Most of the time at our disaster relief nonprofit, we help return people to homes that had been rendered uninhabitable by a storm, but which we have helped make livable again. On a rare occasion, we help return a homeowner’s possessions to them instead. This is the story of one of those times, and the lasting impact that small act of service—reuniting a disaster survivor with what was thought to be a lost flag—has had on me.
In mid-January of this year I was serving as the Incident Commander for Operation Trojan Moon, Team Rubicon’s ongoing response to Hurricane Helene, in Coffee County, GA. It had been about four months since Hurricane Helene had moved through and ravaged the area, knocking down an unquantifiable number of trees and rendering roadways impassable and structures uninhabitable across entire communities. Team Rubicon had been on the ground helping homeowners recover in the area since the storm hit, yet it seemed as though we had barely scratched the surface. The amount of work to be done and needs unmet still surpassed all that we had accomplished. Being the only active disaster relief organization still in the area though, we continued to push on, hoping to improve the lives of those affected, one homeowner at a time.
We had built up quite a reputation in this rural Georgia community. Almost everyone knew who we were and what we were doing. At gas stations and restaurants, Greyshirts were regularly approached by locals either expressing their gratitude or requesting our help. Our phone number was circulating through the community by word of mouth, so, it was not uncommon for people to call the Forward Operating Base (FOB) throughout the day looking for help.
One day, our Operations Section Chief, Thomas “Cooper” Cantrell, answered a call from a distraught “Miss Sheila,” who was desperately searching for help. A massive tree had fallen across her home during Hurricane Helene, caving in the roof, rendering the home unlivable, and burying almost everything. There was one thing still in the house she hadn’t been able to retrieve, she told Cooper becoming quite emotional, that she was hoping someone from Team Rubicon could help her get it: her grandfather’s burial flag. He was a World War I veteran and that flag meant more to her than everything else in the house combined.
With a stern face, Cooper approached me about the lost flag and told me he was going to get it, and that he wasn’t asking permission, he was stating his intent. “Damn right you are,” I said, “and I’m going with you.” We gathered up hard hats and other PPE and headed out.
As we turned down Miss Sheila’s street, we didn’t have to look at house numbers, it was immediately apparent which was hers: the one nearly obliterated by a massive pine tree. Half the house stood; half was crushed. The bedrooms on the home’s north side had collapsed under the tree’s branches and the roof had been seriously compromised. The tree’s trunk had cut through the middle of the home like a hot knife through a stick of butter, coming to rest where the front door once stood.
Somewhere in the mess was the lost flag. Our only entryway into the house would be through the windows.
After donning hard hats and our PPE, we carefully made our way through one of the windows on the side of the house that was still structurally intact. Inside, the scene was surreal: a twisted maze of splintered and broken wood—a combination of tree branches, 2x4s from the walls, and roof trusses. We delicately traversed the obstacles, careful not to disturb anything that could be bearing an overhead load and cautious of nails and other potential hazards in the debris beneath our feet. Occasionally we’d encounter things that remained eerily unscathed—a bible perched on an end table; a painting perfectly hung on a wall; a Wi-Fi router sitting undisturbed on a shelf, as if waiting to connect. Each served as a reminder that before this cataclysm occurred, this was someone’s home, a sanctuary where they lived, laughed, and loved.
We did our best to sift through the crumbled remnants of their life, but it was difficult to make sense of anything. It had snowed the day prior, so almost every surface was covered in broken and shattered debris, topped by insulation, and wrapped in a blanket of snow.
As I was digging through a pile of wet and snow-covered clothes in the partially collapsed master bedroom closet on the north side of the house, I realized we needed better clarification as to where the lost flag had last been so we would know where to look. Otherwise, we’d spend days digging through the rubble and never find it. Cooper agreed, and we carefully made our way back through the maze and out of the house.
Returning to the FOB empty-handed was disappointing, but then it was made worse by the fact that Cooper tried for days to get in touch with Miss Sheila to no avail. The number we had just rang and rang without answer. Eventually, our time at the operation was up, and we both had to return home feeling unfilled and defeated by our inability to find the lost flag and bring some solace to Miss Sheila.
I spent a week at home changing my socks, as we say in Team Rubicon, and then I returned to Douglas on the 1st of February for another two-week rotation as Incident Commander. We were almost through my first wave of that rotation when I heard Planning Section Chief Kathleen Reilly on the phone saying, “I’m sorry ma’am, I don’t know anything about a flag.”
Before she could hang up I leapt from my chair and shouted for the phone. On the other end was Miss Sheila. I introduced myself and told her that we’d been to the house but were unable to find the lost flag. If she could tell me where it might be, I would go back and see if I could retrieve it. She described exactly where it was: in a closet in the master bedroom—the very closet I’d been in when we decided to surrender the search. I got some reliable contact information from her and said I’d be back in touch.
