Medal of Honor Month: Specialist Ross McGinnis
In 2006, Spc. Ross Andrew McGinnis, a U.S. Army member, was on patrol in eastern Baghdad during the Iraq War. It was there he earned the prestigious Medal of Honor, which he was awarded posthumously.
Ross Andrew McGinnis was born on June 14, 1987, in Meadville, Pennsylvania, but grew up in Clarion County, just north of Pittsburgh. He always knew that he wanted to join the military. He even expressed this desire to his kindergarten teacher at age 5. Throughout his youth, he participated in team sports and joined the Boy Scouts of America to practice teamwork. Then he joined the Army's Delayed Entry Program before graduating high school. McGinnis completed BCT at Fort Benning, Georgia. Following his basic training, he joined the 1st Battalion, C Company, 26th Infantry Regiment, 1st Infantry Division in Germany. In August 2006, he deployed to Iraq, where he took part in the action that earned him the Medal of Honor.
'Private First Class Ross A. McGinnis distinguished himself by acts of gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty while serving as an M2 .50-caliber Machine Gunner, 1st Platoon, C Company, 1st Battalion, 26th Infantry Regiment, in connection with combat operations against an armed enemy in Adhamiyah, Northeast Baghdad, Iraq, on 4 December 2006. That afternoon his platoon was conducting combat control operations in an effort to reduce and control sectarian violence in the area. While Private McGinnis was manning the M2 .50-caliber Machine Gun, a fragmentation grenade thrown by an insurgent fell through the gunner's hatch into the vehicle. Reacting quickly, he yelled 'grenade,' allowing all four members of his crew to prepare for the grenade's blast. Then, rather than leaping from the gunner's hatch to safety, Private McGinnis made the courageous decision to protect his crew.
'In a selfless act of bravery, in which he was mortally wounded, Private McGinnis covered the live grenade, pinning it between his body and the vehicle and absorbing most of the explosion. Private McGinnis' gallant action directly saved four men from certain serious injury or death. Private First Class McGinnis' extraordinary heroism and selflessness at the cost of his own life, above and beyond the call of duty, are in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army.' – Congressional Medal of Honor Society
On June 2, 2008, President George W. Bush presented McGinnis' parents with his Medal of Honor in a special ceremony held at the White House. The military posthumously awarded McGinnis the Bronze Star Medal and the Purple Heart, in addition to the Medal of Honor. This recognition was for his selfless bravery in sacrificing his own life to protect his fellow service members from the grenade explosion.The presentation of these prestigious military honors was a recognition of McGinnis' extraordinary service and sacrifice to his country and a testament to the lasting impact of his heroic actions.
Learn more about the Congressional Medal of Honor Society at cmohs.org or find them on Instagram |Facebook
Participate in Medal of Honor Day on March 25 by sharing a recipient's story
Support veteran hiring and transition programs in your workplace
Teach younger generations about the values of courage, sacrifice, and service
Medal of Honor Month isn't just about recognizing history. It's about keeping the mission alive for the future. Observe Medal of Honor March on We Are The Mighty here.
