Remembering Rob

Note: I wrote this remembrance for a memorial service for Robert Leroy Taylor Jr. (August 1, 1981- February 17, 2020) and I gave it in Fort Collins, Colorado on March 2, 2020. It includes direct quotes from an interview in Khenjekak, Afghanistan, C. Co. in February 2012 when I was an embedded journalist with the 1/25 Stryker Brigade, 1-5 Battalion.

Bryan O’Neal mentioned in a message that perhaps I could write something for this service. He wanted Rob’s children to know what kind of man their father was. A great man and a great warrior.

I am honored. It’s an easy task because I thought the world of him…and I have his words to guide me. And it’s a heart-rending task, because he left us. 

Let me introduce myself. Cheryl Hatch. I’m the daughter of a career soldier and Vietnam vet. I grew up in the Army tribe. I know the culture. Yet, when I embedded with the 1-5 in Afghanistan for two months, I was no longer a member of the tribe. I was a civilian. Worse still: a journalist. And probably worst of all, a woman. 

As a general rule, soldiers don’t like or trust journalists. Some may have been burned. Some just hate. C. Co. was no exception. I knew there were a few guys who flat out couldn’t stand the sight of me. There were those simply avoided me.

Not Sgt. Rob Taylor. He had my back. Always.

On patrol, Rob walked in front of me. I think O’Neal assigned him the gig. He knew Rob could handle it—and me.

I believe it’s because Rob was raised by, grew up with and was loved by strong women. His mom, Evelyn. His sister, Lisa. His beloved Liza.

He treated me like a human being, like a person with a job to do. He didn’t treat me like one of the guys or patronize me. 

He showed me respect. He tossed his bawdy jokes over me to the soldiers behind me. He let me carry my own gear, climb walls, jump ditches. And he’d offer a hand when I needed it. In return, I kept my spacing, did my job and did everything in my power not to be a liability. 

A good journalist knows the best way to tell a story is to let the subject tell it. 

When I learned Rob had died, I ran to the boxes with my reporter’s notebooks from Afghanistan. I tore through them until I found this one—one long interview with Rob, in a tent, on a dark night, after a long day. Rob made time to talk to me. He trusted me with his words. That’s brave.

He told me why he chose to abandon his lucrative career in finance and join the Army.

“I call it my quarter-life crisis,” Rob said. “I’ve been successful in life at many things. But I didn’t feel confident about the direction I was going and I wanted to find something that I could be proud of.”

He wanted to be “a member of a team but still excel as individual.”

“My GT score was a 129,” he told me.  110 or higher. He earned a 94 out of 99 on ASVAT.

“There were a lot of options for me. Infantry was what I wanted,” Rob said. “I didn’t want to find myself back behind a desk crunching numbers.”

He loved being an infantryman. He loved his soldiers. 

“There’s (something) romantic and there’s something real about going to war,” Rob said. “Doing it would allow me to quantify the real things in my life.” 

“I know I was looking for something but I didn’t know what it would be.

“It’s the front line. It’s the ultimate test of an individual. You always have to be bigger, faster, stronger than the guy across from you. 

“What bigger challenge is there than to step toe to the line?,” he said.

He remembered the day he deployed in April 2011. 

“When I said good-bye to the family at the airport, the emotions were as real as I thought they would be,” he said.

3PL, and Second Squad: He loved you guys. 

Rob told me: “The biggest advantage that 3^rd Platoon has is the camaraderie.” 

“I’ve never jumped in front of a bullet for anybody. What’s the hard part is when you get guard duty and your buddy’s having a hard time. You learn that juicy stuff about someone. That’s the glue that really creates a bond that goes beyond the battlefield,” Rob said.

“Trust. Loyalty. Whether you’re in war or in life, you need someone who’s gonna do more than his job. You need someone who’s gonna hold you, someone who’s gonna pick you up. Most people have that with your family.

“I’ve learned more about myself—what makes me happy,” he said. “The obvious: the relationships, the friendships. 

“I like being able to depend on myself and my physical abilities. I like people looking to me for leadership, camaraderie, advice. I like feeling strong. I like feeling confident. I like just how much I love the people in my life.

“My family. My friends. My fiancée.  

“Not that it takes war to measure those things. It allows you a little something more to fight for, to protect,” Rob said. “You’re more than qualified, more than able to do whatever it takes to preserve them.

He listed:

“The innocence of my 5-year-old niece

“(the) perspective my fiancée has on the world

“The fragile age of my mother

Air Assault Mission

Rob was the guy who often took point and swung the Vallon, a hand-held metal detector, sweeping ahead of his buddies to clear the way.

