The latest soldier killed amid the Iran war has been identified.

Sgt. Benjamin N. Pennington, 26, died Sunday, a week after being injured.

According to the Department of War, Pennington was injured during an attack on March 1 at Prince Sultan Air Base in Saudi Arabia.

Pennington was from Glendale, Kentucky. He was assigned to Fort Carson in Colorado.

This marks the eighth death of a service member since Feb. 28; seven of them were combat related.

This is a developing story.

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President Donald Trump has denied US responsibility for dropping a missile on a girls’ elementary school in Iran.

Last Saturday, February 28, the US and Israel engaged in a joint attack on the Middle Eastern country that saw them target military sites in the capital of Tehran, as well as other Iranian cities including Isfahan, Qom, Karaj, and Kermanshah.

Airstrikes were quickly successful in destroying the compound of Iran’s Supreme Leader, Ali Khamenei, killing him in the process. Trump and Israeli leader Benjamin Netanyahu have claimed that their decision to launch a joint effort was driven by a desire to end totalitarian leadership in Iran, as well as stop their supposed efforts to obtain a nuclear weapon.

On the first day of the airstrikes, an all-girl’s elementary school in the city of Minab, was hit by drones. As per the BBC, the devastating attack killed 175 people inside the school, including 151 children between the ages of 7 and 12.

According to Politico, Iran formally blamed America and Israel for the attack, launching missiles of their own at troops across Bahrain, Kuwait, Qatar, the United Arab Emirates, Jordan and Cyprus.

“They have no accuracy whatsoever. It was done by Iran.”

On the night of February 23, 1969, six and a half miles west of Da Nang, Republic of Vietnam, a small Marine observation post belonging to Company A, 1st Battalion, 7th Marines, 1st Marine Division stood on a low ridgeline overlooking rice paddies and scattered tree lines. The position—little more than a handful of fighting holes connected by shallow communication trenches—was one of several forward outposts designed to provide early warning of enemy movement toward the vital airbase and logistical complex at Da Nang.

Private First Class Oscar Palmer Austin, twenty-one years old, from Phoenix, Arizona, occupied one of those holes. He had arrived in-country in September 1968 as an assistant machine-gunner. Quiet, reliable, and quick to volunteer for extra duties, Austin was already well regarded by his squad. That night he carried an M16 rifle instead of the M60 he normally manned, sharing two-hour watches with the other Marines in the outpost.

The evening had been uneventful. A thin mist drifted across the paddies, muffling sound and reducing visibility. Distant artillery from friendly firebases provided a steady, almost comforting background thump. Most of the men tried to rest in their holes, boots still laced, weapons within arm’s reach. The air smelled of wet earth and gun oil.

At approximately 0215 hours the darkness erupted. A large North Vietnamese Army force—later estimated at battalion strength—initiated a coordinated assault. The attack opened with heavy automatic-weapons fire from multiple directions, followed within seconds by the distinctive crump of satchel charges and the metallic clatter of Chicom grenades. Green tracer rounds arced low across the ridgeline; explosions blossomed in quick succession, throwing dirt, sandbags, and fragments into the air.

The outpost was immediately enveloped. Enemy soldiers advanced in disciplined waves, using the terrain and darkness to mask their approach. Marines returned fire from their positions, but the volume of incoming rounds made sustained aimed shooting difficult. Smoke and dust clouded vision; the sharp smell of cordite stung every breath. Within the first minute several Marines were hit.

Austin remained in his hole, engaging targets with controlled bursts. He had already changed magazines twice when he noticed movement to his front-left. Sergeant James C. Davis lay motionless in a shallow depression about fifteen meters away. Davis had been struck by shrapnel and small-arms fire during the opening volley. He was unconscious, bleeding from multiple wounds, and completely exposed to the advancing enemy.

Austin understood the mathematics of the situation instantly. Left where he was, Davis would be killed by the next grenade or by the riflemen closing in. Without hesitation he rose from cover and sprinted across the fire-swept ground. Bullets snapped past his head; grenades detonated close enough to shower him with soil. He reached Davis, dropped to one knee, hooked his arms under the wounded man’s shoulders, and began dragging him backward toward the fighting holes.

As Austin neared his original position, a North Vietnamese soldier lobbed a fragmentation grenade that landed only a few feet away. The fuse sizzled visibly. There was no time to kick the grenade or throw it clear. In one motion Austin released Davis, pivoted, and threw his body over both the grenade and the unconscious Marine. The explosion detonated directly beneath him. Shrapnel tore through his legs, abdomen, and right side, opening deep, ragged wounds. Blood soaked his utilities almost instantly.

Despite catastrophic injuries, Austin remained conscious. He resumed dragging Davis, pulling with strength born of sheer will. He had covered only a few more feet when a North Vietnamese infantryman emerged from the smoke less than ten meters away. The soldier raised his AK-47 and aimed directly at the helpless Davis. Bleeding heavily and barely able to stand, Austin forced himself upright and deliberately placed his body between the rifle muzzle and his comrade.