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21 hours ago
- Buzz Feed
Why I Don't Always Thank Veterans For Their Service
James shifts nervously from one foot to the other, sweat glistening on his forehead and his muscles tense. A smiling intern approaches with a flag pin intent on thanking him for his military service whether he likes it or not. That's when he bolts for the door. I take off after him; there's no way I'm letting him tear onto the highway with his nervous system flashing red. Visions of a high-speed collision flash in my mind as I jog through the parking lot trying to catch him. Earlier that morning, I noticed James standing apart from the milling crowd gathered for a workshop on terminally ill veterans who have 'combat-related psychological challenges' like post-traumatic stress disorder, moral injury and complicated bereavement. With his straight back and hair cut in the style of a Marine, James was a stark contrast to the business card-exchanging group of social workers and psychologists with whom I'd been chatting. I had gone over and struck up a conversation. He'd told me he worked for a 'street program' focused on helping veterans struggling with drugs, homelessness and issues like depression, suicidal thoughts and PTSD. He'd recently applied to graduate schools with a vision of becoming a psychologist. 'I want to be there for my Iraq War brothers and sisters,' he'd said. 'We were all betrayed, every one of us. Moral injury and PTSD, that's just the tip of the iceberg.' 'Betrayed by who?' I'd asked. 'Politicians, military brass, the majority of people in this country who don't give a shit what really happened to me and my buddies and who don't want to hear about it.' He'd stared into my eyes as though expecting me to be uncomfortable with his candor. 'I've heard that from lots of vets,' I'd said, nodding. 'Not just the ones who fought in Iraq; going way back.' 'That's the dirty little secret about war,' he'd said, extending his hand. 'It's always an act of betrayal.' Later, we'd grabbed seats together at a table with three others. The trainer started with moral injury ― what it is, what it looks like, why it matters. He played poignant excerpts from recorded interviews of veterans talking about the psychologically and spiritually painful impact of witnessing or committing actions that violated their sense of morality or that had shattered their trust in those they'd relied on to act in their best interest. The trouble had started after lunch when the trainer asked attendees who were veterans to raise their hands. A half-dozen or so complied, but James hesitated. I'd given him a nod and whispered, 'You don't have to do this if you don't want to.' He gave a forced smile and raised his hand. Then the trainer asked the veterans to stand and announced that an intern would be making rounds with a box of flag pins. James had quickly sized up the well-intentioned ritual coming his way. The trainer would speak directly to each veteran, asking them what branch they'd been in and where they had been stationed. Then he would thank each of them for their 'service' while the intern pinned a flag to their shirt and the audience clapped. Sweating profusely, James had scanned the room looking for the nearest exit and anything or anyone that might get in his way. That's when he'd bolted. 'James,' I call out as he unlocks a beat-up Ford Mustang. He doesn't respond as he flings the door open and fumbles with the seatbelt, his hands shaking. I step between the open door and the car's frame. I know it's tricky, maybe even dangerous, getting in his space when he's feeling threatened, but I'm determined to help him settle before he revs the engine. 'Five minutes,' I say holding up five fingers. 'Just give me five, James. After that you can forget you ever met me.' His respirations are rapid. I take a deep breath, trying to cue him to do the same. He taps the steering wheel rapidly with one of his fists as though thinking, then motions to the passenger seat. 'Clock's ticking,' he says. I sit in the passenger seat, leaving the door open. We stare ahead avoiding eye contact. I wait for him to speak. 'Service,' he finally says. 'They have no idea.' He lowers his head. 'They call what happened over there service? Do they think we were serving fucking French fries? What I saw, what I did. What my buddies did. What we had done to us. It wasn't any kind of service. It was pure hell and I'm still living it. Now they want to pat me on the head and jab me with a cheap flag pin?' 'You're right,' I respond. 'They have no idea.' 'They don't want to know,' he shoots back. 'They want us all to shut the hell up and go along so they don't have to take any responsibility themselves. Didn't I tell you we were all betrayed? It never stops.' He gives me a sad look. 'I watched friends get their guts blown out. You ever seen bodies of women and kids splattered across the ground knowing you and your buddies are the ones who did it?' I shake my head silently. He grips his steering wheel so tightly the sinews in his forearms look like tightened cables. 'Service,' he says with acid sarcasm. His face softens and tears well in his eyes. 