Columnist Benjamin Grove: Young Nevada hero won’t be forgotten

Benjamin Grove

Friday, March 15, 2002 | 5:09 a.m.

WASHINGTON -- Arlington National Cemetery, the sacred burial ground for the nation's war dead, made room for two more Southern Nevadans this month.

One was old, one was young. Both were heroes.

Howard Cannon, who died March 6 at age 90, survived harrowing days as a downed World War II pilot and became a four-term senator who shaped the infrastructure of Southern Nevada. He lived a long and amazing life.

Cpl. Matthew Commons, 21, never had the chance.

Commons, an Army Ranger and Boulder City High School graduate, died March 4 with five other commandos in Afghanistan during a mission to find a fallen Navy Seal -- or at least retrieve his body. Media reports say six men may have died to save one.

"We don't leave Americans behind," said Brig. Gen. John Rosa Jr., a Joint Chiefs of Staff spokesman.

Somehow Commons, just three years out of high school back in Nevada, wound up 7,500 miles away in the middle of terrifying chaos in the Shah-e-Kot Mountains.

" 'Rangers lead the way' -- the Ranger creed, he always said that," Commons' father, Greg, told me.

One week after that battle, on Monday, about 800 people gathered for Commons' funeral mass at a Catholic church in Mount Vernon, near George Washington's estate. The Rev. Joseph Annese of Commons' Boulder City parish traveled to the nation's capital to perform the ceremony. He sensed the question on so many minds.

"We're always asking 'Why?' " he told the grieving. "We need explanations as humans. But this morning there are no human words that will chase away our sorrow and dry up our tears. There is no poetry that will satisfy our peace."

Still, mourners sought solace in the Bible's book of Ecclesiastes: "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven ... a time to be born and a time to die; a time to love and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace."

I rode from the mass to Arlington as part of the long funeral procession with Lee Ware, a firefighter from Newport News, Va., and his son, William, an Army buddy of Commons who endured the rigors of basic training with him at Fort Benning, Ga.

"We had bunks in sort of the back corner of the barracks," Commons' friend said. "We'd sit there and complain all night long. But he never let himself quit, and he was always willing to help you out."

When the funeral procession arrived at Arlington, it became a traffic jam bottlenecked at the cemetery's entrance. As we sat in the car and waited, Ware watched tourists flowing in and out of Arlington's gates.

"All these people -- they don't have any idea why we're here," Ware said as he stared blankly out the window. "They didn't know Matt, they don't have any idea who he was, or how he died -- what he was trying to do."

Ware was right. Most Americans support the campaign against terrorism. But as this war rages worlds away from our daily lives, few pause to imagine what battle must feel like, fighting in the thin, sub-freezing air of Afghanistan's mountains.

Joining the military had seemed a natural choice for Commons, whose father, Greg, and grandfathers had also served, Greg Commons said.

Matthew's parents had divorced and he had a "cross-country" family in Nevada, Indiana and Virginia, where his parents relocated, his dad said.

"And then he went out and he made a new family, the 75th Ranger Regiment," said Greg Commons, who wore a Ranger insignia tie clip.

I'm often surprised that mourners, despite their grief, are so willing to talk to reporters. They entrust the media with precious memories, valiantly try to sum up the spirit of a loved one for a stranger -- and hope we get names spelled right.

At a reception after the ceremony, Commons' parents sat with me and graciously answered personal questions.

Commons' mother, Patricia Marek, showed no signs of the sobbing woman who broke down a few hours earlier as a bugler played taps. She had traded tears for smiles, as friends and family swapped tales -- some hilarious, some poignant, a few unprintable -- about her son.

They told stories of a serious young guy who cared for the 18-year-old brother he called dork, who fretted over the new life his mother was making for herself in Virginia, who confided in his dad that he might want to be a history teacher someday, just like his old man.

They laughed over the Matt who often got into trouble -- skipping class or chasing girls and drinking beer with Army buddies.

And they looked at photographs, hastily arranged snapshots of moments from Commons' 21 years. Most of the images showed Commons wearing the smile his brother Aaron said he will miss more than anything.

They ate together. They embraced. They said long good-byes.

To be sure, hate and war had their time in Afghanistan March 4, and will again. But as friends and family gathered to remember Matthew Commons last week, love and peace took a turn.