The enemy soldier fired. Multiple rounds struck Austin in the chest and upper torso. He collapsed across Davis, still shielding him with his own broken body.

In the next moments Marines from adjacent positions rallied and delivered concentrated fire into the advancing enemy. The North Vietnamese soldier was killed, and the immediate threat to Davis ended. Several Marines rushed forward, dragged both men into cover, and began emergency first aid. Austin was still breathing—shallow, ragged breaths—when they reached him. He was evacuated by helicopter to the nearest surgical facility, but massive blood loss and extensive internal trauma proved fatal. He died before surgeons could stabilize him.

Sergeant Davis survived. The seconds Austin bought with his body allowed the small unit to regroup, call in artillery and gunship support, and eventually repel the assault. The observation post held, denying the enemy a dangerous penetration toward Da Nang.

On May 5, 1970, Secretary of the Navy John H. Chafee presented the Medal of Honor—posthumously—to Oscar P. Austin’s family during a White House ceremony. The citation concludes: “By his courage, inspiring leadership, and selfless devotion to duty in the face of certain death, Private First Class Austin upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and of the United States Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life for his country.”

His name is inscribed on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, Panel 31W, Line 070. He was twenty-one years old.

In the darkness west of Da Nang that February morning, a young Marine from Arizona made the ultimate choice without hesitation. He placed himself between a burning grenade and a wounded comrade, then between an enemy rifle and that same man, giving his life so another could live. That act of pure, unhesitating sacrifice remains one of the clearest embodiments of the Medal of Honor’s standard: conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life above and beyond the call of duty.

A quiet wave of grief has swept through the small community of Waukee, Iowa, after the family of Jeffrey O’Brien released a heartbreaking public statement following his sudden death while serving overseas in Kuwait.

Four days after the tragic news emerged, relatives of the fallen soldier spoke out for the first time, sharing the depth of their sorrow and the emotional turmoil they have been facing since learning that the man they loved had died far from home.

“The past few days have been absolutely devastating, confusing, and surreal for our family,” the statement read.

“We are in shock, grieving, and grappling with the reality that we have lost the most important man in our lives, and we are trying to come to terms with how we move forward.”

The words, filled with pain and disbelief, captured the unimaginable reality the family is now facing.

For those closest to O’Brien, the tragedy is not only the loss of a soldier, but the loss of a husband, father, son, and friend whose presence shaped every part of their daily lives.

Maj. Jeffrey O’Brien had been serving in the United States Army when the tragedy occurred. Details surrounding the exact circumstances of his death have not yet been fully released, but officials confirmed he passed away while deployed in Kuwait, where U.S. forces maintain a strategic presence supporting operations throughout the Middle East.

For military families, overseas deployments often bring long periods of separation and constant worry. Yet they are also built on pride — pride in serving something greater than oneself.

Friends say O’Brien carried that sense of duty with him every day.

Colleagues described him as the type of officer who believed leadership meant putting others first. Whether guiding younger soldiers, coordinating operations, or simply offering encouragement to someone struggling with the challenges of deployment, O’Brien was known for his calm presence and steady commitment to those around him.

But while he was respected in uniform, those closest to him say his greatest identity was always as a family man.

To his loved ones back in Waukee, a growing suburb outside Des Moines, O’Brien was far more than a decorated soldier.

He was the center of family gatherings, the reassuring voice during difficult times, and the person who made sure everyone around him felt supported and cared for.

Neighbors remember him as someone who never hesitated to lend a hand — whether helping a friend with a project, volunteering in the community, or simply stopping to chat during a walk through the neighborhood.

“He was the kind of person who made you feel better just by being around him,” one neighbor shared quietly.

Others describe a man whose humility stood out even more than his accomplishments.

Despite years of military service and the responsibilities that came with his rank, O’Brien remained grounded, focused on the simple things that mattered most — family, friendship, and service.

News of the soldier’s death has left many in Iowa struggling to process the loss.

In communities like Waukee, where residents often know one another well, tragedies ripple outward quickly. Schools, churches, and local organizations have all been touched by the news as people reflect on the life of someone they knew personally or through shared community ties.

Local leaders say the response from neighbors has been quiet but powerful.

People have been dropping off meals, leaving messages of support, and reaching out privately to the family during this incredibly difficult time.

For many, it is a way of honoring a man whose life represented both service and sacrifice.

For the O’Brien family, however, the days since the tragedy have been filled with shock and heartbreak.

In their statement, they acknowledged the overwhelming emotions they are still trying to navigate.

Losing someone suddenly can leave families grappling with unanswered questions, painful memories, and the daunting challenge of imagining life without the person who once held everything together.

The family described the past few days as a blur of disbelief, sorrow, and reflection — moments when reality feels difficult to fully accept.

