I am often struck by the thanks that I receive from many civilians when wearing my uniform in the States. Although I admit to a bit of embarrassment, I am truly thankful that someone has taken the time to thank me, and through me all military members, for serving our country. No matter the job being performed, it is a job needed for the accomplishment of the military mission and one that requires some level of sacrifice for all of us. Like our families at home, most of us simply sacrifice time away from our loved ones. It is tough, but if I’ve learned anything from 16 years of military service, things can always be worse.
As many of you know by now, we lost 13 people in a vehicle borne IED attack in Kabul this past week. Those 13 people included military and civilian contractors and, at last report, American, British and Canadian citizens. Everyone serving, military and civilian, make sacrifices, but some sacrifice more than others. Some give all.
When American military members are killed in action, a ramp ceremony is conducted to honor them before their final flight home. It is, as you might imagine, a somber event – one that you desperately do not want to attend, but also one that you cannot help but want to attend. The number of participants is always limited, so I was unable to attend the recent ceremony. Many of you, fortunately, will never attend one but you should know what it feels like. What follows are thoughts from my first ramp ceremony, penned in the immediately aftermath of my attendance. The ceremony occurred in Kirkuk, Iraq in January of 2006. The Soldiers were members of the famed 101st Airborne Division out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky. The words remain unchanged since I wrote them just after the ceremony:
Like many other servicemembers that haven’t yet deployed to a combat zone, I eagerly anticipated my deployment. I had volunteered numerous times only to be told that I was either needed at my home station or too junior to go at that time. I bit my lip and waited my turn. Finally, it came. I knew that I would miss my family terribly, but had to contain my glee when discussing the deployment with them. I was going to Iraq. Like my father before me, I was finally going to a war zone. I would play my part, however small, in the war on terrorism.
Arriving at Kirkuk, I found a tight-knit family of Air Force personnel. The absence of family and the day-to-day issues that arise at a home station meant that we could relax and enjoy each other’s company. The AEF rotations prior to us had really set the place up nice. We had a tent on the roof for socializing and on the second night in country, we lit up the fire pit and had a really good time. We were living the good life, nearly oblivious to the fact that people just outside the wire wanted to kill us.
But reality is never far away. It started with an email. Show time was 0200 so we met at 0130 to drive to the flight line. As I walked to the assembly area, I remember thinking about the cold and wishing I had brought my parka liner. I didn’t realize it then, but I would soon forget about the bitter cold.
As I lined up with my fellow airmen, I looked over at the soldiers doing the same thing. They moved with precision, masking the pain they must have felt. As the formations began to take shape, the sky opened and the rain fell. It was as if God himself was crying for our loss. We were here to send four soldiers home on their final journey.
Earlier, as I sat in my office wondering what the dining facility was serving for lunch, an Army patrol hit an IED. Four young soldiers were killed. As I stood in the rain that night, I wondered if I had met these soldiers. Did I sit next to them in the dining facility? Did I make small talk with one of them in the base exchange? Was one of the dead the young kid that cheerfully shouted his unit’s motto as he rendered a crisp salute to me at the bus stop? I was ashamed at how I had previously lamented the time I would be away from my family. They gave all; I was only giving some time.
Then I thought about my kids. My wife. My mother. And I thought about their families. Did they have children? Were they married? Who would tell their mothers or wives? I looked at my watch. It was 6:00 p.m. on the east coast. Their families were probably sitting down to dinner, perhaps offering a prayer for their son’s safety as they said grace. They were oblivious to the fact that their lives were forever changed by events more than 7000 miles away.
We formed up in four rows along the route the caskets would take to the awaiting C130. I looked over and saw it sitting there, ramp down, ready for its sorrowful mission. The Army was on one side, the Air Force on the other. I looked at them. Most of them young, too young it seemed. They had just lost a friend. Their faces carried a look of determination, only partially hiding the sorrow. Despite their loss, they knew they had to continue the mission. They knew they would soon go outside the wire again.
“Detachment, Ten-Hut!” came the order. Instantly, I was no longer cold. I couldn’t feel anything. My mind was blank. I watched the ceremony unfold. Slowly the ambulance brought the casket forward and the soldiers gently removed their fallen comrade. With the chaplain and commander in the lead, the soldiers slowly carried their friend toward the plane. “Present, Arms!” I consciously rendered the most precise salute of my military career. These fallen soldiers deserved more, but this final gesture of respect was all I had to give. As I watched the casket move slowly by, I began to choke back tears and I was thankful that the rain was there to mask any tears that might fall. I was overcome with emotion. I knew where I was going when I deployed and I knew of the dangers and the casualties. But the network news only captures the statistics, not the emotions. Nothing prepares you for this. All at once I felt sadness and anger. Why did he have to die? Why him? Who did this? They need to pay! But I knew no one would pay. The enemy here is faceless and cowardly. “Order arms!” As the casket was positioned into the plane, I again thought of this fallen soldiers’ family at home. They constantly occupied my thoughts.
Soon, it came again. “Present arms!” Again, I rendered the most precise salute I could muster as the casket slowly passed by. As I looked at the flag draped over it, my eyes rose to the faces of the soldiers carrying this burden. I saw the tears in their eyes as their sorrow overcame their masks of determination. Despite the pain, they pressed forward with their mission. I remember a sickening feeling rising in my stomach as I thought that we still had two more to go.
As the third casket was moved before us, I again looked toward the soldiers across from our formation. They would be going outside the wire again, I thought. They would face danger again. They would drive along the same street that claimed their friends. As if to emphasize these thoughts, I heard the test firing of another patrol mounting up. Even as their fallen comrades were being honored, they were setting out into the unknown again to face the same danger.
As the fourth casket made its way to the planes, the rain let up. It seemed as if God had taken his cue from those soldiers and recovered to now focus on the task at hand, as we all had to do as well. Mercifully, the procession ended with the fourth casket and we were left to continue with the mission.
I had eagerly anticipated my deployment and perhaps romanticized it. I walked into this deployment willingly, wanting to share the experience. Painfully, reality reared its head. Despite the creature comforts provided and the laughter heard in the dining facility, there is an undercurrent of fear and hope. Fear that another could die. Hope that it doesn’t happen again. We’ll mourn together for a time and then, just as the rain always clears, we’ll recover and press on with the mission. But right now our thoughts are only occupied by those four soldiers. They surely deserve that. Is there a lesson here? I don’t know. But I do know that four soldiers died today and nothing else seems to matter right now.
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