In a peaceful setting inside the chapel at San Quentin Rehabilitation Center, 18 members from Veterans Group San Quentin who served in the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines gathered to reflect, assemble, and tell their stories at a four-day writing workshop.
At the heart of the storytelling event, held exclusively for incarcerated veterans at the 171-year-old prison, these men shared moments of personal tragedy, their time in the military, and life after service to their country.
Their cumulative time in service totaled 126 years. Since their discharge, they have served 407 years behind bars. They represent a growing number of veterans missing in action at home. Now unseen in America, these witnesses of vanished time have written remarkable stories about their lives.
“The first dead body I ever saw was my mother’s,” wrote Donald Edge. “I was nine years old. I never found out how my mother died, and I never felt safe again.”
Edge read snippets of his life story before a small crowd of fellow veterans, journalists, editors, university professors, and guests.
The workshop was developed on the heels of California Gov. Gavin Newsom’s focus on strengthening rehabilitation in prisons with the move to a Scandinavian model that Newsom’s office is calling a new California model.
I stumbled on to the second day of the workshop in April 2024 when Newsom and his entourage escorted Prince Haakon of Norway to San Quentin. What I witnessed at the workshop was an assortment of honest and convincing soundbites, culled from proud, poignant, and painful episodes in these veterans’ lives that have been altered and stifled by a frozen trajectory.
Edge wrote a striking story about leaving home at a very young age. He stole to survive and trafficked drugs before joining the U.S. Marine Corps, where he experienced overt racism.
He recalled seeing a poster in a recruiter’s office that advertised an amphibious military unit.
“I knew I wanted to be amphibious,” he said. In a humorous voice he admitted, “I didn’t even know what amphibious was, but I knew I wanted to be amphibious.” Everyone laughed.
A more sobering part of Edge’s life after four years of service as a Marine is the fact he has served the last 30 years inside the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation.
I was reminded that everyone who served has a backstory. The War Horse, a nonprofit online publication focused on veterans’ issues, brought its seventh workshop to San Quentin—the very first held for incarcerated veterans.
“There’s not enough military reporting around the world,” said Thomas Brennan, who founded The War Horse in 2016. “There’s a real need to increase representation of veterans and military families in the media.”
Brennan served 10 years in the Marines. “I got wounded and writing became my therapy, and that’s what led me to journalism.”
I spoke to Brennan over a period of three days and was curious about the name of his publication. He told me War Horse is the name of a unit in the military, and that Ernie Pyle, a foreign correspondent killed in action during World War II, used the term “war horsing” when reporting.
“I stumbled on it and liked it,” said Brennan.
I like Brennan because he is serious about his mission to continue serving a seemingly invisible community. Although we met for only three days, I have known nine of the San Quentin workshop veterans between one month and 12 years. This is because I am incarcerated with them. Now I know a little more about their military service and personal lives.
Randee Howard, The War Horse’s operations associate, introduced the idea to hold a veterans’ workshop in prison. She served four years in the Navy as an aviation electrician on helicopters. After leaving the military, she met a formerly incarcerated person with whom she exchanged stories about prison and the military. She noticed similar difficulties making transitions from the two institutions back to civilian life.
“There was a lot of overlap,” said Howard. “When I was struggling to readapt after my military service, I felt most connection with formerly incarcerated veterans. I never thought the person who understood me would be a formerly incarcerated person.”
For her, it was the impetus “to give the underserved an opportunity to tell their stories.”
Howard’s journey through carceral environments started at the Rikers Island jail in New York, where she volunteered as a tutor. She is currently studying to earn her master’s degree in public policy at the University of Chicago.
Veterans Group San Quentin is the largest veterans’ organization inside the CDCR prison system. Many of them make great pains to endure their punishment, deplorable living conditions, and efforts toward rehabilitation.
“My first day in prison, I got jumped,” wrote Noah Winchester, who served four years in the Marines and is also chair of the veterans’ group at San Quentin.
“I found myself in tank six,” a holding cell, Winchester said, adding that gang members asked him, “You active? Where you from?”
He asked himself, “How did I get here?”
Winchester’s story began at an early age. “I entered my first prison at four years old,” he wrote.
It was an account about his placement in foster care following an incident with his mother, father, and sister. Years later, he joined Junior ROTC in high school and eventually enlisted in the Marines.
“The Corps was my first real family after my family broke,” he said.
Randy Sherman read his story about the time he fell off the top bunk in his cell onto the concrete floor. It was a painful drop.
“I woke up twisted,” he said. When he arrived at the prison hospital, a nurse asked him, “How did you walk in here with all those injuries?” Sherman said to her, “I was in the Marines.”
“Being ex-military, I was trained to endure this,” said Mark Stanley, who recounted his first days in prison. He served in the Air Force and has been incarcerated 40 years.
These veterans wrote compelling and honest stories about bravery, triumph, and loss. They showed their vulnerability. Some wept. None offered any excuses for their past transgressions. They simply stood proud to have served and still held on to some of their service rivalries.
Todd Winkler attends a creative writing workshop that I have been a participant in for 12 years. The first time I listened to him read one of his stories, about a year ago, I knew immediately he possessed the skills of a seasoned writer.
A graduate of the U.S. Air Force Academy near Colorado Springs, Colorado, he was in the Air Force for eight years, where he was a fighter pilot.
“Thirty years after my jet-flying days, I landed in San Quentin State Prison,” he wrote.
He described his arrival at the gates of prison, and what he felt. “I needed to find some purpose, a reason to be.”
Outside of writing, he works as a peer mentor to other prisoners.
I met 79-year-old Ray Melberg on day four of the workshop. I learned that he served 23 years in the Air Force, and has been incarcerated nine years.
“I didn’t come enthusiastic to write a story, but I am now,” he said. “The story has been brewing in my mind for 40 years.”
He beamed as he read about the United States’ and Russian nuclear weapons, ICBMs, and the role he played to bring freedom to East Germany.
“The Berlin wall was soon to tumble,” he wrote. “I was one of thousands who made this happen.”
I thought about the scores of inmates, prison staff, and volunteers from outside who gathered to watch the governor walk through the prison with His Highness. They passed right by the veterans and went next door to San Quentin’s media center.
I suppose it is much easier to justify overlooking imprisoned veterans, even if they did serve. In all fairness to Newsom, though, he probably did not know what was taking place in the next room.
After more than a decade working as a journalist behind bars, the hoopla around politicians and royalty visiting San Quentin was nothing new to me. I’ve seen it all before.
Given the choice between another dog and pony show, or Pyle and Brennan’s War Horse, I chose the latter because I found it extraordinarily unique for the prison administration to recognize its veterans and allow professionals to assist them with writing their narratives. Just as important, it is my job to amplify their voices.
I never served in the military, but my best friend served 22 years in the Navy. He piloted P-3 Orions and retired as a commander. When I see veterans, I see my friend. Through three decades of incarceration, he’s always had my back. So for him and Veterans Group San Quentin, I got your six.
