“The names of 20 journalists who died during the war in Iraq in 2003 and an Associated Press Television News cameraman killed while filming violence in the West Bank were among 53 names added in May 2004 to a memorial to those who died covering the news… Relatives, friends and colleagues heard the names read aloud while a single chime sounded for each journalist who died on the job.
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James Walker, circa 2000
Among the names read was James Walker, a Clarion-Ledger reporter who was killed in April 2003 in a traffic accident in Copiah County while traveling to interview the family of a Mississippi soldier killed in the Iraq war. Walker, a native of The Woodlands, Texas, had covered military affairs and the environment for the newspaper for two years.”
I never met James Walker. He was well before my time at the Clarion-Ledger. But I remember when he died. I remember reading about it, and even though I was a teacher at the time, I remember thinking that it hits home pretty hard for us journalists when we see another journalist become the news.
Since I’ve been here at the Clarion-Ledger, I’ve come to know James a little better.
It started when I first got here and I saw the plaque on the wall with his face on it. I asked what it was for, and they told me it was for the reporter with the most hustle, basically. I looked at the names on there, and I obsessed about it. I was going to win the James Walker Award, I decided.
Image may be NSFW.
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Funny thing was, I just let them tell me he was a reporter who had died in a car wreck, and that’s why we take a driving test when we come to work at the C-L. (Or at least, we used to. Nobody really does that anymore.) I didn’t really ask anything else.
They didn’t give a James Walker award in 2011, and I have to admit that with some of the changes in job assignments, I lost some of my hustle. It quit inspiring me like it should have because I thought it was forgotten like I felt my passion was. That’s not to say I ever deserved it, but I really wanted to.
After some recent events, I looked James up in our archives. I realized, as the article above stated, that he was on his way to talk to the family of Henry Brown, a Natchez soldier killed as our troops stormed Iraq. Having just written about that very mission to take Baghdad, I thought how strange it was that it’s been a whole decade.
Also strangely, not long ago I had written something about Henry Brown for a private project I’m working on dealing with Mississippi’s casualties of the War on Terror. There were a lot of things that piqued my interest and pulled my head back into the game.
I think every reporter like me dreams about being Marie Colvin or Daniel Pearl. Having given up a normal life for one of adrenaline rushes, exhilarating highs and valleys so deep they seem bottomless, we just think maybe one day we’ll go out in a blaze of glory, to be remembered by those in our trade as giving it all for the cause. It seems weird, I’m sure, to normal people, but journalists know what I mean.
And there’s James Walker, on that wall with all those folks who were there, who died telling those stories that will become the history of the War on Terror. In many cases, those who died to let us back home know how our guys were doing over there, and that hopefully they’d win and be home soon.
Billy Watkins, who is one of our best writers, says sometimes he can still almost feel James in the newsroom. I think he might be right. James’ face definitely smiles down at us from the plaque where they post the winners of his award every year.
Billy wrote this about his friend.
”It always amused me that James wound up covering the military beat for the paper. I chuckled as I pictured him, with his long black hair pulled back in his signature ponytail, interviewing people in uniforms and flat-tops. The thing about it is, those people soon realized what we all knew at The Clarion-Ledger — that James was a smart, thorough reporter who cared deeply about doing his job to the best of his ability.
I was working on a story that would focus on a town in Mississippi that had among the highest percentage of its residents called to active duty when the war in Iraq began. I had my mind set on one town, but James said he thought I should go to Calhoun City, instead. The statistics of the two towns were about the same and didn’t provide a definitive answer. But James wouldn’t give up. He came to my desk twice. “I really think you should go to Calhoun City,” he said.
Finally, I told him if he felt that strongly about it, then that’s where I would go. And, of course, James nailed it. My story wound up winning several awards — not because of me, but because the people of Calhoun City so vividly described what going to war did to a small town and the families who lived there. Somehow, James instinctively knew they would.
He was special.”
I guess I felt I had to tell James’ story because of his heart. I know what it’s like to talk to the people who have lost loved ones to war and to have to translate their grief into something that readers can stomach. I know what it’s like to want to do your best to tell these heroes’ stories because we live in a world that glorifies Jodi Arias and OJ Simpson, but doesn’t know who Cpl. Henry Brown, of Natchez, killed by an enemy rocket attack south of Baghdad, leaving behind a wife he’d met in the Army who was stationed in Kuwait when he was killed; or Duke University lacrosse player turned Army Ranger Sgt. James Regan, of New York, killed by an IED; or Lance Cpl. Dale Means, of Minnesota, killed by a roadside bomb and whose funeral was the site of over 1,800 American flags; or any of the other 6670 fallen heroes of the War on Terror are.
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Col. Samuel T. Nichols, Jr, shakes Shametra Stamps hand at the 365th Support Battalion Welcome Home and Warrior Citizen Program at Camp Shelby Wednesday afternoon.
/Photo by Henrietta Wildsmith
There was Shametra “Meme” Stamps, a 30-year-old mother from Edwards who was one of the best drivers in the Army during the time she served, but was killed in a car accident here. I’m still Facebook friends with her best friend Bridgette. I’ll never forget her.
There have been more than 75 Mississippi military men and women killed in the war on terror, and so many more who have served in it. They need to be remembered. Their stories need to be told.
But sometimes we remember the story and forget the storyteller. Just like the people he wrote about, James saw a calling in what he did. He died in the middle of doing something that meant a great deal to him.
Y’all know I firmly believe in telling the stories of the heroes. But sometimes you need to tell the stories of the story tellers too.
*Writer’s note: I began this blog in April, and meant to have it ready for April 10, which was the 10th anniversary of James’ death. Since then, we’ve had a ton of wild news and I wanted to make sure I had time to give him justice. That’s why it’s 10 years, 1 month, and 10 days.