rotating home. If we hadn’t been caught up in the Surge, we might have left earlier. If I hadn’t made that recommendation—would things have been different? Eric was killed just days before his birthday, and about a month before we were scheduled to return home. That timing never leaves you.
I carry that with me.
Those who’ve served know this truth: the bonds forged in uniform are not easily explained. It’s not just about shared hardship—it’s about shared purpose. In the field, in the fight, far from home, you learn to trust the person to your left and right with your life. That kind of trust doesn’t fade. It lingers—in who we become, how we lead, and in the questions that never really get answered.
Memorial Day isn’t just about grief. It’s about duty. It’s about how we live in the aftermath of sacrifice—not through grand gestures or speeches, but by walking the long road of service with humility, character, and commitment.
To those who’ve lost someone in uniform, I offer this: You are not alone. We remember with you. We grieve with you. And we walk with you.
To those still wearing the uniform—or those who carry the code long after they’ve taken it off—stay the course. Keep leading. Keep serving.
I often think about Eric when I write. When I speak. When I act. I hope the work I do, the words I choose, and the life I live are somehow worthy of his sacrifice.
Because Memorial Day isn’t just about remembering the fallen. It’s about living in a way that honors them.
We remember.
We carry.
And we continue.
In quiet remembrance and shared resolve—
The Quiet Leader