In early July 2023, I was in Millington, TN, serving on Command and General Staff for Operation Blue Suede Shoes. It was a small Type 4 response to some severe thunderstorms that had brought excessive straight-line winds to a small community about 30 minutes north of Memphis. The winds had been categorically stronger than anything this community had experienced in a long time, and countless large old-growth trees were down across the area.
Early in the op, I was sitting down to eat when the phone for our Forward Operating Base (FOB) rang. On the line was a man who wanted to see about getting help for his neighbor. We briefly discussed the details, and just as I thought we were finishing the call, he abruptly changed the subject.
“Well, let me tell you the real reason I called…,” he said.
He began talking about his son and how he was a veteran. Then, he told me his son was also a member of Team Rubicon and how he had always spoken highly of the organization. I couldn’t help but notice how he was referring to his son in the past tense and got a sickening premonition of what he’d say next. His son, he said, had struggled with a lot of what he’d experienced overseas and had finally decided he couldn’t take anymore and had ended his own life.
As his voice began to crack and he fought back emotion, the man said he was hoping there might be someone at the FOB who had known his son, and if so, that he would like to talk to them. A lump grew in my throat as I asked his son’s name and if he’d lived in the area or was somewhere else. I told him I’d ask around, then gave him the address of our FOB and invited him to stop by anytime; we’d be happy to spend some time with him and learn more about his son. He thanked me for listening.
I hung up, overcome by his story and struggling to maintain my composure. Before I said anything to anyone, though, I had to confirm the story was accurate. Trust but verify. I looked up the son in Team Rubicon’s volunteer management system: There he was, Donald Vardell. Greyshirt number 811. He had signed soon after Team Rubicon was founded.
I struggled to get the words out that evening as I told everyone about the phone call. Everyone was touched.
The next evening, as we were winding down from another day of chainsaw operations, a man and woman approached the FOB. Another homeowner looking for assistance, I thought, as they approached. Then, they introduced themselves: It was the man I’d spoken to the previous evening, Donald Vardell Sr., and his wife. I ushered them inside and introduced him to the group. Everyone rallied around him, encompassing him in an embrace of grey as we listened to his and his son’s story. Afterward, we headed outside and took some pictures with him at the TR trailer. His wife pulled me aside and thanked me, saying I had no idea how much her husband needed this.
Though he’d contacted us seeking help for his neighbors, while at the FOB, Donald admitted that his yard had also been affected. We saw that ourselves the following day when we sent a saw team to his residence, where they worked on some downed trees. He got to spend more time with some Greyshirts and see them in action, no doubt envisioning his son there in grey. He even helped by running his small riding mower as a tractor to pull vegetative debris to the curb, at one point teaching a young Greyshirt how to operate it.
Meanwhile, back at the FOB, the Incident Commander, Jarrett Brown, and I were discussing how amazing it would be if we could find a picture of Donald Jr. in his grey shirt and present it to his father. In the evening, when Carlos Chiossone, our photographer, returned from the field, we mentioned this to him, and he set out on what seemed like an almost impossible mission. Gallantly, he reached out to as many people as he could in what was probably going to be a futile effort. On the contrary, Carlos came through big time with not just some casual selfie but with a proper portrait of the son wearing his grey shirt—far better than we had imagined. We sprang into action.
On our last day of the operation, we instructed all Greyshirts to finish their open work orders and meet at the Vardell house at 12 p.m. sharp. We rolled up strong and lined his street with Team Rubicon trucks, their beds full of saws and equipment. Greyshirts spilled out across Donald’s front yard, and he came out so happy and excited to see everyone. As he made his rounds, talking to everyone and sharing hugs, Jarrett and I backed a truck into his driveway. Discreetly, we set framed photos of Donald Jr. on the tailgate, along with a grey shirt bearing his name. I pulled Mrs. Vardell aside and showed her the gifts, then told her to be ready.
We beckoned Donald to the rear of the truck and gestured towards the tailgate. Until my dying day, I will never forget his reaction: He just exploded with emotion. He grabbed his wife as his knees buckled and exclaimed, “Oh honey, look what they did! It’s my boy! That’s my boy!”
Some of the biggest, burliest men on the team broke down in tears. Many Greyshirts had to walk away to gather their composure. Even as I write this, months after the fact, I have to wipe my eyes so I can see the screen. It was one of the most emotionally rewarding moments, not just in my time with Team Rubicon but in my life. I will never forget it.
We spent a little more time with him; then, we had to be on our way to begin the demobilization process. We all left that operation with hearts overflowing. This is why we do what we do as Greyshirts. As Greyshirt James Young has said, and was captured saying in the first episode of the Roku Original series, Team Rubicon, it’s not just about the hard work; it’s about the heart work. What we get out of all our efforts is more rewarding than the biggest paycheck. There is nothing like it, and it is why I am both proud and grateful to wear the jersey of the greatest team on earth.
