Army Spc. Christopher D. Rose, 21, San Francisco; Killed by a Roadside Bomb

He was devoted to his sisters back here. He was devoted to his brothers over there.

Christopher D. Rose would flash his 1,000-watt smile and remind his two older siblings how pretty they were as he grew up in Vallejo, Calif., and later in San Francisco.

They were the ones in whom he confided when he was mulling over joining the Army. He would use his GI benefits for college and a future career in law enforcement, he explained.

In Iraq, Spc. Chris Rose was a gunner on a Humvee who made a habit of putting the welfare of his fellow 4th Infantry Division soldiers ahead of his own.

When a roadside bomb blew up next to him in mid-June, Rose insisted on quickly returning to patrol duty even though a chunk of metal from the blast remained embedded in his left arm and it hurt to lift it.

He was on patrol June 29 when his Humvee came upon a strand of barbed wire blocking a Baghdad street. When Rose climbed from the vehicle to move the wire, he stepped on a buried detonator and triggered the hidden bomb that killed him.

“He didn’t like to be sitting around when his Army brothers were out there fighting,” said his sister Lisa of Millbrae, Calif. “He was worried about his friends.”

She learned the details of her brother’s death -- and of his dedication -- when she e-mailed soldiers whose names she found on his MySpace page on the Internet. One of them, Spc. Andy Zepeda, told of his unsuccessful struggle to keep Rose alive until a Blackhawk helicopter could arrive to take him to an Army hospital.

Rose, 21, was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 67th Armored Regiment, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 4th Infantry Division at Ft. Hood, Texas. He was the first Iraq war casualty from San Francisco, a city that has actively opposed the U.S.-led invasion.

Earlier this year, San Francisco supervisors approved a resolution calling for the impeachment of President Bush because of the war. Last fall, voters approved a ballot measure opposing the presence of military recruiters on city school campuses.

Rose’s parents, Rudy and Margarita Rose, had been surprised in 2004 when their son -- who had just turned 18 and completed high school -- told them he had joined the Army.

“He was afraid we couldn’t pay for college,” said his mother, who is a clerk at Target. “I said, ‘I’ll work two jobs. You’ll be able to go to college.’ I was worried. But he wanted to be a policeman. He talked about that even when he was younger.”

After Rose enlisted, his parents moved from San Francisco to nearby Daly City.

His father, who works as a security officer, said his son had become depressed over the war effort after a roadside bombing incident that occurred shortly after his deployment to Iraq in November.

When his patrol spotted people running away from the explosion, Rose was ordered to fire at the fleeing figures. When the bodies were inspected, it was discovered that they were youngsters -- though one was clutching a cellphone rigged as a remote detonation trigger.

Rose’s Army superiors assured him that the killings were justified, but “it bothered him terribly because they were just kids,” his father said.

When Rose returned home in May on a two-week leave, he asked family members not to turn on the news or talk about the Iraq war, his mother said.

Family members said Rose was an instinctive peacemaker who always tried to settle family squabbles.

“He had an amazing smile. It was contagious. It made you smile,” Lisa Rose said, adding that he was particularly sweet with her and his other sister, Marianne.

“He always told us how much he loved us. He would call my sister and me beautiful -- can you imagine how cool that was coming from a brother?”

While those around him marveled at his maturity, a teenage Rose viewed himself differently.

“I always thought I was going to be a kid forever!” he wrote for his senior class commencement program at Voice of Pentecost Academy, a small Christian school in San Francisco. He had transferred there after attending San Francisco’s Riordan High School. He completed his studies early, in January 2004.

“It’s funny, I’ve always seen the people around me as adults, and I was the kid. Now I’m out of high school and joining the Army, and people are treating me a lot differently,” Rose explained in a passage printed between a stoic photograph of him in his senior gown and a joyful snapshot of him as a laughing preschooler. “The next step of my life has just begun, and I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

In school, Rose was an honor student who excelled at math and stood out at the 75-student campus.

Academy Vice Principal Olga Leon described Rose as a somewhat shy but always reliable young man who took his studies seriously.

“In debate class, he would argue strongly for what he believed in. He was very respectful, very disciplined,” she said. “He wasn’t the class clown, but he had a wonderful sense of humor and would say things to make kids laugh.”

Most of Rose’s 15-member senior class attended his funeral service Tuesday at St. Augustine Church in South San Francisco.

At the service, Maria Rowena Mendoza Sanchez, San Francisco’s Philippine consul general, delivered condolences on behalf of the Philippines as she read from a letter by Alberto Romulo, that country’s foreign affairs secretary.

Romulo praised Rose’s “bravery and commitment in helping secure a free, stable and democratic Iraq,” adding that “Christopher represented the best of the Filipino American -- freedom-loving, independent and goal-oriented.”

Rose’s father, who is a Vietnam War veteran, is from the central Philippines province of Aklan. His mother was born in Nicaragua.

Mourners traveled in a processional that included 40 flag-carrying riders on a motorcycle honor guard to Golden Gate National Cemetery in San Bruno for burial.

A bagpiper played a mournful dirge as Rose was laid to rest near his grandfather, who fought in World War II and the Korean War.

Then a military honor guard fired a 21-gun salute before a bugler’s strains of taps filled the air and the rolling, 162-acre burial ground turned silent.