Yet even in their grief, they have chosen to share their message publicly in part to thank the community that has surrounded them with compassion.

Support from friends, neighbors, and strangers alike has served as a reminder that they are not facing this unimaginable loss alone.

Military officials have not yet announced full details regarding memorial arrangements, but tributes for Maj. O’Brien are expected in the coming days as fellow soldiers and community members gather to honor his life.

For those who served alongside him, the loss is deeply personal.

The bond formed between soldiers during deployment often becomes one of the strongest connections imaginable, forged through shared challenges, long hours, and the constant responsibility of protecting one another.

Many of O’Brien’s colleagues have already begun sharing quiet tributes, remembering him as a leader who inspired loyalty and respect.

Back home in Iowa, those who knew him say his legacy will live on through the countless lives he touched.

As the days pass, grief will likely continue to settle over the community that O’Brien called home.

But alongside the sadness is also a deep sense of gratitude — gratitude for the life he lived, the service he gave, and the love he shared with those closest to him.

For the O’Brien family, the road ahead will be difficult.

Yet the messages pouring in from across the country are a reminder that the impact of one life can stretch far beyond the boundaries of a single town.

And while the pain of the loss remains overwhelming, the memory of Maj. Jeffrey O’Brien — soldier, leader, and devoted family man — will remain a lasting part of the community he left behind.

The family of Declan Coady, the youngest of six American service members killed in a devastating drone strike in Kuwait, is now sharing the heartbreaking story of the final phone call he made just hours before his death — a conversation that seemed ordinary at the time but has since taken on a deeply emotional meaning.

According to relatives, the young soldier called his brother in what appeared to be nothing more than a routine check-in. During deployments, the brothers often spoke briefly whenever schedules allowed. Their conversations were usually quick and simple: updates about home, light jokes, and reassurances that everything was fine.

That night was no different.

Declan sounded calm, his family recalled. There was no sign of fear or urgency in his voice. The conversation unfolded the way so many others had during his time overseas — familiar, comforting, and reassuring for both sides of the phone.

But just before the call ended, Declan said something that would later echo painfully in the minds of everyone who loved him.

“Goodbye, brother.”

At the time, those words didn’t stand out. They seemed like a normal way to end a conversation between siblings. His brother hung up believing there would be many more calls in the days ahead.

No one imagined those would be the final words they would ever hear from him.

Only hours later, devastating news began to spread through military channels and eventually reached the family: a drone strike had hit a U.S. military position in Kuwait, killing six American service members.

The attack — believed by officials to be linked to escalating tensions involving Iran — sent shockwaves through military communities and across the United States.

Among the fallen was Declan Coady.

For his family, the realization turned that final phone call into something almost unbearable to revisit.

What had seemed like an ordinary goodbye suddenly felt heavy with meaning. Relatives now say they replay those final moments again and again, wishing they had known it would be their last chance to hear his voice.

Friends describe Declan as a young man who joined the military with a strong sense of purpose. Despite his age, they say he was determined, disciplined, and deeply committed to serving his country.

“He was always the one looking out for others,” one family friend said. “Even when he was far away, he would make sure everyone back home was okay.”

His decision to enlist had filled his family with a mix of pride and worry — a common feeling shared by many military families.

Like countless others serving overseas, Declan balanced the dangers of his mission with the hope of returning home safely. Phone calls like the one he made to his brother became precious lifelines connecting two worlds: the reality of deployment and the comfort of home.

Those conversations were often brief, shaped by strict schedules and limited communication windows. But they meant everything to the families waiting thousands of miles away.

Now, that final call has become one of the most emotional details to emerge from the tragedy.

For his brother, the memory of the conversation remains vivid — not because anything dramatic was said, but because of how normal it felt.

There was laughter.
There were casual updates.
And then, those final three words.

Goodbye, brother.

Military officials continue to investigate the circumstances surrounding the drone strike, which has raised serious concerns about security and rising tensions in the region. The loss of six American service members has prompted calls for answers from both lawmakers and military leaders.

For the families involved, however, the focus remains on remembering the lives behind the headlines.

Each of the six soldiers had a story, a family, and dreams that extended far beyond the battlefield.

Declan’s story, in particular, has touched many people because of the haunting simplicity of his final words. In a world where tragedy often arrives without warning, his last message to his brother has become a reminder of how fragile those everyday moments can be.

What seemed like an ordinary phone call is now remembered as a final farewell.

Across social media and military communities, messages of support have poured in for the families of the fallen soldiers. Many veterans and service members have shared their own experiences of saying goodbye before deployments, acknowledging how quickly those moments can become permanent memories.

For Declan’s family, the grief remains overwhelming — but they also say they want the world to remember the young man behind the tragedy.

He was more than a soldier in a news report.

He was a brother.
A son.
A friend.

And in the quiet moments before a devastating attack changed everything, he did what so many service members do while far from home.

He picked up the phone.
He called his brother.
And he said goodbye.