Welcome all post members and visitors to the Cocoa Beach VFW Post 10148 website. We hope you find it not only informative, but enjoyable as well!

In honor of Elia P. Fontecchio (pictured here), Cocoa Beach VFW Post 10148 was dedicated to Elia and his family Labor Day 2005. A video tribute and additional photos are available on our History webpage.

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God Bless Us All. We will never forget.

To all those who have served before, and those yet to serve, we stand with you.

A letter from Matt Royer ~

"Gunny"

(Gunnery Sergeant Elia P. Fontecchio)

It was a little past seven in the morning when I laid my head down; the hot summer sun was just starting to pierce my closed eyes through the windows that lined the ceiling as I tried to get to sleep. There was a pungent smell of sweat, coffee and grown men in the large train yard warehouse that a group of 120 of us called home. I had been up conducting patrols/ambushes every night for the past two weeks and had been looking forward to these next three days like they were my own personal Christmas. I had them all planned out. The first day I was going to clean my M16A4 service rifle and my M9 service pistol because they were both covered in the desert sand, a bad combination for any weapon system while at war. The second day, I was going to hit the gym with my best friend "Gunny" Elia Fontecchio and catch up on writing letters home to the family and friends. Then on the last day, I was going to do all the planning and intelligence collecting that I could for the next week of my operating in Sa-da Iraq. But first, all I cared about was catching up on my sleep.

I covered my eyes with my blanket to block the sun and put on my C.D. walkman to drain out the sounds of the morning patrol that was just starting to leave. Throughout the whole warehouse you could hear the sounds of flak jackets and load-baring vests being snapped on, weapons snapping from the Marine lubing up the inner workings for the chance of a fire fight, and Marine fire team leaders and squad leaders barking last minute orders at their junior men.

This is the constant frustration of being in war, no consideration. I muttered this to myself as I rolled over getting ready to embrace my pillow. I was on the verge of falling into dream land when I felt the mussel of a M16 poke me square in the back. I rolled over in frustration and ripped the sheets back with a vengeance. My best friend, "Gunny" Elia Fontecchio, was standing there in full combat gear peering down at me with a big shit-eating grin.

He knelt down next to my rack and whispered, "You sure you don't want to work out today?" I was completely drained from the rigorous schedule of the past two weeks; patrols/ambushes all night, return in the morning too debrief the company and then the battalion, get maybe two hours of sleep if I was lucky, and wake up to plan for that nights patrol/ambush; so needless to say I was not feeling like spending some time in the gym on my first day off!

I'm good Gunny. I need a day to myself, but I am game for tomorrow. I knew this would disappoint him since Gunny and I had been going to the gym for the past four months almost every single day, no matter what time it was (we both worked around each other's schedule). But to my astonishment he seemed not to care. "Go back to bed, I am going to head out with Kilo 4 for the morning patrol," said Gunny. He stood up and turned to leave.

I muttered one last thing to him as he left: Gunny, . . . . . . watch yourself out there, it's no place for a pussy! He flipped me off, and I could see through the rows and rows of racks ~ his signature smile gleaming from ear to ear as he walked out the back door. A heart beat later, I was a fast asleep dreaming of being home.

I was still asleep but very conscious of what was going on around me (something that my body developed in a combat environment for more than fourteen months.) I could hear a lot of movement going on around me, but was still not fully awake to comprehend what was going on. My rack was located about twenty feet from the company command post; a central location in our "home" where we would all congregate to discuss future missions and planning. In the command post there was a huge map of our area of operations, a couple of computers, two radios to communicate with patrols operating in zone, and the one essential machine that any functional combat efficient marine rifle company needed, a coffee machine. Now, still in a sleepy daze I could hear a distinct beep coming from the command post, meaning that there was a lot of communication going over the radio between the patrol that was out and our company staff. Which only meant one thing, Kilo 4 got contact with the insurgency.

I rolled over and looked at my watch. It was just a little past eleven and the vibrant desert sun was now beating down directly on the building making it nearly impossible to sleep due to the heat it generated inside. I lay on my back starring up at the ceiling, when I heard the worst sound come flying over our building: two Blackhawk medevac helicopters taking off and heading north toward our area of operation. I shot out of my rack and sprinted into the command post to see our Company Commander, Company First Sergeant, and our Company Executive Officer all huddled around the radios. Just as I took a step in, our Company Commander threw down the receiver to the radio and bolted out exclaiming to our First Sergeant, "I am going to meet the birds to figure out who they are." I stood to the side to let him go trucking by and turned to enter only to meet our six foot five inch First Sergeant's chest with my face.

"MOVE!" he yelled with his deep booming commanding voice, and like the sea for Moses, I parted to let him by.

I slowly moved into the command post to gage the Executive Officers demeanor before asking the lingering question, who where the medevac's for? I could hear him continue to try to raise communication with Kilo 4 in zone, but with no luck. I started to pour a cup of coffee when I felt a hand slam on my shoulder and a distinct "fuckkkkinnnnnnnn." I turned to respond, but our Executive Officer was off to catch up with our first sergeant and company commander.

By this time, the majority of the squad leaders had congregated in the command post, and we all started to bull shit with each other. It was fairly rare that we all got to see each other like this. With each platoon doing their own separate thing, it was usually a quick passing by that you got to see your buddies. We all started to speculate who the causalities could be and a dark cloud started to come over me. I started to fear that my good buddy and roommate back in the states, Travis Stricker, 4th platoon's 1st squad leader, could be one of the casualties.