The next day, I grabbed our saw boss, Don Aiken—a U.S. Navy veteran and former pilot—and we headed back to Miss Sheila’s. I immediately made my way through the master bedroom window and began digging in the closet. By then all the snow had melted and the bottom of the closet was covered in soaking wet clothes. I had already pulled a few fistfuls of clothes from the closet when I spotted red and white stripes. I’d found the lost flag. As I frantically pulled it from the sopping closet mess, the plastic case it had been in came with it.
Clutching my red-white-and-blue prize against my grey shirt, I quickly evacuated through the window and exclaimed to Don, “I got it!”
Old Glory was in bad shape. The plastic zipper case it had been in had broken and the flag had unfurled and been sitting in the elements for months. It was wet, moldy, and discolored.
Don and I carried the lost flag back to the FOB and promptly got it soaking in cool water with a mild detergent. Then, I considered our next steps. I contacted the local American Legion post and told them the story of the flag and they recommended a local dry cleaner that they used exclusively to clean all their flags, but this was a Saturday, and they wouldn’t be open until Monday.
On Monday, while the teams were in the field working, I took the flag to the dry cleaner, explained its significance, and asked if he could help. He said he could get most of the stains out, but that some of the discoloration might remain. He said he’d do his best and that it should be ready by Friday evening.
I had hoped to meet Miss Sheila on Saturday to present the flag to her, but she said she wouldn’t be available until Sunday, which would also be my last day at the op. Still, we made arrangements to meet at her house around 1530. I knew I would need help, so I asked Greyshirt Karla Caldera—a U.S. Army veteran who had served in both Iraq and Afghanistan and who I had spent a lot of time with over the weeks I had served in Coffee County—if she would assist me with the presentation. She agreed, of course, and joined me as we picked the flag up from the cleaners and then went searching for a framed case for it. The dry cleaner recommended the local funeral home, but the local Hobby Lobby turned out to have the answer.
On Sunday, as Karla and I did a few rehearsals to ensure we could fold the flag appropriately, we quickly realized we were going to need help. So, we enlisted Bill Dalton and Mitch Gauthier to form a makeshift Honor Guard, and Cindy DePillo and Ghazanfer “Gaf” Awan to take photos of the event. Soon, we were confident we’d be able to present the flag in a deserving fashion.
Miss Sheila and her brother met us, and the team helped her retrieve a few more personal items from the house. Then, Miss Sheila shared the story of the tree and her home. During Hurricane Helene, her daughter and son-in-law were in the house, and talking on the phone with Miss Sheila about how the storm was getting really bad and how afraid she was. They had just left the bedroom and were in the living room when all of a sudden Ms. Sheila heard a loud crash and her daughter screaming, “Mama help me! It’s on top of us!” Then the phone went dead.
Miss Sheila frantically tried calling back, but the phone just went straight to voicemail. In a panic, she called the neighbor across the street and begged him to help her daughter. The neighbor got to the house and opened one of the windows to the pitch-black house. He called out to the daughter, and when she answered back he told her to crawl to the sound of his voice, which she did. The son-in-law was frozen with fear, so the daughter had to drag him out of the house. Then, with the night enclosing and hurricane-force winds raging around them, the three dragged themselves across the street to the neighbor’s, where the couple took refuge until the storm subsided.
After Miss Sheila finished sharing that story, I asked about her grandfather. She told us he was a World War I Veteran and had passed away in 1989 at the age of 114. She was very close to him and shared some fond memories. Those stories seemed like a good segue to presenting the flag, and our makeshift honor guard assumed our positions and began folding the flag in the traditional tri-corner custom while the family watched on. Once Karla had tucked the last flap, I presented the flag to Miss Sheila.
“On behalf of a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service,” I said, and in doing so brought Miss Sheila to tears.
As a U.S. Army veteran who has served multiple deployments to Iraq and attended far too many burial ceremonies, I know the significance of the memorial flags to those survived by veterans who have passed. So, having the opportunity to return another veteran’s memorial flag to his family was a powerful and emotional experience that I am quite grateful to have been a part of.
I am also grateful to the volunteers who helped serve this family with me: To Cooper for taking that call and treating Miss Sheila with the care and respect she deserved, and for his efforts to search for the lost flag on that first attempt; to Don for returning to the house, helping me find the flag, and getting it soaking in the water to ensure the stains would not set; and to Karla for joining me in getting the restored flag and case back to the family. And, I want to thank Karla, Bill, and Mitch for helping us with the folding and presentation, and Cindy and Gaf for helping Miss Sheila retrieve more belongings from the house. It is Greyshirts like all of you who make me proud to wear the jersey of the greatest team on earth
