I don't talk much about my personal life. Those of you that know me, know I lost a brother in Iraq. Some of you know the story behind those events, at least from my point of view. Most don't.
So here it is.
So here it is.
Tomorrow is always just over the horizon, and the plans we make for it are never guaranteed. In the fall of 2005 I was a newly pinned Sergeant, fresh from my first deployment in Iraq. I had recently been assigned to the 14th Combat Support Hospital, an assignment I was not expecting. I had spent the previous three years as a member of the 1-5 Cavalry Unit, The Black Knights, a unit with a rich history of fighting and glory, one with which I would always be associated. Making the trip from Fort Hood, Texas to Fort Benning, Georgia my father and I passed through New Orleans, our hometown, mere days before the devastating storm, Hurricane Katrina. I did not know it at the time, but that storm would serve as a prelude to my own personal storm to come.
My brother and I have always had a friendly competition. He is ten years my senior, so it was a point of pride for me to equal his rank. I didn't know it then, but months earlier he had been pinned Staff Sergeant, and so our game escalated and continued. He was deployed when the storm ravaged our home, I still recall the first call I received from him after the news broke that the levees had broken. He was frantic to know if everyone we knew was alright, I assured him as best as I could, but also had a few questions of my own. My new unit was tasked with disaster relief and being a native of New Orleans, I was kept from going along. I wondered what I should do, if I should attempt to go anyway and defy orders. He told me (in no uncertain terms, mind you) that I have to do what I was ordered to do, and that another opportunity would present itself. I stewed for the next two weeks as a member of the rear detachment, and got acclimated to the slow pace of my new unit.
My unit was returned early and abruptly, around mid-September or so, and I was informed that we would be deploying to Afghanistan. I was equal parts excited and scared, this being so soon after my last deployment. I went through the familiar motions of pre-deployment -the new equipment issue, qualification ranges, briefings and legal documents- with mixed feelings. I knew the considerable stress that having two sons deployed would put on my mother, but she assured me that she would be fine so long as we called often. My brother, ever the good son, would call every Sunday, near or at 5 pm; I however, followed a much more erratic schedule during my last deployment. The next time I spoke to my brother, I told him about the deployment and to stop making me look bad. He laughed in that peculiar way of his and gave me instructions to call weekly, or there would be consequences. Just to remind me that I was on the losing end of our race, he called me by my rank and said he had the authority to back it up.
October was fast approaching, and with it my deployment date. We were scheduled to fly out on the 7th of the month, so when I didn't receive a call from my brother on the first I assumed he was letting me get focused. I recall receiving a phone call a bit later than the usual time, and assuming it was my brother. I answered the phone to a burst of white noise and static, along with what I thought were muffled words. I naturally blamed a bad connection and hung up the phone. The knock that followed was a bit out of the ordinary though, and overhearing my younger sister answering the door I managed to piece together that there were two soldiers there. I felt the stone drop into my gut before she started crying. I turned the corner into the hall and saw them, dressed in full regalia, as two majestic harbingers of death. I was informed that my brother was killed in Iraq that morning and yes, the nation and unit were sorry for our loss. The next call I had to make was the hardest of my life. My mother, vacationing in Germany at the time, had to be informed.
There is a six hour time difference between Germany and the East coast of North America, so I wasn't surprised to hear the sleep in her voice. I don't know if I have done anything so hard before or since, but in that moment I knew I had a job to do. I had to become the strong one, the facade of steel etched into my features had to become genuine. I told my mother, plainly and bluntly, that my brother had been killed and she needed to return home immediately. I handed the phone to my sister and conducted the grim business of ironing out the details. Where had it happened, how, and how many others? When was the body due stateside and who would be picking it up? I had to work with the casualty officer to schedule meetings, and there were others who needed to be told.
The next few days were a flurry of phone calls, meetings and tears. Family was notified, benefits were discussed and a funeral was planned. It was all very efficient, and I remember thinking that I hoped my death would be so orderly handled. The time came for the body to be picked up and I knew that only one person could do it. I volunteered and informed my unit, who by then had placed me on emergency leave and told me that I would not be deploying. Once all the paperwork was taken care of, I got my uniform together and boarded a flight to Dover Airforce Base in Philadelphia. I sat through more briefings and filled out more papers, all the while wondering what state he would be in. I was given an autopsy report and a coroners report for official use, but I morbidly made copies for myself. Homicide, the report stated. My brother was murdered. It had never occurred to me until that moment that killing a man in war was a murder. Intellectually I knew it to be true, but at some level in my mind it became a clean, sanctioned thing, nothing so grisly as a homicide. Finally the time came to receive the body, I was directed to a hearse and rode back to the airport. The last time I had been in a car with my brother was on the way to a greasy spoon in Fort Benning, this time it was just on the way to Fort Benning. We arrived at the airport and security was informed that yes, I was transporting human remains, and yes I was authorized to do so.
I landed in Atlanta close to midday, and transferred my brother to a second plane. I recall thinking that this was his fifth flight in 24 hours and how lucky he was to have avoided customs, a procedure he hated. We arrived at the Columbus airport a mere forty minutes later, and I hastily had the baggage handlers place the flag on the cardboard box containing my brother. Barking orders, I was equal parts stoic and merciless, I must have seemed slightly insane to the poor men who were working that day. The box was loaded into yet another hearse and transferred to the funeral home. I officially released custody of my brother to the mortician and went home, a long day ended.
