'Enduring inspiration to generations to come'

James B. Meadow, Rocky Mountain News

Published July 5, 2007 at midnight

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On a small swath of park that used to be a vacant lot, the kind of lot where a young boy might ride his bike and begin to dream of becoming a brave warrior, they are getting ready to dedicate a statue to a native son who lived - and died - that dream.

It is the Fourth of July, and under a sky swollen with heat Danny Phillip Dietz Jr. will soon be frozen in time. The kid who was so smart he was bored by school, the kid who had every kind of pet you can imagine - including spiders - the kid who was both serious and goofy-funny, the Littleton born- and-raised kid who was freakishly strong and knew his career path when he was only 14 - that kid grew up to be a U.S. Navy SEAL.

Then, not halfway through his 26th year of life and fifth year of service in the U.S. military's elite fighting force, fate, duty and honor brought him to a desolate, wind-chiseled mountain in Afghanistan. And there, on June 28, 2005, Petty Officer Dietz died a death so heroic his country awarded him the Navy Cross, its second-highest military honor.

The 11 a.m. start time for the dedication ceremony is almost at hand. Two thousand people - maybe 3,000, maybe more - are clustered in the Berry Park Extension, 5507 S. King St. Some of them are likely camped out on ground that DJ - Dan Junior; everybody called him that - rode his bicycle across. Some are standing. Some have been waiting for hours. Some, like Artie Guerrero, would wait longer if they had to.

Clad in a dark pin-striped suit, his Silver Star, Bronze Star and Purple Heart pinned to the pocket, the former Army Ranger sits in a wheelchair and explains he is here "out of respect to Danny. Respect to his family." Four terrible wounds suffered 40 years ago in Vietnam helped put Guerrero, 63, in that wheelchair, but "you gotta play the cards they give you."

Still, he knows there are some soldiers who are willing to gamble even when they know the deck is stacked against them.

"Most people have no idea what Rangers and SEALS, Special Forces, go through; the kind of courage it takes to go in there. Danny had that kind of courage."

Every mother's son

Maybe Thomas Caulfield can't quite understand that kind of courage yet. Then again, he's only 12. But as he waits for the ceremony to begin, he knows why he came, why he's wearing a Danny Dietz T-shirt with "Honor Courage Commitment" on the front. He knows that "Danny Dietz helped fight for our freedom."

"He could be anyone's son. He could be my son," says Linda Sasse, 54, who is, in fact, the mother of a Marine, Lance Cpl. Jason Sasse, ready to deploy to Iraq.

True, Danny Dietz could be any mother's son, but he was Cindy Dietz's child, her oldest, but one of her babies. The one she will never hug or kiss again. She, too, is waiting for the event to begin.

Behind her a forest of American flags is spreading as the crowd thickens. Here is a Marine, an Army Ranger, a sailor. Over there is a man with tattoos cascading down his arms like ivy, a ring through his nose and hair past his shoulders. Between them is an old woman in a chair, tucked under an umbrella. A stew of people. Americana in all manner of red, white and blue.

Cindy Dietz, hugging people and graciously accepting their good wishes, is, for the moment, too busy to notice the crowd. Too busy to notice what others see - a bald eagle that is carving majestic arcs against the blue sky.

But even if she saw the bird, Cindy Dietz might not be surprised. She might think it was the same eagle she saw flying over Fort Logan the day she and her husband and two remaining children buried Danny. The eagle that "was a sign from Danny that he was there with us." Which is why she insisted that there be an eagle atop the flagpole that stands behind the statue that is still shrouded in navy-blue taffeta; a present to be unwrapped, but not just yet.

Acts of valor

Standing near his wife, Dan Dietz smiles behind dark sunglasses and says, "It's an honor to be here. This is a celebration." He talks about how the statue may be bronze and the base may be limestone, but what really holds it all together is his son's steel.

"It's all about Danny," he says, reverence and defiance in his voice. "The character. The integrity. The bravery. The guts."

He talks of the 16 wounds that finally killed his son, the one he swam and ran and lifted weights with to get him ready for the SEALS. He talks of the courage that his son displayed, refusing to stop firing at Taliban attackers despite being dragged away by a comrade. Refusing to back down despite being vastly outnumbered because "Danny would never quit on his buddies."

Now it is 11 a.m. The Littleton Community Band has finished a series of jaunty marches. It launches into a spirited Star Spangled Banner as the crowd stands.

Pastor Larry Herrera, Danny's godfather, delivers the invocation. Then he turns the microphone over to Donald C. Winter, secretary of the Navy, someone who never knew Danny Dietz but likens him to America's first patriots, men who had an "irrepressible spirit of rebellion," men who committed an "audacious act of defiance" by founding this country.