He told me about the first day of an eight-day mission.

“Second Squad was on point,” he said. “I was up front. Leaving that compound with a Vallon, I didn’t think I ever prayed that much. I had to stay focused on the job. And there were people relying on me.

“Every swing that day— I pray God. I pray God to please return us safely away from harm. I ask that you fill me with your spirit. Guide me to make decisions that will keep myself and others safe. And do my job as effectively and efficiently as possible.

“I’ve always been a very religious person, but not a Sunday church person. But I’ve always had a strong faith,” Rob said.

Rob joked that walking in front of me was a vacation.

Swinging the Vallon is a burden.

“Once you bear that burden, you don’t want anyone you care about to do it,” Rob said. “You hate it. It’s mentally, emotionally, physically exhausting.” 

“It’s absolutely, without a doubt, a burden I will always choose to bear rather than have my guys do it.…I think I’m pretty damn good with it.”

“At the end of the day, there’s human error. You have to be the best. You have to have confidence in yourself. You can’t control who steps on an IED. You can’t control who puts it in. If you always do your best, there’s no room for guilt or error,” Rob said. “You need to know you left it all out there.

KIA

All the guys in 3 PL wore/wear a KIA bracelet. You can see it in the photo.

PFC Brett Wood. Rob remembered the day Wood died. 

“I was the first one there. I’m not glad that it was me, but I’m glad it wasn’t anyone else. I take comfort maybe even Sgt. O’Neal and I are the only ones who had to bear the burden,” Rob said. “I’m happy I was able to protect those guys from that. 

Wood had no chance, Rob said. 

“He died instantly. I got there and Sgt. O’Neal made the decision. Taylor, you’re holding your shit together. I need you now. Pushed out sector. I felt good that I was able to do that,” Rob told me.

“The memories aren’t something I enjoy, but I wouldn’t have wanted it to be anyone else.

Near the end of this interview, Rob talked about his family.

“My sister and I have always been close. She gets nervous. She gets scared. She always says I’m the strongest person she knows. She never doubts what I’m capable of. 

“My mom—she’s proud of me. She supports me. She’s really proud of me. 

“Everyone that knew me when I was six…. he recalled them saying: I know you. Don’t be a hero. Come back to us.

He met Liza in 2009. He couldn’t wait to get home to her.

“She recognizes that it (the Army/job) makes me happy and she supports that. She doesn’t care what I do as long as she gets to be next to me.

Ending

I was prepping for a job interview a few days before Rob died. I was looking through my clips from Afghanistan and I found the story my students at Allegheny had written about Rob for Veterans Day. I remember how he showed up for the students via Skype—how his Allegheny football coach, Coach Matlak, showed up in the classroom to surprise him.

And a few years later, Rob showed up to surprise his coach. He made an epic journey from Colorado to reach Meadville, Pennsylvania for the last home game before his coach retired, the coach who’d been a father to him after his own father died. He said, as long as I make it there to shake his hand and thank him, it’ll be great. And he did. 

He took a couple planes, rented a car and drove a few hundred miles. He spent more than 24 hours traveling against the odds and the clock to spend one hour with his coach. 

I was looking at his face in the photo on the front page of The Meadville Tribune. I was thinking of him. He was on my mind. And I didn’t text him. I didn’t call. I regret that I didn’t take a few minutes to reach out. I imagine many of you know that feeling, that pain.

O’Neal is right. Rob was a great man and a great warrior.

He was brave and strong. Not just in mind and muscle, but in heart.

I know because he walked in front of me on patrol and took that detail seriously, respecting my job and my duty while doing his. I know because he sat in a tent on a dark night in Khenjekak and trusted me with his story. 

He loved his family: his soldiers, his late father, Pops, memorialized in a tat on his right bicep. His mom. His sister and her kids. His beloved Liza and their three children.

It’s hard to come to terms with how he left. I’ve thought about it.

I figure he did what he’d done so many times. He took point. He walked out into the darkness, braving the minefield, shouldering the burden so that others wouldn’t have to.

He got tired. It got darker. And he pressed on. Until he couldn’t.

If I’d known, I would have taken point. I would have walked ahead of him in the darkness. I’ve known that darkness. 

And I know that any one of you, his buddies, would have thrown him over your shoulder and carried him out. Any one of you would have. We all know it. Rob must have known, too.

And he still chose to take point. Go out ahead. Shoulder the burden.