Memories of a Stryker

ROCHESTER, Thurston County — It's been a bit over six months since Cpl. Christopher J. Nelson was killed in Iraq by a suicide bomber.

This little town of 1,800 just south of Olympia, with pastures and small family farms, was his home.

Some 300 people turned out last fall for the 22-year-old man's memorial service at Rochester High School. He was the community's first local casualty from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. And so far he has been the only one.

Six months later, on this Memorial Day, time for those closest to Nelson just seems to go in slow motion — for Nelson's widow, the rest of his family, his friends.

Nelson was among more than 100 soldiers from Washington who have lost their lives in Iraq or Afghanistan, not counting the many others who were based at military installations here but came from other states.

In peacetime, this holiday, first officially observed in 1868 to memorialize the nation's war dead, had become for many simply an unofficial excuse to usher in the summer.

It was that way, too, for Nelson's family. A time to relax, maybe have a barbecue.

This year, there is just sadness.

Family members have trouble sleeping. He comes to them in dreams. Everyday events trigger memories of Chris.

His widow is Angela Nelson. She's 20 years old, a hairstylist. She met Chris Nelson in high school.

Their first date was on Oct. 24, 2003. They were married on Feb. 11, 2006.

The night before her husband was killed, she had a dream.

In her dream, he called her on his cellphone, like he did once a week. Usually they talked for an hour and a half, about anything except the war. There would be time to talk about that later, once he was home. Once he was safe.

But that night in her dream, he was panicked. "All he was saying was, 'I love you, I love you, you need to know I love you,' " Angela Nelson remembers.

"I woke up. I checked my phone. He hadn't called."

Stryker unit on patrol

Iraq is 10 hours ahead of West Coast time, so it was already daytime there when Angela had her dream. Nelson may have even already been on patrol. It was a Sunday, Nov. 18.

An Associated Press story would later report the facts:

"A suicide bomber detonated his explosives as American soldiers were handing out toys to children northeast of Baghdad, killing at least three of the children and three of the troopers ... "

The other two soldiers were Cpl. Jason T. Lee, 26, of Fruitport, Mich., and Pfc. Marius L. Ferrero, 22, of Miami.

They were all platoon-mates, part of the 4th Stryker Brigade Combat Team out of Fort Lewis.

Only a few hours later, Angela was met at her parents' home in Rochester by two soldiers in their dress uniforms, who had driven there from Fort Lewis in a black SUV.

They asked Angela to sit down. One of them then began with the words that have been uttered more than 4,000 times to American families of soldiers serving in the Middle East.

"The secretary of the Army regrets to inform you ... "

She heard the words, but it didn't seem real, says Angela. "It's still not real."

Then the men in their dress uniforms drove to see Nelson's father, John Nelson. Angela and her family went with them.

John Nelson is 49 and works at a local sawmill. When told the news, he turned and swung his arm downward in agony.

Second combat tour

Chris Nelson was a little over two months into his second combat tour in Iraq when he was killed. Even at 22, he was considered a seasoned soldier by his platoon buddies. Many of them were new to the war.

They nicknamed him "Rooster," because Nelson always listened to the song of that name by the grunge group Alice in Chains.

In Iraq, the Army taped a video of the small memorial his buddies had for Nelson and the two other soldiers killed with him.

It shows the young men — white, black, Hispanic — with rifles slung on their shoulders. They hug each other, try to hold back tears as they say their goodbyes.

John Nelson has watched the video once. He keeps it in a big plastic box, along with newspaper clippings about his son's funeral, and the many letters of condolence. He doesn't open the box.

He has tried to write thank-you cards to the people who sent sympathy letters.

"It took me three hours to do two cards," he said. "It just ... it just brings all the emotions."

He has only recently been able to sleep through the night. A couple times a week.

On his left arm, John Nelson now has a tattoo. It shows his son's unit badge, his name and the words, "My Son Our Hero."

The dad shows the tattoo and tears well up in his eyes.

Breaking the news

That Sunday six months ago, there were many others who had to be notified.

Angela picked up the phone and called Bobby Krouse, 22, one of Nelson's best friends. Krouse now works installing satellite dishes.

The two young men used to hang out every day. Bobby was the manager of the Rochester High football team. Nelson was a linebacker.

Nelson had a truck. Krouse had an all-terrain vehicle.

Some weekends they would join other friends out in a field, where they would build a fire, hang for a while, drink beer. Sometimes they'd go off-roading. Around here they call that "mudding." They would drive their vehicles through a mudhole over and over again, making it deeper.

Now Krouse, too, has a hard time sleeping. He's lost weight.

Sometimes it's hard to put the pain into words, so Krouse also got a tattoo. It shows an Army helmet, an M-16 and Nelson's dog tags.

A lonely struggle

Neither John Nelson nor Krouse have sought counseling. They have dealt with the sorrow by themselves.

Once a week, Angela Nelson goes to Fort Lewis to meet with a group of other military widows. This Memorial Day weekend she is in Washington, D.C., to attend a seminar sponsored by Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors, or TAPS.

Still, sometimes she feels anger when in her everyday life she hears a wife or girlfriend talk about getting together with the man in her life. For Angela, it seems as if everywhere there are reminders of Chris.

"You can be driving the road and remember, 'He liked the sticker that's on that car.' " she said. "Sometimes I get tired. It's always there. You can't get away from it. Reality catches up with you."

Reminders of a life

Angela Nelson lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment in Centralia.

Photos of her husband line the hallway, the living room, the kitchen, her bedroom.

In the second bedroom, she has three green plastic foot lockers. They contain all of her husband's personal belongings from the Army, the clothes carefully folded, the letters she mailed him now in plastic envelopes.

Six months later, one of the lockers still has the smell of the Copenhagen chewing tobacco that Nelson preferred.

Angela Nelson also keeps a large safe, for the most important items.

There's the wallet that Nelson had on him when he was killed. It contains his military ID, a photo of him and his wife, a $5 bill, a credit card and a debit card. A receipt shows he had $53.84 in his account. His last purchase, it shows, was a hamburger.

The safe also holds the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart that Nelson was posthumously awarded.

In a triangular, varnished box, there is a U.S. flag that has been folded with precision. It was the flag that draped Nelson' coffin when the Army flew his body home.

Right by the safe is a walk-in closet.

On one side it holds Nelson's civilian clothes — his jeans, shirts, nicely hung — next to his combat fatigues.

It's as if Nelson could just walk on in at any minute.

But the hard truth is always with Angela.

"I don't look over there," she says about Chris' clothes. "I go right past them to mine."

Erik Lacitis: 206-464-2237 or elacitis@seattletimes.com