Editor’s Note: Some fifteen Americans, primarily veterans, have died in Ukraine since hostilities opened in 2022. The following is an account of the most recent battlefield casualty.

“Cat” was the target’s name, a Russian machine gun positioned at the zero-line near Donetsk. A fitting name, I suppose, for Gideon to meet his end. Gideon was many things to many people: a son, a brother, a father, a comrade. A tall, tall man. A fierce and fearless American freedom fighter. But Gideon was first and foremost an animal lover, and cats perhaps most of all.

“Awww… kitt-ens!” he would exclaim (and he would say it just that way, an aspirated break between the t’s) as he bowled down backroads in a truck full of rockets, grenades, and rifles. He would risk the lives of us four men, swerving to avoid each of the uncountable stray cats of the Ukrainian front. Cats weren’t his only thing of course. No dog ever went unscratched around Gideon. If they were less than fifty pounds they usually ended up cuddled in his arms in the sun. He waxed enthusiastic about plans to help stray pets after war. Some of the guys teased him about this soft spot. He chuckled about the ribbing—when you’re 6’3” and built like a running back, it’s easy to let things slide. “Shepherd” was his call-sign. And if ever a man personified the handsome, powerful, sleek German Shepherd, it was he.

His last day was a hectic one, as these things go. The Ukrainians asked for support on their assault and he stepped to the plate. With his personal armor freshly arrived, he geared up and hit the range, zeroing his AK-74 and working out the kinks. Brave as he was, he was no fool. He took no unnecessary chances. Along the way, he took a young Dane under his wing, nodding and winking encouragement and showing him the ropes in the hours leading to the assault.

It was a long night. Infil just after midnight, they hunkered like sardines in a trench, enduring fire while the target was pounded by Ukrainian artillery and sniper fire. The attack was to be at 3 in the afternoon. Some fifteen hours squeezed amongst your brothers-in-arms, trying to breathe through grenade smoke in the cold early morning light. Battle would have been a release.

Confusion, as always. Did the neighboring sector achieve the 25% success required to trigger our assault? Or had they been repelled, placing this assault on hold? Muddled messages, muddled minds. Nobody knows precisely, but I feel I can hear Gideon lifting up his comrades and saying, “Fuck it … we’re doing this.” And they did.

And they won. 

I watched them through my scope as they stormed the position, lobbing grenades and taking prisoners amidst a hail of gunfire and incoming artillery. The Russians were shelling their own lines to kill these lions of men.

And at some point, they succeeded. I watched Gideon standing tall in the field, directing others with the muzzle of his AK—shooting, shooting, shooting. I glimpsed him in the nest, apparently trying to turn the Russian gun on the hostile trenches below. The chaos was indescribable—we were being pummeled as well—but by mid-afternoon, I could no longer pick out that towering frame amidst the carnage. By dusk, it came over the radio: Gideon, Ayub, Salomon, Charlie … all our friends were dead. 

We stood there aghast—barrels smoking, the valley below a hellscape, just looking at one another in disbelief. So that was it? Gideon, this great big German Shepherd of a man lost his life at “Cat”? He would be the first to crack a smile. He always was.

As the reality of it sank in, we went through his pack to begin the heartbreaking task of securing his papers and getting his possessions sent back home to his family. The top of his enormous Bozeman Montana backpack had a pouch. I opened the zipper and there, tucked neatly side by side was his well-thumbed bible and a thermobaric hand grenade. A crusader to the core.

He’s playing tricks on me from heaven right now, I can feel it. The last message I sent him was a song I wanted him to pass along. Now it plays repeatedly, unbidden, on my phone:

I am a poor, wayfaring stranger
A-travelin’ through this world of woe …
Yet there’s no sickness, no toil, no danger
In that bright world to which I go …

I’m going there to see my father,
I’m going there no more to roam.
I’m only going over Jordan.
I’m only going over home.

I’ve seen him twice now, behind the wheel of unknown cars, competent and cool. I have to look away. As I walked the mountains amongst green pastures, clearing my heart, a great big Shepherd came out of the grass to greet me. 

“Hey Shep.” 

He grinned, tongue lolling, and ambled over to a ditch to get a drink. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine. All good.”

Yes Shep. As you go over Jordan, with those golden fields laid just before you, remember us too, please. And as you don that crown of glory, say hello to our Father, and explain that we are sorry, and that we humbly repent. And as you settle down, never more to roam, remember us from time to time and send a little sign.

We will, as best we can, take your kids under our collective wing, and tell them of the father they will never really know. But more than that, we will tell them also of the Father that all of us will come to know. And when we, and they too, cross over Jordan, may we then meet in those golden fields beside those still waters and rest, at last, at home.

God bless you, Shep. You will be sorely missed.

If this story of sacrifice for liberty has moved you, please kindly contact Paul Schwennesen at [email protected] about contributing to the families.