Seventeen years have passed since an Army psychiatrist opened fire at Fort Hood killing 13 people in 2009. Since then, families of three of the fallen have learned to navigate life without their loved ones, finding strength in the values and lessons their father, daughter and spouse left behind.
“It builds character, kid,” is a phrase Keely Cahill Vanacker remembers her father Michael Cahill saying, always with a playful punch to the arm, throughout her teenage years whenever she was upset.
Cahill served in the Army National Guard for 23 years as an infantryman before earning a bachelor’s degree in psychology and training to become a physician assistant, providing medical care to soldiers.
“My dad really valued people, and he touched a lot of lives,” Vanacker said.
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Growing up in a military family, living all across the country, Vanacker saw Cahill demonstrate the value of treating others with humanity and fairness as he practiced medicine.
“If you were somebody living in a rural Texas post and struggling to even pay for your asthma medication, my dad would find places for you to get your medication,” she said.
For Cahill, serving people was a calling; and it did not end when he hung up his helmet. After retiring from the military he continued to serve as a civilian PA at Fort Hood.
As for Amy Krueger, her call to serve came in the aftermath of the Sept. 11, 2001, terror attacks.
“I’m going in.”
Those are the words Amy told her mother Jeri Krueger on the afternoon of Sept. 11.
At the time, Amy was a student at the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay, Sheboygan Campus.
“Going in?” Krueger recalled asking her daughter.
“I’m joining the Army, mom.”
Krueger was skeptical that her daughter could make a difference in the fight against terrorism.
“Oh, Amy, you can’t take on bin Laden all by yourself,” Krueger told her daughter.
“Watch me,” Amy replied.
The next day, Amy sat in a recruiter’s office and would go on to become Staff Sgt. Amy Krueger.
“When Amy said she was going to do something, she did it,” Krueger said.
After Amy’s first deployment to Afghanistan in 2003 at Bagram Airfield, she returned home and continued her education as a mental health specialist in the Army and completed Emergency Medical Technician (EMT) and Certified Nursing Assistant (CNA) programs while continuing her education in psychology.
“She wanted to help people get through things,” Krueger said. “Psychology was definitely something she would’ve been great at.”
In 2008, Amy volunteered for another tour in Afghanistan. Between deployments, she was welcomed home by friends and family members.
Even while at home her commitment to service was still on the forefront of her mind.
Krueger had been at work when Amy texted her a picture of a new tattoo she had gotten, which took hours to complete.
“I said, ‘I don’t like it,’” Krueger recalled.
Amy asked what her mother meant, thinking she was receiving the typical parental disapproval of new ink.
Krueger explained it wasn’t necessarily the tattoo itself she disliked, but what it said.
“I feel like it’s a bad omen,” Krueger had told her daughter.
Amy brushed her mother’s worries off with a chuckle.
The tattoo depicted the American flag, draped across her back, alongside a firearm and soldier’s hat. It read: “All gave some. Some gave all. Sacrifice.”
Krueger knew her daughter was determined to continue serving. However, after seeing the new tattoo, Krueger said she couldn’t shake the ominous feeling it gave her.
“I always thought she had a feeling that she might not come back,” Krueger said. “That tattoo kind of says that. I think that she was prepared to fight, to do what she needed to do, and didn’t know if she’d be coming back.”
By October 2009, Amy was sent to Fort Hood to prepare for a deployment in December, a deployment she never made.
She was not alone in arriving at Fort Hood with plans for a deployment ahead. Staff Sgt. Justin DeCrow was also preparing to deploy, this time to Iraq, when he reported to Fort Hood.
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From an early age, Justin knew he wanted to join the Army, being influenced by his father Daniel J. DeCrow, who served in the Vietnam war. He then went on to become a satellite communication instructor, where he was known for his work ethic and uplifting others.
“His positive attitude, and humor helped others get through tough times,” said Justin’s wife Marikay DeCrow.
When fellow soldiers struggled, Justin stayed to help, teach, support and encourage them. For him, failure was not an option.
