I grabbed the front right handle of the gurney. The eight of us pulled it from the Blackhawk. It was dark. The wind from the rotors was violent. The sound drowned out the possibility of conversation. It wouldn’t have mattered. Conversation was not necessary, nor was it fitting. It was difficult to see. It was hot. It was calm.
My assistant, Thompson, was immediately to my left, holding the front as well. We made our way across the flight line. The fallen hero was draped in an American flag, the most fitting garment for his honor. He had taken his final breath defending freedom. He never knew that I would be retrieving him that night. He pushed forward with little if any concern for himself. Now I, and my comrades, had the privilege of giving him the honor due him.
We walked about 150 yards from one bird to the other. Once we got out from under the rotors of the delivering bird stillness gripped the moment. It was like slow motion. We approached the departing bird. It was still, not a movement. As we closed in on it, I noticed two soldiers posted by the side-loading door. It was dark. It was only when I was about 20 yards away that I realized they were standing at attention, saluting. We slowed our approach out of final respect for one worthy of such tradition. Thompson and I placed the front two handles of the gurney on the chopper floor. We jumped in and helped pull him into to a resting place for the journey. All of us then stood back. Slowly and deliberately, we saluted – 3 seconds up, 3 seconds hold, 3 seconds down with our hands. We walked away. The chopper fired up. Soon he was gone.
There are many soldiers here, fighting a war. Today, there is one less. There will unfortunately be more once you have read this.
I’ll be short today. Not much else to say. I was thinking just before writing this that I need to write something funny. It’s difficult to write something comical in light of this. Don’t read too much into this somber trend. Soon I’ll write funny stuff.
My assistant, Thompson, was immediately to my left, holding the front as well. We made our way across the flight line. The fallen hero was draped in an American flag, the most fitting garment for his honor. He had taken his final breath defending freedom. He never knew that I would be retrieving him that night. He pushed forward with little if any concern for himself. Now I, and my comrades, had the privilege of giving him the honor due him.
We walked about 150 yards from one bird to the other. Once we got out from under the rotors of the delivering bird stillness gripped the moment. It was like slow motion. We approached the departing bird. It was still, not a movement. As we closed in on it, I noticed two soldiers posted by the side-loading door. It was dark. It was only when I was about 20 yards away that I realized they were standing at attention, saluting. We slowed our approach out of final respect for one worthy of such tradition. Thompson and I placed the front two handles of the gurney on the chopper floor. We jumped in and helped pull him into to a resting place for the journey. All of us then stood back. Slowly and deliberately, we saluted – 3 seconds up, 3 seconds hold, 3 seconds down with our hands. We walked away. The chopper fired up. Soon he was gone.
There are many soldiers here, fighting a war. Today, there is one less. There will unfortunately be more once you have read this.
I’ll be short today. Not much else to say. I was thinking just before writing this that I need to write something funny. It’s difficult to write something comical in light of this. Don’t read too much into this somber trend. Soon I’ll write funny stuff.
Comments
I see you've figured out the language issue.
The most revered and remembered salute any service member will ever make is that slow raising of the hand before a six foot long box with the colors draped on it. Few Americans have had that profound privilege. It humbles and it consecrates. He's headed home. You're changed.
--Alan