'How can they start in with the flag pins without even asking me what my experience was? It's like they're trying to push a lie down my throat.' 'What lie?' I ask. He looks up as though searching for words. 'That whatever we do is some kind of service to humanity. That we never commit atrocities and cover them up; that we're always helping the weak and protecting democracy. I found out fast we were killing and getting killed for money and power.' 'What's it like having people thanking you for your service everywhere you go, James?' He shakes his head as though I wouldn't understand. I remain silent, giving him time to either respond or switch the subject. 'You know what it's like?' he finally says. 'You might think this is an exaggeration but you asked. It's an act of violence.' 'Help me understand that one,' I say. 'Imagine you're hurting like hell and all you want to do is tell your friends and family what happened, hoping they'll understand, hoping maybe they'll tell you they're sorry about what you had to go through and reassure you that you're not some kind of monster. But all they do is pretend what you did was great and parrot a bunch of lame horse shit about being a hero. It's like you're being choked to death from the inside and you look to others for help and they just smile and look away.' 'Psychological and emotional violence,' I say. He nods. I look at the clock and mention that it's been five minutes. 'You kept your part of the deal, James. I've got time if you want to talk more but I want to keep my end. It's your call.' His hands are steady now and his breathing is normal. 'Thanks for coming after me. I'm good now.' He reaches out his hand. He squeezes mine tight and says, 'Thanks for not thanking me for my service when we met.' I nod. As he drives off I think about the hundreds of terminally ill combat veterans I've worked with as their hospice social worker. Most were, as combat veteran Tim O'Brien puts it, 'carrying stuff.' Stuff many ― maybe most ― civilians wouldn't understand. That's probably why so many of these veterans had locked it up inside and hidden it from view. Long days in a hospital bed, though, have ways of dredging stuff up. It's normal for patients approaching death to look back on their lives and take stock. When you're looking back on a life that includes the cataclysmic violence and horrific loss and grief of war, this life review process can be psychologically and spiritually complex ― even painful. Many of the combat veterans I've known had spent decades trying not to think or talk (at least not with civilians) about what they'd seen and done. Many suppressed undigested grief for friends who'd been killed or struggled silently with survival guilt, anger or feeling unsafe in the world. Some struggled with explosive tempers, anxiety or depression related to the scars of war; others with emotional numbness, alcohol and/or drug addictions, or feeling disconnected from others. Some had polished up a handful of well-rehearsed war stories sanitized of blood, gore or moral ambiguity, which they'd offered family and friends so as not to upset them. Others simply kept quiet. But as death approaches, it can claw up stories and memories that have been suppressed. These memories can be fragmented and poignant with details of war's horror ― the smell of burning bodies, the eyes of a dead buddy gazing up at the sky, the numb immersion day after day after day in violence, killing and death. Sometimes they are laced with moral pain and shame ― the killing of civilians, lifeless bodies of 'the enemy' being desecrated in the rage of a battle's aftermath. As I walk back to the training, I think about a B-17 pilot who participated in bombing raids during World War II intended to incinerate German cities. The point had been to kill every man, woman and child ― every dog and flea unlucky enough to be on the ground. He'd done his duty and returned from war assured that he'd helped save the world from fascism. But humans, despite misguided notions about war being part of the 'human condition,' are not wired to kill each other however just the cause may seem. As an old man, he was haunted by the belief that he was a mass murderer. He was convinced he was going to go to hell after he died and there he'd feel the kind of fiery torture he believed he'd inflicted on others. Like James, he had winced at reflexive expressions of thanks for his 'service.' The message he heard was: W e believe that you were performing a service, standing up for freedom, protecting the weak, saving democracy. You're a hero. That's our story and we don't want to hear your story if it makes us uncomfortable or challenges us in any way. He didn't want someone else's story shoved down his throat; he wanted someone with whom it was safe to tell his own without being judged or rejected. He wanted to unpack some of what he'd been carrying and find compassion for the 20-year-old young man he'd been when thrust into the bloody savagery of war. He wanted to begin to heal before he died. As someone who works with dying veterans, I've learned to never automatically