That same warmth carried into his personal life. Justin and Marikay had known each other since childhood, as he was friends with her brother. It wasn’t until she asked him to her senior prom when they solidified feelings for one another and became inseparable.
“From that time on, we were together,” said Marikay. “When he would look at me, all I saw was the love he had for me. I couldn’t imagine my life without him.”
When they had their daughter Kylah, Justin wasn’t able to return home and meet his daughter for the first time until she was six weeks old.
Justin had learned of his daughter Kylah’s birth 24 hours after the fact, when he was finally able to call Marikay at the hospital.
“He was ecstatic to have a daughter,” she said. “We had maybe a phone call for five minutes once a day.”
The phone calls were a beacon of hope, offering Marikay a few precious moments of connection with Justin while they were apart.
The hardship continued when Justin attended Advanced Individual Training, AIT, in South Carolina. Marikay recounted traveling back and forth every other weekend to keep the family in contact.
“Sometimes we only had a day, sometimes he was allowed to stay the night with us,” said Marikay. “Every trip meant so much to him and us. He spent every minute he could holding Kylah. Leaving him each time was incredibly difficult.”
As Kylah grew up, he was always there for her. To this day Kylah reflects the values of her father.
“I see so much of Justin in Kylah,” said Marikay. “She is witty and funny, and cares so much about those around her.”
Neither of them knew then how precious those days would become, the last they’d have before he headed to Fort Hood.
It was a Thursday at Fort Hood’s Soldier Readiness Processing Center when U.S. Army Major and psychiatrist Nidal Hasan opened fire, killing 13 people and leaving 31 wounded.
Hasan had been motivated by Islamic extremism and had negative views on America’s involvement in Afghanistan and Iraq.
Among those 13 were Retired Chief Warrant Officer 2 Michael Cahill, Staff Sgt. Krueger and Staff Sgt. Justin DeCrow, three people whose lives were defined by their service, values and families.
For the families, the attack was the start of a new struggle: trying to understand what happened to and how they spent their final moments.
After the shooting, piecing together the fragments of that day was difficult for Vanacker. Witnesses were hospitalized with injuries or scattered across the country, and many of Cahill’s colleagues had not seen what he did in his final moments.
Vanacker didn’t get a solid first description until a memorial, when she was approached by a soldier who had shared a cubicle with Cahill.
He described it as any other workday until he heard gunfire down the hall.
“And all of a sudden, your dad just got up, and then he was gone,” she recalled him saying.
The uncertainty that followed stretched on for nearly a year as she waited to learn what had happened to her father.
“I was just trying to figure out what had happened and if he was shot trying to help somebody,” she recalled. “Was it that sort of thing? It leaves things unanswered for a while, and you have this weird waiting game.”
When the pretrial proceedings began, she learned that Cahill had emerged from the examination room before picking up a chair by its legs and charging at Hasan, an act of courage that reflected “character,” what he’d spent a lifetime instilling in his children.
In August 2013, Hasan was convicted on all 42 counts by a military jury that then unanimously agreed to give Hasan the death penalty. For 13 years, Hasan has been on the military’s death row.
In 2015, after Congress expanded eligibility for the Purple Heart, military victims of the massacre received Purple Hearts, while eligible civilian victims, including Cahill, received the Secretary of Defense Medal for the Defense of Freedom.
On Oct. 2, President Donald Trump approved the sentence of Hasan, and acting Army Secretary Adam Telle directed that the execution be carried out by firing squad on Dec. 3.
Hasan’s execution would be the U.S. military’s first execution since 1961 and its first by firing squad since 1945.
“When I received the email that President Trump signed the execution order, I felt a kind of relief come over me, all I could do was cry,” said Marikay. “I have been waiting for 17 years to hear this.”
Although the execution method has been questioned by some, Marikay said the method does not matter as long as Hasan faces his end.