Travis, being from Iowa, was a cornbread country boy that had a pee for a brain, but was one of the best Marines you could ever come across. As I sat back and listened to everyone talking and laughing, I started to reminisce about the trips that Travis and I took to Vegas, Mexico, Lake Havasu, San Diego, and my home town Pleasanton, California. I closed my eyes and started to pray, when I heard that distinct sound come flying back over again. It felt like a drum beating in my chest, the two Blackhawk medevac helicopter's were returning with their causalities.

I did not even stop to think, andI was out of the building as fast as I could move. I sprinted to the south side of our base where the Blackhawks had already landed. As I ran toward the make-shift navy medical center (which was located about seven hundred yards from our living quarters), I could see the dust being kicked up from the Blackhawks rotor wash; signifying that they had all ready touched down, off loaded the causalities, and were starting to take off again to move back to their staging point. As I came upon the medical center, I saw our Company First Sergeant, Company Commander, Company Executive Officer, and the majority of our Platoon Commanders and Platoon Sergeants: all pacing by themselves. I could see that there was a blank look on all their faces, a look of helplessness. I knew right then and there that it was not good.

My Platoon Commander, Lieutenant Burke, saw me walk over. He came up to me with a look of compassion. I could feel my heart start to sink. "Gunny" has been hit. I was speechless, my mind went blank, and a feeling of shock took over me. I stood there for what seemed like minutes trying to gather the strength to speak, Is he ok? That is all I could think to say. "Yea, he was talking when they off-loaded him from the bird. He was hit by shrapnel from an IED in his stomach and is in surgery right now." A sense of peace came over me. I felt a feeling of relief knowing that he was talking, and that it was just a minor wound and he was in surgery getting help. I thought that I knew "Gunny" better than anyone did. He was the strongest man that I had ever known. A man that did not know the meaning of "can't." If anyone could make it through such a minuscule injury, "Gunny" could.

Feeling peace and feeling that Gunny was going to pull through this, I headed back to our living quarters to pack a bag for Gunny to take with him on his journey back to the states. On my walk back, I recalled a conversation that Gunny and I had about a week before, on one of our daily walks to the gym. Gunny was worried about a conversation that he needed to have with his wife. He need to tell her that he was going to be coming home a week later than expected, due to the fact he was no longer on the advance party. He kept telling me about how upset she was going to be, and I kept reassuring him that it was no big deal. It was only a week. After reliving the conversation in my head, I started to laugh to myself and in a weird twisted way, he was going to be home sooner than he expected. When I got back to our "home," I grabbed Gunny's assault pack and started stuffing it with some personal items that I knew he would need. I threw in his CD player with my Godsmack CD that he loved. I throw in his pictures of his son and wife, his blanket, and I wrote him a note in which I said, "Here you go you S.O.B., looks like you don't need to have that conversation after all, and you better have a beer waiting for me when I get off the bus next month. I will miss you brother and I love you man!" I zipped it up and I was off back to the medical tents to wait for "Gunny" to get out of surgery.

I could not stop thinking about what I was going to say to "Gunny" when he got out of surgery. I was going to miss him, and I was losing my workout partner. I decided that I was going to challenge him to a bench press competition when I got back to the states ~ thinking I could get a leg up since he would be recovering. I looked at my watch, it was about three in the afternoon. The temperature was closing on 130 degrees, and I was starting to get impatient. "Gunny" had been in surgery for two hours now, and I knew that he should be coming out soon. Just as I looked up, our first sergeant came out of one of the drab brown medical tents with his head down and walked toward me, First Sergeant, how's "Gunny?" He looked up at me, and I could see that he had a tear running down his face before I could even process what was about to happen.

"He didn't make it." WHO, I asked (not having the slightest clue who he was talking about.) "Gunny, and he's gone." I stood there ~alone in utter shock. I went into denial. There is no way that he died, it was a minor wound! I played it over and over in my head, he's not gone, I kept saying it over and over until it finally hit me, and it hit me like a bus on the freeway; he was really gone. The flood gates of emotion opened, I could feel my heart being destroyed, and I started to cry un-controllably. I walked toward our company staff, crying so hard that it hurt. I couldn't speak ~ I couldn't think ~ I could only just cry. Our Company Executive Officer ran over and grabbed me and held me while I wept tears of pain and sorrow until there were no more tears to cry.

I will never forget that day till the day I die. I lost a friend and comrade that filled a void that was in my heart since I was child. Gunny was like a father to me. He taught me and showed me what it really meant to be a man, and I thank him for that. There is not a day that goes by that Elie Fontecchio is not in my thoughts and prayers.

I miss you brother.

A message from our incoming VFW Commander, Daniel O'Connell

It Is the Soldier

It is the Soldier, not the minister who has given us freedom of religion.

It is the Soldier, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press.

It is the Soldier, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech.

It is the Soldier, not the campus organizer, who has given us the freedom to demonstrate.

It is the Soldier, not the lawyer, who has given us the right to a fair trial.

It is the Soldier, not the politician, who has given us the right to vote.

It is the Soldier who salutes the flag, who serves under the flag, whose coffin is draped in the flag, who allows the protesters to burn the flag.

Written by: Charles Michael Province, U.S. Army

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