"Danny's Dietz's soul belongs to God," says Winter, "but his acts of heroic valor belong to history."

Suddenly, the sky's random clouds are split by four roaring F-18 jets honoring a fallen comrade with a flyover. The air has barely stopped humming when Winter is succeeded by Rear Adm. Joseph D. Dernan, the head of the SEALs. After wondering "If I could be as brave as Danny Dietz," the admiral affirms that the "tragic loss" of Dietz will be an "enduring inspiration to generations of patriots to come."

The crowd cheers. Old men in Marine uniforms; young men in Navy whites. Middle-aged men who have never served but wish they had. Young men about to. Young men like Steve Mutchler.

Memorial Day forever

Earlier, as he helped shepherd his four much younger siblings along, the 21-year-old college student explained how he and Eric Dietz, Danny's younger brother, are "good friends. We went to middle school and high school together." He explains how, next year, when he's finished with college, "Eric and I plan on going into the SEALS together."

Next, U.S. Rep. Tom Tancredo speaks, followed by Mike Thornton, a former SEAL. Forty-four years ago, Thornton earned the Medal of Honor - the nation's highest tribute - in Vietnam. In a voice both passionate and muscular, he thunders that "Every day should be Memorial Day for America," and warriors like Dietz "should be thanked and blessed every day of our lives."

Loud inspiration gives way to poignant reflection when Tiffany Bitz, Dietz's sister, steps forward. She may be thinking of the DJ who was "freakishly strong." The DJ who read encyclopedias and dictionaries when he was 9 years old. The DJ who would "think this kind of event for him was so silly." The DJ who was so modest he would never tell people he was a SEAL, but, when asked his occupation, would reply "milkman" or "ice cream truck driver."

She may be thinking of these things, but she does not say them. As her parents and brother listen with tearful eyes, Bitz speaks in a voice that quivers but never cracks, recalling how she and DJ had often walked in this park. How she hopes the statue will leave an "imprint on the minds of all who pass it." How her brother was "a great man who gave the noblest sacrifice a man can give," a man who "lived and died for us."

Behind Bitz, alongside the family, Maria Paz Leveque Dietz - "Patsy" - Dietz's widow struggles with her emotions.

For her, the day started as a cruel trip through time, back to July 4, 2005, "the day I got the knock on my door telling me Danny had been killed."

It will get better. She will be buoyed by how "the people of Colorado have made Danny part of their history; part of their lives." But for now, she quietly weeps and listens to her sister-in-law.

A heartbeat and a breath

Soon, after the playing of the Navy Hymn, it's time to unwrap the gift. The taffeta comes down and the sun caroms off the brownish-gold patina, throwing up dazzling glints, shrapnel of light.

Five days earlier, when the statue was installed, Cindy Dietz had watched and said, "Oh, it's absolutely beautiful. It looks just like my boy! The lips are perfect. The cleft on the chin is just right."

So, too, were the B+ (for blood type) and NKA (for "no known allergies") that were on the uniform's right sleeve, inscribed into the statue's clay mold by a mother's hand, a link to the flesh and blood she brought into the world.

But now that flesh and blood is gone. Now, the statue that shines is no longer just hers or Dan Sr.'s. Now it is not just a statue of their son, it is a statue of a native son. Slowly, people walk around the 370 pounds of bronze that depict a kneeling Danny Dietz in combat gear, a warrior in brief repose.

Some people, Navy SEALs, lay their golden trident pins on the base. Others, civilians, softly lay red or white roses at the foot of the base. Some take photos. Some, like Tamra Glore, 46, come away feeling that, "It makes your heart beat a little faster. It makes you tear up. It takes your breath away. It's the spirit of America."

And some are overcome.

Weeping without restraint, Debra Anderson, of Longmont, removes a trembling hand from the crouching bronze figure, steps back and folds into her husband's arms.

"Another young man, another young man," is all she can say. Another young man like her son Christopher, a sailor killed in Iraq seven months ago to the day.

"It's an honor to be here," says Rick Anderson, a former SEAL himself. "We wouldn't have missed this for the world."

The sun is floating higher in the sky. A soft breeze riffles the American flag that hangs overhead. The family of Danny Dietz has left. So have the officials. But many remain. Strangers who feel they owe a debt of respect.

They continue to walk around the statue, looking at the recesses and folds. At the steely, no-nonsense expression on the face of the sentinel that crouches before them now. That will crouch before them forever.

In the midst of this slow-motion procession a young boy stops. Stands there for a long minute. Serious. Like he might know already he belongs to the next generation of patriots. He stares up at the unblinking eyes. Then at the perfect bronze lips. It's almost as if he can hear a wisp of eternal breath coming from a fellow native son who was willing to play the cards he was given.

meadowj@RockyMountainNews.com or 303-954-2606

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