It will be hot and nerve-racking and people are going to die ... My buddies say civil affairs is the most dangerous job in the Marine Corps right now. But I also think it's going to be gratifying to get that grid system up and water pumping.
The Mission
When he was 17, Chris tried to join the Marines' delayed-entry program (a commitment to boot camp within a year), but his dad flatly refused to sign the initial parental form. "You are saying you're willing to put your life in jeopardy," Kendall explains. "You've got to do that yourself." The following April, on his 18th birthday, Chris signed the documents, and then left for San Diego and boot camp right after his high school graduation.
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That fall, while simultaneously serving as a private in his father's Marine Reserve unit in Topeka, Chris entered the University of Kansas. He earned a bachelor's degree in literature and a master's in administration, but yearned to become an officer. "The esprit de corps just gets in your blood," he says. "Band of brothers is such a cliché -- but that's what the Marines are." Just six weeks after his June 1994 wedding to Lisa -- a blue-eyed brunette he vowed to marry the first night they met -- Chris entered the U.S.M.C. Officer Candidates School.
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On the cold December day when Chris was commissioned a second lieutenant, after the parades and ceremonies, his dad waited for him on a street in Quantico.
Standing at attention, Master Gunnery Sgt. Kendall Phelps proudly gave his son his first salute. Then, as Chris's wife, mom and younger siblings noisily crowded around the new officer, Kendall slipped behind a building to wipe away his tears. "Marines," he explains, "are not supposed to cry."
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It was even tougher to hold back on the day Chris left for his first tour in Iraq in the winter of 2003. By then, Marine rules had compelled Kendall to retire from the Corps after 30 years of service. Chris had become the commanding officer of his father's former unit, which had just been mobilized as an ammo-resupply platoon. "In combat, that can be a very dangerous place to be," says Kendall.
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That morning at his home near Kansas City, Chris said goodbye to his three little boys and his wife, pregnant with a fourth. His mother and father joined him for his send-off from Reserve headquarters in Topeka. Kendall, more dad than Marine this time, made no effort to conceal his emotion. The next day, he stepped up his efforts to return to active duty.
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Operation Iraqi Freedom unfolded in agonizingly slow motion in Silver Lake. By day, Kendall taught kids to play instruments and coached high school track. In the evenings, he retreated to his house to monitor the coalition forces charging across the Iraqi desert on CNN. Sherma, who couldn't take her eyes off the ticker listing casualties, got accustomed to finding her husband on the sofa, still staring at the television screen at three o'clock in the morning.
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Even after Chris returned home, his dad, suspecting his son would be sent for another tour, persisted in his efforts to be reactivated. "I know a lot of Marines," he says, "and I called all of them. And I kept calling."
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His determination was finally rewarded just before Christmas when he received an e-mail from the commanding officer of the 5th Civil Affairs Group. It read: "Prepare for a long stay in the desert." Chris was recruited for the same mission. Sherma could not believe it. "I just had a strong feeling it was not going to happen," she says quietly. "Then it happened. I'll be a basket case until they return."
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Christmas was as festive as ever. "We didn't talk about what was about to happen," recalls Sherma, "because with six grandkids running around, it's hard
to talk about anything." But after the New Year celebrations, the stress escalated.