While stationed at Bagram Air Field, Afghanistan, I was assigned to the work section of Air Transportation Operation Center (ATOC). Shortly after I arrived and still fairly new, our work section was notified of a “Fallen Comrade” ceremony. We were instructed of the time and told mandatory participation was required. I asked one of the “salts” what this was and what did it entail. He told me flatly it was ceremony for those killed in the line of duty. He did not offer any more information and did not invite conversation.
At the prescribed time, we exited our building and lined the sides of the road. We stood shoulder to shoulder. We did not speak. We did not look around. As personnel arrived and joined our ranks, they all performed the same ritual. Sunglasses were removed, a posture of pride was taken and the solemn face of a warrior was worn as a mask. We stood and we waited together as strangers, but united in an unspoken understanding of brotherhood. In the deafening silence you could hear only your own heartbeat. My own thoughts raced from excitement in being involved in something new to guilt when I took the time to realize why I was standing there.
The motorcade approached. No other sound was heard and it was if the world had stopped for those few minutes. The first vehicle passed quickly within seconds as police lights flashed and disappeared onto the flight line. Next came the vehicles of the Base Commander, Commanding Officer and various staff members. It seemed to take minutes for them to slowly pass in front of us as they followed after the fading lights. In the corner of my eye, I could tell my fallen brother approached. As we stood at attention, we stood taller; we pulled our shoulders back farther, and rendered a sharp salute. I could see the faces of those standing on the opposite side of the road looking through me, past me, their mask failing them. I could see the tears run down their faces. I could see the strain of discipline in not wiping away those tears and not moving; not wanting any movement to be directed away from the passing hero. The truck came into view and I experienced my own tunnel vision. Time stood still, but yet one object kept in motion. In the open bed of the truck lay my country’s colors draped over a Soldier. He was surrounded by his comrades who were oblivious to us, our eyes and our own silent mourning. You could see and feel the pain of each comrade as they sat and protected him one last time. The truck suddenly was gone as it too disappeared for the final honor of being carried onto the aircraft that would delivery him home to his waiting country and loving family.
I carry that first week with me and doubt I will forget the emotions, thoughts and feeling it brought to the surface. At the end of my tour, I had participated in two ceremonies to include this one. I volunteered to stay in the office and ensured ATOC stayed diligent in the process of sending these warriors home. For me, this was how I handled the stress, helping the process was my coping mechanism. There is no right or wrong way to cope with what is required of us as Airman and Aerial Porters working in our duties, but it is important to recognize the need. I have spoken to fellow Airman both there and after returning home and each one of us handled it differently. The importance is not how we recognize and cope, but rather we do.
At the prescribed time, we exited our building and lined the sides of the road. We stood shoulder to shoulder. We did not speak. We did not look around. As personnel arrived and joined our ranks, they all performed the same ritual. Sunglasses were removed, a posture of pride was taken and the solemn face of a warrior was worn as a mask. We stood and we waited together as strangers, but united in an unspoken understanding of brotherhood. In the deafening silence you could hear only your own heartbeat. My own thoughts raced from excitement in being involved in something new to guilt when I took the time to realize why I was standing there.
The motorcade approached. No other sound was heard and it was if the world had stopped for those few minutes. The first vehicle passed quickly within seconds as police lights flashed and disappeared onto the flight line. Next came the vehicles of the Base Commander, Commanding Officer and various staff members. It seemed to take minutes for them to slowly pass in front of us as they followed after the fading lights. In the corner of my eye, I could tell my fallen brother approached. As we stood at attention, we stood taller; we pulled our shoulders back farther, and rendered a sharp salute. I could see the faces of those standing on the opposite side of the road looking through me, past me, their mask failing them. I could see the tears run down their faces. I could see the strain of discipline in not wiping away those tears and not moving; not wanting any movement to be directed away from the passing hero. The truck came into view and I experienced my own tunnel vision. Time stood still, but yet one object kept in motion. In the open bed of the truck lay my country’s colors draped over a Soldier. He was surrounded by his comrades who were oblivious to us, our eyes and our own silent mourning. You could see and feel the pain of each comrade as they sat and protected him one last time. The truck suddenly was gone as it too disappeared for the final honor of being carried onto the aircraft that would delivery him home to his waiting country and loving family.
I carry that first week with me and doubt I will forget the emotions, thoughts and feeling it brought to the surface. At the end of my tour, I had participated in two ceremonies to include this one. I volunteered to stay in the office and ensured ATOC stayed diligent in the process of sending these warriors home. For me, this was how I handled the stress, helping the process was my coping mechanism. There is no right or wrong way to cope with what is required of us as Airman and Aerial Porters working in our duties, but it is important to recognize the need. I have spoken to fellow Airman both there and after returning home and each one of us handled it differently. The importance is not how we recognize and cope, but rather we do.
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