‘A True Soldier’ -- but a Statistic Too

When a roadside bomb snuffed out the life of Joel Lynn Bertoldie on Friday, his death nudged the body count in Iraq one notch higher. He was, for a moment, anonymous -- another sad statistic in a country where an American soldier perishes, on average, every other day.

But his death sent out rays of sorrow and pain to those who knew and loved him. For them, thousands of miles away, his was the hidden face beneath the newspaper headlines and TV news scrawls that reduce tragedy to shorthand: “Another soldier killed in Iraq.”

To his buddy, Spc. Bruce Brech, Spc. Bertoldie -- everybody called him “Bert” -- was an unusually mature 20-year-old who wanted nothing so much as to be the best father in the world to his 10-month-old son, Jesse.

To his sidekick, Spc. Gerard Dessman, he was a man with a special charisma: “He had a way about him that drew you to him and made you feel like you were home, like you were family.”

To his company commander, Capt. Steven T. Barry, Bertoldie was the consummate soldier: fearless and loyal, a wisecracking kid who turned the tables on his captain before the battle for Baghdad in April by reminding him to stay safe and come back alive.

And back home in Independence, Mo., Joel Bertoldie was the gung-ho young man who joined the Army right out of Truman High School, who loved to water ski and wanted to become a marine biologist. He was Debi Bertoldie’s boy, Koda Bertoldie’s big brother and, just two months before he shipped out for the Middle East, the proud new father of Jesse Michael Bertoldie.

No one realized it right away, but Bertoldie’s death had set an unwelcome benchmark. He was the 148th member of the U.S. military to die in Operation Iraqi Freedom, surpassing the death toll of 147 from the 1991 Persian Gulf War. That was a meaningless statistic to officers and men who came to honor him at a memorial service Sunday night, where Bertoldie’s boots, rifle and helmet were on solemn display.

The men spoke instead of Bertoldie’s authentic storytelling abilities, his Tusker team spirit -- his battalion is nicknamed the Tuskers -- and the way his personality could light up a room.

“A true soldier and a true battle buddy,” said his immediate superior, Sgt. Patrick Jockisch.

On the duty roster, Bertoldie was a driver for Headquarters Company, Task Force 4-64, 2nd Brigade, 3rd Infantry Division (Mechanized). He was at the wheel of his Humvee on Friday afternoon, returning from an escort mission, when someone very close to the roadway detonated a homemade bomb that sent the vehicle careening across the highway at a traffic circle overlooking the Euphrates River and the desert city of Fallouja.

Over the military radio network that day could be heard the voices of Bertoldie’s fellow soldiers describing frantic attempts to stabilize and resuscitate him, the clipped call for a medevac helicopter, the desperate reports that he was still breathing, and finally the news that he was gone.

Across their sunbaked desert base, soldiers listening in stopped what they were doing and hung their heads. Some of them cursed the enemy; some wiped away tears. The 2nd Brigade was devastated. Bertoldie was its first combat death since April 8, the second day of the battle for Baghdad, and its ninth combat death in the war. Overall, the 3rd Infantry has suffered 37 dead in the Iraq conflict, the most of any division.

Driving in a well-armed convoy to the memorial at the remote Tusker base in Habbaniyah late Sunday, some of the soldiers had to pass the spot where Bertoldie died. It was a scorched patch of roadway at the traffic circle, an obscenity for them on the road at twilight.

Division commander Maj. Gen. Buford Blount III was at the memorial service, seated among his officers and men on a reviewing stand overlooking a parade field. Someone had placed a coin-sized Tusker insignia and a lone cigarette next to Bertoldie’s rifle and his helmet, with his name inscribed on the band. Two snapshots showed a trim, handsome young man cradling a football, and seated behind the wheel of his Humvee.

Capt. Barry was mournful, but angry too. His voice had a hard edge when he told his fellow soldiers: “I challenge everyone here today to remain vigilant in the fight to kill and capture the scum who continue to attack us.” Bertoldie, he said, was a dedicated soldier “who lost his life fighting cowardly Iraqis.”

The battalion chaplain, Peter Johnson, acknowledged the division’s long, punishing mission. Many of its soldiers arrived in the region as long ago as September and later fought their way into Baghdad. They were “weary, tired, running low on faith,” the chaplain noted, and burdened by questions surrounding Bertoldie’s death:

“Why did this have to happen?”

“Where was God when Bert needed him?”

“When are we going home?”

The chaplain assured the soldiers that their mission in Iraq was “right -- a hard right, and it comes at a very high price.” They occupied the moral high ground in Iraq, he said.

“But if attacked, we will fight -- and we will fight hard,” Johnson said. “We will fight with justice ... dignity ... and honor.”

When the chaplain had finished, a private sang “Amazing Grace,” breaking down in sobs halfway through, then composing himself and resuming. An honor guard fired a crisp salute. A bugler played Taps. In the front row, Bertoldie’s closest friends hugged each other and wept.

Back home in Independence, Bertoldie’s grandmother, Judy Hampshire, described for the Kansas City Star how the family had been preparing to send him a package of his favorite DVDs when the military told them he had been killed. He had sent them an upbeat e-mail just that morning, she said.

“I think he really liked the Army,” Hampshire told the paper. But “he wanted to come home.”

In a November 2001 interview with the Savannah Morning News, Bertoldie said of Army life: “It’s a whole new world for me. I like coming out here and staying overnight and roughing it. I like driving the tanks.”

Sunday’s memorial service was filmed by soldiers from the Army’s combat camera team, who are preparing a video to send to the family -- and in particular, they said, for his son when he’s a man.

An investigation is underway to determine how insurgents were able to plant and disguise the bomb. The brigade’s commanders say they are trying to find ways to protect their soldiers from future attacks. They are also struggling to find the right words to put into personal letters they will write and send to Bertoldie’s family.

There were several American military checkpoints Sunday night along the highway where Bertoldie died. And on Monday, all day and into the hot night, his fellow soldiers swung on their flak vests and ducked into their helmets, back on patrol.