Memorial Day Tribute: Remembering Turner
A mentor, a joker, a steady hand in the Saudi sands.
I don’t remember the exact date I started contracting—late 2009, maybe early 2010—but I remember how I felt: unemployed, in need of direction, and back on the hunt for purpose. The Global War on Terror was still rolling, and defense contractors needed bodies. That’s how I found myself at Vinnell Arabia, training the Saudi Arabian National Guard.
That’s also how I met Turner.
He was retired Army, an NCO through and through. Everyone just called him Turner. He was the number two guy on our team, working directly under Wayne—more on him in a second. Turner was the one who brought me into the fold, and I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to this strange new world.
I was also on a team with a guy nicknamed YT— drill sergeant from basic training back in ’96. Taught us about the TOW missle system. Small world.
Turner was a natural mentor. He knew how to work hard and how to have fun—but more importantly, he knew how to keep the two separate. That was something I didn’t know how to do yet. He taught me that. He taught me a lot, actually.
He’d already done his time in the Army. But this was his way of still serving—still being in the fight, still shaping lives, still doing the mission. And he did it well.
Now here’s the part that still makes me laugh.
Our team leader was Wayne—a crusty old Command Sergeant Major from Fort Polk. Tough as nails. Mean as hell when he wanted to be. But turns out, I knew his daughter. We’d gone to school together back when my dad was stationed at Polk.
And Turner found out before Wayne did.
That man never let it go. “Man oh man, Vick could’ve been your son-in-law!” he’d say. Constantly. It drove Wayne crazy. Drove me a little nuts too. But Turner loved it. Always cracking jokes, always lightening the mood—even when we were training in the desert, tired and sunburnt and sweating through our boots.
He taught me more about Saudi Arabia than I ever expected. Like how there are different types of sand. That sounds dumb until you're out there with the wrong tires in the wrong place. Then it's not dumb at all.
But more than that, he reminded me that once you’re out of the uniform, your rank doesn’t matter anymore. That life we had in the Army? It shaped us—but it wasn’t who we were now. “This is your job, your mission, your life,” he said. “Embrace it.”
And I did.
So thank you, Turner. For the guidance, the laughs, and the mentorship. You helped me cross into a new phase of life without losing who I was. You taught me to serve in a new way. I hope I’ve made you proud.
God bless you, brother. You are remembered.