Even Unto Death: A Father’s Journey Through Pride, Grief, and Purpose

“Dad, moment of truth, I’ve enlisted in the Army.”

I was proud. I was scared.

Was this karma? After all, I had spent 15 years as a recruiter for the Army National Guard. I had sat at countless kitchen tables, talking with prospects and their parents, expounding on the benefits of military service for their sons and daughters—education, travel, service, adventure, job skills, leadership development. I honed in on the dominant buying motive, promising that it would not be easy, but it would be a good decision. Military service would expand their child’s vision for the better for years to come. The Army would mature them. They would be transformed.

Trust me. I’m a Recruiter.

Now it was my turn to practice what I had preached for so many years. Did I truly believe in what I was “selling,” or was it all a sham to earn a steady paycheck? I had felt sincere in my recruiting efforts. But now that my own flesh and blood had joined the military, was I just as excited for him as I had been for all the others I had put in combat boots?

It was not a total surprise. He had expressed interest before and had taken, then maxed out, the ASVAB. He was in peak physical condition. He had been training and preparing for something—but I had not known precisely what. I had offered to go to the recruiter when he was ready to sign the dotted line, to ensure the fine print in his contract aligned with his expectations. I knew how to decipher an enlistment contract.

As the Farmers Insurance ditty goes, “I know a thing or two because I’ve seen a thing or two.”

Did he take me up on my offer? Of course not.

He just did it. But that was his prerogative. He was not 17; he was 25, a Hendrix College graduate with a major in Biology and a minor in Chemistry, undoubtedly capable of making his own decisions.

“Congratulations, son,” I offered with all the enthusiasm—some real, some forced—that I could muster.

“What is your MOS?”

“18X.”

A long, slow exhale.

I knew what that was. The long and arduous enlistment option gives you the “opportunity” to enter the pipeline to become a Green Beret: Basic Training, Advanced Infantry Training, Airborne School, Pre-Selection Screening, Selection. Survive all that, then complete the months-long Special Forces Qualification Course. Finally, for good measure, throw in another six months or so for a foreign language immersion course.

The old Barry Sadler song, “Ballad of the Green Beret,” echoed in the recesses of my mind: “One hundred men will test today, but only three win the Green Beret.”

This was a bold and risky move, especially for a college graduate. It was a journey of several years to get through all the training. If you slipped up, got injured, or failed one iteration, the Army would roll you into a line Infantry unit until you completed your enlistment contract. If Barry Sadler’s statistics held true, this would happen 97% of the time.

Big Army wins either way. It gains three new Green Berets and 97 new fully qualified Airborne Infantry soldiers.

And once he completed all of this, he would be the tip of the spear in arguably one of the most dangerous lines of work: war or peace. That these small 12-man, unconventional warfare “force multipliers” are called the “A Teams” is no accident.

How had he chosen this route? I had never forced or even encouraged him to pursue the military, but he had seen me in uniform for most of his growing-up years. Did that make a difference? My military service was far from cutting-edge or sexy. I worked a desk job and talked with people, but I still proudly wore the uniform every day, hoping to make a positive impact on others and in my community.

I was proud. I was scared.

This was 2017. I have now retired from the military. It appeared that the war on terror was winding down. By the time my son completed all his training, the rotations to Iraq and Afghanistan might be over. But there are always hot spots in the world. I knew that. But for now, he was in training.

Safe, right?

I was realistic. I knew my son was smart, fit, driven, and kind. He could accomplish anything he put his mind to. He could also be forgetful and scatterbrained at times—tendencies that would have to be corrected quickly if he was to make it through this rigorous training, where attention to detail was paramount, even sacred.

Almost all his close college friends were now in medical school, the path we had assumed he would take. After graduating, he worked as a deckhand on a halibut fishing boat in Alaska, the same “summer job” he had during college. It paid well in cash tips, funding his pizza and beer needs for the academic year. Plus, it was physically demanding. He came home with raw, calloused hands, sun- and wind-weathered skin, a full beard, and “Popeye” forearms. I asked what size winch they used to weigh anchor when his captain constantly moved the boat between fishing spots in the deep, icy waters of Cook Inlet. He casually smirked, held out his blistered hands, and replied, “I am the winch.”

Eventually, he moved to warmer climes and signed on as an eco-tour kayak guide in the quaint seaside village of Marineland, Florida. He drew on his biology background to explore and share the diverse flora and fauna of the North Florida estuaries from the cockpit of a sea kayak. He loved the job, the small beachy community, and surfing every chance he got. But he knew this was a stepping stone. Something bigger was calling him.

He was still drawn to medicine. If only he could find a way to blend medicine with challenge and adventure.

After researching various options—Navy SEALs, Coast Guard Rescue Swimmers, Army Rangers—the role of Special Forces Medical Sergeant caught his attention. He could kick in doors, shoot guns, jump from airplanes, and heal people? Sign him up.

After nearly three years of relentless training, he donned his Green Beret in 2020. Due to COVID-19, I could not attend the ceremony. To him, it was just another step in his journey. When I asked for a graduation picture, he unceremoniously sent me one: his beret resting on his blue-jeaned knee in his friend’s Mustang.

He was one of the three. He had done it.

On the evening of August 9, 2022, our lives were forever changed. A team of soldiers in dress blues arrived to tell us our son, SSG George L. Taber V, had been killed by a falling tree during a freak summer storm on Mount Yonah during the Mountain phase of Army Ranger School.

He was awarded his Ranger Tab posthumously at a somber memorial at Ranger Training Brigade, Fort Benning, Georgia.

True to my word, I was there.

He was not.

Shock, disbelief, denial, then gut-wrenching grief. He was in training, not combat.

Had he not joined the Army, would he still be alive today? Did my example cost him his life? These and other questions ravage my sleepless mind.

What if? Why him? Why not me?

I am in the last quarter of my life. His was just beginning, and the trajectory was one of greatness…

Then I heard a quote by Mark Twain that changed everything:

“The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.”

Many 80-year-olds still have no idea why they were born.

Not so with my son. He found his purpose, identity, and calling in the Special Forces.

“De Oppresso Liber” is the Latin motto of the Green Berets. It means: “To Free the Oppressed.”

It refers to the oppressed people, countries, and cultures the Green Berets have liberated and helped throughout their long history.

I need to apply that same motto to my own life—to free myself from my own oppression: my soul-searching, second-guessing, survivor’s guilt, and depression as a Gold Star Father.

He would want it that way.

Yes, he died too young, but I don’t think he would ever have been satisfied doing anything else.

And for that, I am grateful.

Even unto death.

___________________________________

Tab Taber is a Gold-Star Dad–father of SSG George L. Taber V, a Green Beret Medical Sergeant from 7th SFG who died during a violent storm on Mt. Yonah while in the Mountain phase of Ranger School in August 2022. Tab journals to process his grief and to recollect memories of his son. Occasionally he shares his written thoughts with The Havok Journal and on Instagram @gltiv. He retired from the Military (8 years Marines;15 years Army) in 2014 and now resides in NE Florida where he runs a 4th generation wholesale plant nursery. He can be reached at tabtaber7@gmail.com.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.