thank them for their service. I realize many are justifiably proud of their time in the military, of friendships forged, courage shown and service given. I know that most appreciate expressions of thanks and that these expressions are often genuine and heartfelt on the part of those offering them. But I would rather disappoint those who expect me to join the chorus of thanks than close the door on a single veteran like James who needs someone who won't flinch or look away if they choose to share what they have been carrying. Refusing to lead with the culturally sanctioned chant 'Thank you for your service' sends the message to veterans like James that I'm not pushing a story that denies their experience. It's safe to talk. I can be trusted to listen without judging. Those veterans who have noticed and asked about my lack of obedience to the social custom of using the euphemism 'service' have generally understood and appreciated my reasons once we discussed them. Several shared things with me during those conversations they would not otherwise have shared. Things they, too, had been carrying. But there's another reason I never give automatic thanks or use the word service. It's an easy out for the rest of us. It lets civilians like me off the hook when it comes to taking any responsibility for what we have allowed political and military leaders to do in our name. It allows us to wash our hands of any culpability for how they, and we, have used our troops. That's part of what I think James meant when he said all wars are acts of betrayal. Calling the sum of actions taken in war 'service' is a convenient way for the rest of us to deny what our warriors have been asked to do. It makes it easy for us to turn away from or to deny the burning anguish, grief and regret many carry. Insidiously, it also allows us to avoid asking awkward questions: Were we really justified in using violence to kill so many other human beings? Why are we so desperate to idealize those who have done the bloody, heartbreaking work of war? Who profits ― politically or financially ― from all this division and violence? What are we so damned afraid of? The 'service' euphemism has become so prevalent that it is now part of a cultural trance state that shuts down honest conversations about these and other questions. Automatically thanking a veteran for his or her service can inadvertently telegraph to those whose experiences fly in the face of our well-rehearsed storyline that we don't want to hear what really happened ― that we don't care about what they might be carrying. This not only reinforces our collective conceit that our own hands are clean, it ensures that we will not have to carry anything ourselves. Euphemism piles upon euphemism. Hiding the slaughter of war behind the innocuous word 'service' allows us to call the children James saw killed 'collateral damage.' Calling bombs 'smart bombs' and calling it 'precision bombing' when we unleash them on others allows us to conceal those children from our awareness as well as the pangs of grief in those left behind. It even allows some of us to vilify those Americans who dare dissent or protest the dropping of bombs as 'unpatriotic' or 'un-American.' When American troops are killed, we are protected, as though we are children, from any images of their charred and mangled corpses. Once more we are slathered in reassuring euphemisms. Our 'fallen heroes' and their 'brave sacrifice' are lauded by a ratings-obsessed media and politicians vowing revenge on an enemy also in thrall to the delusion that they are providing a service by killing young American men and women. If we really want to 'honor the ultimate sacrifice' our soldiers have made, if we really want to ensure that they have 'not died in vain,' we need to stop lying about war by hiding behind socially enforced rituals, platitudes and euphemisms. If we really want to help those who have survived and carry the wounds of war, we need to stop hiding from and denying war's cruel brutality. We must make sure it is safe for veterans who have been in the military during a time of war ― regardless of whether they were directly exposed to combat ― to speak for themselves and to speak the truth. And we need to listen to all of them, not just the ones whose stories make us feel good about ourselves. Note: Names and some details have been slightly altered to protect the privacy of the individuals discussed in this essay. This essay originally ran in January 2022 and is being rerun now as part of HuffPost Personal's 'Best Of' Series. Scott Janssen is a hospice social worker and writer. He has written extensively about providing trauma-informed care for patients who are terminally ill and has spoken nationally about ways to better support veterans who are nearing the end of their lives. His work has appeared in dozens of publications, including Social Work Today, Psychotherapy Networker, American Journal of Nursing, Reader's Digest, and The Washington Post. His novel Light Keepers is a visionary adventure about the transformational power of kindness and love when the world appears lost in anger, conflict, and fear.
