The Weight of Silence: Remembering SSG Santiago

For years, I believed I was managing the past. The stress of Iraq, the loss of family and friends – I’d navigated those dark days, moved on, started living again. But beneath the surface, something was festering. Sleep evaded me, a nightly struggle I couldn’t explain. The military, in its pragmatic way, suggested a sleep apnea evaluation. I just wanted a full night’s rest, to wake up refreshed instead of dragging myself through the day, desperate for a nap.

It was during those mental health sessions, designed to improve my sleep, that the cracks began to appear. “Have you experienced any traumatic events while in the military?” the therapist asked. In my mind, everything was fine. I went to Iraq, brought all 80 of my personnel home safely. Countless convoys outside the wire. IED scares, bullets pinging off my truck. Eight trips back and forth from Kuwait. Led a replacement battalion to relieve my unit. Success, right?

Then she asked if I had lost anyone close to me while in Iraq. I repeated my mantra, how proud I was to have overseen 80 personnel at three separate FOBs and returned with everyone intact. But then, something shifted. A wave of emotion crashed over me, and I began to cry.

The memory flooded back. My unit had returned from deployment, finally granted some much-needed time off. The first day back, we stood in formation, everyone present for the first time in over a year. New uniforms, fresh boots. My platoon was teasing SSG Miguel Santiago, a good-natured ribbing. He was one of the hardest-working, best leaders and Soldiers in my platoon. His uniform was always stained with dirt from working alongside his troops. He was someone I looked up to, someone I confided in. We played softball together, shared laughter. He was older than I, both of us seasoned veterans. I believe he was around 50, and I was in my early 40s.

It was a cloudy day, the sky heavy with low-hanging clouds in mid-morning. We were in formation, preparing to be dismissed for the day. 1SG Ian Griffin gave us the usual safety brief for the weekend: don’t drink and drive, don’t beat your spouse, the standard warnings to keep his “Devil Dawgs” safe. When we were dismissed, everyone dispersed to their vehicles, still talking and laughing. Smiles on every face.

I drove home, eager to see my wife and kids in our cramped stairwell apartment. I walked through the door, kissed my wife, and my phone rang. It was 1SG Griffin, telling me to pick up SSG Santiago’s family and take them to the emergency room. He was reluctant to say why, but I knew it couldn’t be good if I was the one tasked with this grim mission.

I drove to his place and found only his children at home; his wife was at work. 1SG told me to say nothing, just get them and their mother to the hospital as quickly as possible. His kids and I drove to his wife’s workplace, and I asked the manager for a private room to speak with her. I still couldn’t tell her anything, just that she needed to come with me to the hospital immediately.

I didn’t know the way, but I knew the general direction. As I pulled up to a stoplight, an ambulance sped by. I followed it to the emergency entrance and stopped the car. His wife and kids, still in the dark, jumped out and ran towards the ambulance. The medics were unloading him as they reached the ambulance. I had gotten them to the hospital behind the ambulance carrying him arrived.

SSG Santiago had been riding his motorcycle home from work, just outside the gate. He lost control of the bike and laid it down, pushing himself away from it. He slid on the road as a car rounded a corner. He hit the car’s grill, his bike in front of him. His skull was crushed, and the handlebars had pierced his abdomen. They cut off his clothes, including his boots, and brought them to the room next door where his family waited. They were able to see him before he passed away and say their goodbyes. My Commander, 1SG, and I remained in the adjacent room, surrounded by his bloody clothes. We could hear the heart monitor through the walls. And then…silence. The cries and screams that followed echoed through the door and into our souls.

The next day, we gathered the entire unit to inform them of what had happened. Chaplains and leadership were present, offering support. My 1SG suggested I speak with a chaplain myself. But I was strong, I told myself. I could handle this. I cried with the chaplain, just as I would with the mental health professional some 14 years later.

I wasn’t strong. I buried that memory deep, tucked it away so I wouldn’t have to confront it. But after 14 years, and even today, I hear his voice, his words of encouragement. I have dreams about him, conversations we had back in Iraq, always about how his Soldiers were doing great things. Sometimes, I think I see him in the shadows, just smiling that big grin.

As Memorial Day approaches, I always feel a pang of sadness, thinking about him. I was so fortunate to have known him, even for just a few years. He made me laugh, and I was constantly amazed by his dedication. He was a true leader, a selfless Soldier, and a friend. I will never forget SSG Miguel Santiago.