Van of Valor

By Dr. Kevin Wallace
Van of Valor

WILLIAMS, Az. – I’ve spent my life surrounded by the echoes of war. As a U.S. Air Force combat photographer, I felt the concussive blast of an RPG, the crack of sniper fire, and the heavy silence that follows a firefight. 

I’ve been awarded the Purple Heart and a Bronze Star with Valor for actions I took to protect my brothers and sisters in arms. I carry those experiences with me every day.

Yet, it was on a scenic train ride through the breathtaking landscapes of Arizona, a world away from any battlefield, that I felt a calling back to service and sacrifice.

Lauren (my wife) and I, through our Van of Valor mission, were in the midst of a series of emotionally taxing interviews with combat veterans and Gold Star families. We decided to take a day for respite, boarding the Grand Canyon Railway from Williams, for a journey back in time and a view of one of nature’s wonders. 

We were, for a moment, just tourists.

But fate had other plans. 

In a serendipitous twist, we met Lisa Reich. As we talked, we learned she is the daughter of a World War II Prisoner of War and Purple Heart recipient. 

Our day off from the mission vanished in an instant, replaced by a profound sense of purpose. The Van of Valor was back on duty, right there in a vintage railcar, this time to research Army Private First Class William F. Fry.

Lisa shared with me details about her father. Knowing his date of birth, death, and service dates; and that he was from Aberdeen in Brown County, South Dakota, we went to work.

We found the official record of her father’s imprisonment. 

He was held in POW Camp Stalag II-B, which was in the Prussian Province of Pomerania (Pommern), which became part of the German Reich. The camp was situated in a flat, wooded, and often damp area.

Stalag II-B was one of the main German POW camps for enlisted men and non-commissioned officers. There were 99 work camps in the area, and as an enlisted man, we would have been relocated to a work camp after his capture, initial processing, and registration. 

According to the National Archives, PFC FRY WILLIAM F was registered as Serial Number 37489988, Army, U.S., Infantry, on the 08 day of the 11 month of 1944. 

Stalag II-B was the administrative base, so the vast majority of prisoners, including Fry, spent most of their time in one of these smaller work camps, laboring in agriculture, forestry, or industry.

He would have lived and worked in a very harsh winter environment, with little shelter or clothing, and being nearly starved. CIA reports the conditions of “watery soup” laced with sawdust, lice-infested barracks, and the brutal forced labor in the frozen forests of Pomerania.

I had to stop and ground myself. I wasn’t just reading history. I was connecting with a fellow soldier, his story unfolding as the majestic canyon walls rose outside our window.

His war was in the mud and snow of Europe; mine was in a wide array of places, most notably in the dust and mountains of Afghanistan. He was captured; I was wounded. 

He endured the constant, gnawing hunger of a POW camp; something I can not even fathom. 

I thank God almighty for that, as I was nearly captured on a classified mission. I knew the adrenalized terror of a close-quarters fight. The instruments of war change, but the core experiences of fear, resilience, and the desperate will to see tomorrow are timeless.

The mission had to be momentarily paused when we stood before the grandeur and magnificence of the Grand Canyon. In that place, we are all so minuscule to what matters; we all certainly recognize that.

At one point, when looking up, I was enthroned with something that at an earlier point of my life, I was sure would have never been possible, again… ever. As I gazed into the sun above the South Rim, an enormous California Condor soared right over me. Its wings were as steady as any CAS aircraft I’d ever seen… his stretching, black wings were splashed with white as sturdy as a Roman sculpture.

The moment we returned from the canyon’s edge, Lauren and I began our work. 

From a rental RV in Williams later that evening, we dove into research, pulling up archives and cross-referencing the details Lisa had shared. 

Reading about Fry’s “death march” in the dead of winter in 1945, I felt an unknowable chill. 

The report noted that without stolen food and pilfered Red Cross parcels, many would not have survived. That simple statement speaks volumes about the raw, human instinct to live and to help the man next to you live, a truth that transcends generations.

Holding that document on my screen, with Lauren by my side, I was struck by the profound responsibility we have. 

The Van of Valor was built for moments of unexpected connection like this. 

It’s not just about preserving history in a book; it’s about making it breathe. 

It’s about being on a train for a day off and recognizing a story that must be told. It’s about connecting a daughter’s love for her father with a fellow veteran’s understanding of his ordeal. In this case, that “fellow veteran” was me. 

Fry came home. He built a life, raised a family. Meeting Lisa didn’t just teach me about her father’s war; it reaffirmed the very reason for our mission. 

Our duty does not end when we take off the uniform. It evolves. It becomes a duty to remember, to connect, and to honor — even, and especially, when we least expect it.

The valor of Fry is not defined by a single dramatic battle, but by the relentless courage it took to survive each day. 

It is a profound honor to have his story, and his daughter, become a part of the Van of Valor’s story. In remembering him, we honor them all.

The name PFC William F. Fry will soon be added to the Van of Valor’s starboard side, just under the passenger window. 

To read other stories of valor and sacrifice, visit www.HelpVoV.com