Yahoo
3 days ago
- Yahoo
Fulton celebrates Medal of Honor hero for D-Day bravery
FULTON, N.Y. (WSYR-TV) — June 6 has a new meaning to community members in the City of Fulton. The city has recognized a Medal of Honor recipient for acts of heroism on D-Day. Fulton said as part of 'Carlton W. Barrett Day,' they honor a local hero and teach students about the sacrifices made during World War II. The day is dedicated to Carlton W. Barrett, a veteran who they said displayed extraordinary bravery during the D-Day invasion. Barrett, a native of Fulton, served in the U.S. Army and was awarded the Medal of Honor for his valor on June 6, 1944. Courtesy of Bill Cahill. Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Yahoo
3 days ago
- Yahoo
D-Day soldier awarded Distinguished Service Cross after 81 years
Army Staff Sgt. William D. Owens knew his platoon was in trouble. Part of A Company, 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division, his platoon had jumped into Normandy on June 6, 1944, and captured La Fiere Bridge, just west of Utah Beach. A day later, after vicious counterattacks by German troops and tanks, Owens had only a few men left to hold the vital crossing across the Merderet River. Bloodied and outnumbered, they fought on. Owens rallied his men, strengthened their defenses and collected ammunition from the dead and wounded, then single-handedly fired two machine guns and a Browning automatic rifle as hundreds of Germans tried to storm their position. Four Americans earned the Distinguished Service Cross — second only to the Medal of Honor — for their actions at La Fiere that day, though Owens was not one of them. The men of A Company thought that was unfair. So did retired Army Col. Keith Nightingale, a Vietnam veteran who later led the 505th PIR. When he learned of the oversight, he had to do something about it. 'This is a guy who essentially saved the defensive position of the 505,' Nightingale said. 'In doing so, he preserved the strategic objective of the bridge. It struck me emotionally.' He added, 'Gen. Gavin [later commander of the 82nd Airborne] said he deserved the Medal of Honor.' During a ceremony Thursday at La Fiere Memorial Park in France, Harrison Morales accepted the Distinguished Service Cross on behalf of his great-grandfather, Owens, who died in 1967. The long-overdue award is an upgrade of his Bronze Star. Owens also received the Purple Heart with Oak Leaf Cluster and the Silver Star for Operation Market Garden. The firefight at La Fiere was one of the fiercest and most important of the Normandy campaign. Elements of the 82nd Airborne held the bridge — actually a causeway between fields flooded by the Germans to prevent parachute drops — against several bloody counterattacks. Failure here would have seriously jeopardized the D-Day landings by preventing the U.S. Army's 4th Infantry Division and 70th Tank Battalion from moving inland from Utah Beach. Military journalist S.L.A. Marshall, author of 'Night Drop: The American Airborne Invasion of Normandy,' claimed La Fiere Bridge was 'probably the bloodiest small unit struggle in the experience of American arms.' With the aid of 44 men in his platoon, Owens captured the bridge in the wee hours of June 6. Over the next 48 hours, they held their ground against three German tanks, which were destroyed by a pair of two-man bazooka teams. Owens scared off a fourth tank by braving enemy fire so he could get close enough to toss Gammon grenades. 'Owens is one of the premier heroes,' said James Donovan, author of the newly published 'Nothing But Courage: The 82nd Airborne's Daring D-Day Mission — and Their Heroic Charge Across the La Fiere Bridge.' 'Not only did he prevent a sneak German attack by crawling along to throw two grenades, but he directs the defense for the next two days,' Donovan said. 'He was the key.' During the battle, the staff sergeant saw his force dwindle from 45 to just 12 effectives. Owens, who became company commander when his lieutenant was mortally wounded, took charge and repositioned his soldiers to stop three German assaults. He crawled between foxholes to gather ammunition from casualties and even propped up dead soldiers to make them appear alive. For one attack, Owens by himself fired two machine guns whose crews had been killed or wounded. When the barrel of one overheated, he blasted away with a Browning automatic rifle until he ran out of ammunition. Years later, when Marshall interviewed 505th PIR soldiers about what happened, he was told by nearly everyone, 'The defense was saved by Owens. It was his courage and calmness which made us stick [it] out. He carried the load.' 'Owens is providing critical leadership at a crucial time and he is directly involved in combat under circumstances that are very, very impressive,' said military historian Martin K.A. Morgan, author of 'Down to Earth: The 507th Parachute Infantry Regiment in Normandy.' 'His citation for the Distinguished Service Cross shows him cradling and firing a machine gun. That's super soldier stuff right there.' Lt. Gen. James Gavin, commanding officer of the 505th PIR, witnessed Owens in action and nominated him for the Medal of Honor, which was declined. Battalion commander Lt. John J. Dolan backed him for a Distinguished Service Cross but the paperwork was lost. Nightingale discovered this oversight about five years ago. He worked passionately to rectify the omission and make sure Owens' family would receive the medal, which was upgraded from a Bronze Star. 'This guy goes from being a squad leader to company commander in the course of a couple of hours,' Nightingale said. 'He was lost in history, and I thought that was not a good idea. We had a lost valor.'
