I’m going to depart from the usual formula this week, so please bear with me.  You see, I lost a good friend two days ago, taken from this world far too soon.  You’d think in my line of work—after a series of armed conflicts that have dragged on since 2001—that I’d be used to such things.  You’d think that seeing the names of people I know—and know well—appear on casualty lists would have become “normal” by now . . . but this time was different. 

I don’t seek to take anything at all away from the families of those who’ve made the ultimate sacrifice for their country in far-away places like Iraq, Afghanistan, or any of the multitude of other places in which my brothers and sisters in arms daily risk their lives.  Quite the opposite, really.  The list of folks I knew who’ve lost their lives at far too young an age is long, though not nearly as long as for some.  Still, after twenty-four years of service . . . well . . . you tend to meet a lot of people, and the military world remains a small one.  We’re all connected, if only by the nature of what we do and where we do it.

In this case, however, the enemy wasn’t Al Qaeda, it wasn’t ISIS.  It certainly wasn’t the Taliban, or any of the long list of nefarious actors in the world against whom the United States Military operates.  No, this time the enemy was far more insidious, far more persistent, and thus far more difficult a foe.  And ultimately, it took my friend’s life.  

But she didn’t go without a fight.  Quite the contrary, actually!  She battled this foe for nearly six years in an epic struggle which was, at times, inspirational in the extreme.  This is how it felt for me, at least, and I suspect the same is true for any of us unable to assist beyond offering friendship, encouragement, and a desperately needed sense of normalcy.  You see, my good friend succumbed to cancer after being first diagnosed in 2012, shortly after I met her for the first time.  She died at the age of 47.

She left this world, having continued working as a senior Army officer right up until she was physically unable, not that long ago.  Professional in the extreme, she was the kind of officer you emulate, or rather want to emulate as the standards she set for dedication to duty and primacy of mission accomplishment were high indeed. 

As a Northeast Asian Foreign Area Officer she held multiple positions of ever-increasing responsibility in D.C., Hawaii, and the Republic of Korea.  It was there in Korea, where she was serving as Army Attache, that we first crossed paths.  While I thought at the time the work we did was equally beneficial to both of us, I came to realize later that I gained so much more from my association with her than I think she ever received from me.

Perpetually positive—to a degree that could be annoying at times—she became my number one cheerleader, prompting me to continue, to keep working hard even when I wanted to give up.  She pointed me toward a better future that I simply couldn’t see.  But she could.  And she was capable, at times, of pressing her encouragement with the force of your toughest Army Drill Sergeant.  Yet all this coaching and mentoring took place while undergoing weekly treatments to forestall what she was even then starting to understand, I think, was inevitable.

Physically growing weaker month by month, she remained a pillar of moral, spiritual, and psychological strength that fascinated me.  It continues to do so now that she’s gone, and I wonder if I—healthy as far as I know—have that same strength within me.  That same courage to continue facing a relentless enemy week-after-week, month-after-month, and year-after-year. No rest. No leave. No ability to pull back off the front line and take a knee.

A graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point, class of 1992, she was two years my senior there, though I don’t believe I ever met her then.  I’ve read somewhere that she was only the first or second female of Korean descent ever promoted to the rank of Colonel in the U.S. Army.  While I can’t verify that, I hope it’s true.  One more thing that made her stand out as special, securing her place in history beyond the many fond memories of her friends, colleagues, superiors, and subordinates.

In the end, I guess, the news didn’t surprise me, as we all could see she was growing noticeably weaker.  But it still saddened me to a degree I didn’t fully expect.  We like to think we grow hardened to such news, the passing of yet another colleague, another brother or sister in arms, but the reality is far different.  We feel each one.

Part of me wants to shed a tear—more likely tears—for her, but I know what she’d say, “Stop acting like a girl!”  She’d tell me she’s simply PCSing to a new place . . . and she’ll see me again later.  She was a strong Christian, you see, and this drove much of her positivity, her incredible work ethic, and her outlook on life.  She truly has gone on to a better place, and the pain she’s endured for so long has finally ended.  I take great comfort in that fact.

Now, our thoughts and prayers remain focused on her and the family she so cherished.  The legacy she leaves behind is one of strength; strength of character, strength of belief, strength of personality, strength of friendships made over a lifetime cut far too short.  She was Army Strong right up until the very end, and the enemy that ultimately took her from us did so after knowing he’d been in a fight.

We’ll miss you, June, miss you terribly.  But I’ll see you again on the high ground!

In respectful memory of Joo Eun (June) Cho, Colonel, United States Army

“Be thou at peace…”

M. G. Haynes