“He deserves the death penalty, this is justice,” said Marikay. “This man destroyed our lives. Justin never got to watch Kylah grow up, graduate, walk her down the aisle, hold his beautiful granddaughters…We were supposed to grow old together.”
Vanacker and Krueger said they did not need Hasan’s execution for closure.
“He was already dead to me, and I did not think about him. So having an execution is not something I personally needed for my own closure,” Vanacker said.
Krueger expressed a similar sentiment. “I do not give him any thought ever. He died a long time ago,” she said.
Vanacker and Krueger also bring up another point being the execution may be giving into Hasan’s desires.
“He wanted to be a martyr, and that didn’t happen,” said Krueger. “So when this happens, does that fulfill his desires?”
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“He did that shooting, and he did it in a way where he wanted that attention and he wanted to become a martyr, and we have just played right into his hands,” said Vanacker.
The debate over Hasan’s execution took a turn when War Secretary Pete Hegseth said the administration planned to livestream the event.
“We’ll make sure that people are able to watch it in public because people need to understand that there are serious consequences for these types of things.” Hegseth said.
The families said it was the first time hearing of the livestream plan.
“It feels a little bit like a slap in the face, disrespectful,” said Krueger. “I’m sure he didn’t intend it but…there should have been somebody that said, ‘whoa, wait a minute. There are families that are going to be affected by this.'”
Before Trump announced the cancellation of the planned livestream via Truth Social, Vanacker expressed concern that the administration’s handling of the execution could have jeopardized it.
“Hegseth’s obsession with barbaric optics probably put this execution in danger,” Vanacker said. “Our tragedy is not your entertainment.”
She called on Congress to ban livestreamed executions in the military using the National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA).
“I hope they put in the NDAA just banning it outright,” she said. “That it can never be considered and not an option ever so it never comes up again. Livestreaming an execution should never be an option.”
After the planned livestream was canceled, Krueger was relieved.
“I’m so, so grateful that President Trump took it down, so that’s a good thing.” Krueger said.
Victims’ families are allowed to witness Hasan’s execution and Marikay has no doubt what she will be doing on Dec. 3.
“The date it was announced, I knew I would be heading to Fort Hood one last time, ” Marikay said. “This is closure. I’m ready for it to be over.”
Nov. 5 remains a personal day to the families. For them, this day goes beyond Hasan, focusing on the ones they lost.
Krueger remembers her daughter as vivacious and strong, someone who had a way of passing that strength on to others. Today, that same strength continues to carry her mother and how she thinks about what happened.
“I hate the idealism that made him do what he did,” Krueger said. “But do I hate him? He’s a human being that was swayed by the beliefs of his leaders and had the free will to carry out a devastating, destructive event.”
To continue Amy’s legacy, they have an annual event to raise money for the scholarship in her honor at the local high school.
And just like her daughter, they raise money in a fun way: A bar crawl called Krueg’s Crawl.
“It’s a bar crawl, and there’s prizes, and so it’s fun,” said Krueger.
This year’s event took place on Halloween and consisted of a costume contest, keeping the fun alive in her memory.
When Nov. 5 hits, the family remains intimate.
“We typically do the same thing,” Krueger said. “We get together, we go to the cemetery, we talk about her, we remember her, and this year we’re doing that as well.”
Vanacker and her family revisit their traditions by visiting her father.
“We go, and we leave flowers, and we have a remembrance,” she said.
What got her through the first anniversary was her father’s four-word sentiment, the same words Cahill had comforted her with through childhood: “It builds character, kid.”
“I think this year’s a little bit different, Vanacker said. “I think with all the other distractions around, it honestly makes it a little harder. There’s a lot more emotions pulling this year.”
Although the media attention surrounding the case has brought back emotions for families, the tragedy and hardship these families faced has brought them together.
“We’ve become like a family,” Krueger said. “There was one year and there was a 10-year anniversary to see them and to be with them, that’s huge for me.”
Three families whose lives are forever changed are now connected as they continue to find strength in the values their loved ones left behind.