The funeral was on the 6th of the month. We traveled in government vehicles with a police motorcade to the funeral home, had a private service, and traveled again via motorcade to a cemetery on Fort Benning. The service was brief, but efficient. On behalf of a grateful nation...the rest is lost to tears and sobs as my mother received the flag. My father sent a company representative, he couldn't bring himself to attend I later learned. The first volley of the seven rifles sent a chord of grief through my core, the echoing report merely a memory when the second was fired, and the third. Sharp, sudden, and final, my brother was placed in a hole in the ground. The only thing left was to say our goodbyes. My oldest brother and I each gathered a handful of soil and dropped it into the hole. From the earth, to the earth.
The following few days were both joyful and sad. As a family, we had never been so close. We all made plans and promises to stay in touch with each other more closely and to meet yearly or as often as we could. I was reminded of a phone call my brother and I shared, where we discussed meeting up for a beer when he returned. I had just turned twenty-one and wanted to have my first beer as an adult with the man who raised me. I often wonder how it would have been, in a smoky room, around the family table or down by the lake we frequented. I can always change the details in my mind, but the outcome remains the same. There were calls, often an unknown number, every Sunday near or at 5 pm for six months or so afterwards. The calls were always static and white noise, with some muffled words.
I suppose my brothers death taught me a few things. The only thing I can say for sure is that I don't count on tomorrow. I plan for it and prepare for it, but I don't depend on it. I've become more steel than flesh in the last eleven years, but recently I have softened somewhat. I've never been a man of many words, but even so I've learned to say the things that matter and to say them often. I just wish I would have said them on September 23rd instead.
My brother and I have always had a friendly competition. He is ten years my senior, so it was a point of pride for me to equal his rank. I didn't know it then, but months earlier he had been pinned Staff Sergeant, and so our game escalated and continued. He was deployed when the storm ravaged our home, I still recall the first call I received from him after the news broke that the levees had broken. He was frantic to know if everyone we knew was alright, I assured him as best as I could, but also had a few questions of my own. My new unit was tasked with disaster relief and being a native of New Orleans, I was kept from going along. I wondered what I should do, if I should attempt to go anyway and defy orders. He told me (in no uncertain terms, mind you) that I have to do what I was ordered to do, and that another opportunity would present itself. I stewed for the next two weeks as a member of the rear detachment, and got acclimated to the slow pace of my new unit.
My unit was returned early and abruptly, around mid-September or so, and I was informed that we would be deploying to Afghanistan. I was equal parts excited and scared, this being so soon after my last deployment. I went through the familiar motions of pre-deployment -the new equipment issue, qualification ranges, briefings and legal documents- with mixed feelings. I knew the considerable stress that having two sons deployed would put on my mother, but she assured me that she would be fine so long as we called often. My brother, ever the good son, would call every Sunday, near or at 5 pm; I however, followed a much more erratic schedule during my last deployment. The next time I spoke to my brother, I told him about the deployment and to stop making me look bad. He laughed in that peculiar way of his and gave me instructions to call weekly, or there would be consequences. Just to remind me that I was on the losing end of our race, he called me by my rank and said he had the authority to back it up.
October was fast approaching, and with it my deployment date. We were scheduled to fly out on the 7th of the month, so when I didn't receive a call from my brother on the first I assumed he was letting me get focused. I recall receiving a phone call a bit later than the usual time, and assuming it was my brother. I answered the phone to a burst of white noise and static, along with what I thought were muffled words. I naturally blamed a bad connection and hung up the phone. The knock that followed was a bit out of the ordinary though, and overhearing my younger sister answering the door I managed to piece together that there were two soldiers there. I felt the stone drop into my gut before she started crying. I turned the corner into the hall and saw them, dressed in full regalia, as two majestic harbingers of death. I was informed that my brother was killed in Iraq that morning and yes, the nation and unit were sorry for our loss. The next call I had to make was the hardest of my life. My mother, vacationing in Germany at the time, had to be informed.
There is a six hour time difference between Germany and the East coast of North America, so I wasn't surprised to hear the sleep in her voice. I don't know if I have done anything so hard before or since, but in that moment I knew I had a job to do. I had to become the strong one, the facade of steel etched into my features had to become genuine. I told my mother, plainly and bluntly, that my brother had been killed and she needed to return home immediately. I handed the phone to my sister and conducted the grim business of ironing out the details. Where had it happened, how, and how many others? When was the body due stateside and who would be picking it up? I had to work with the casualty officer to schedule meetings, and there were others who needed to be told.
The next few days were a flurry of phone calls, meetings and tears. Family was notified, benefits were discussed and a funeral was planned. It was all very efficient, and I remember thinking that I hoped my death would be so orderly handled. The time came for the body to be picked up and I knew that only one person could do it. I volunteered and informed my unit, who by then had placed me on emergency leave and told me that I would not be deploying. Once all the paperwork was taken care of, I got my uniform together and boarded a flight to Dover Airforce Base in Philadelphia. I sat through more briefings and filled out more papers, all the while wondering what state he would be in. I was given an autopsy report and a coroners report for official use, but I morbidly made copies for myself. Homicide, the report stated. My brother was murdered. It had never occurred to me until that moment that killing a man in war was a murder. Intellectually I knew it to be true, but at some level in my mind it became a clean, sanctioned thing, nothing so grisly as a homicide. Finally the time came to receive the body, I was directed to a hearse and rode back to the airport. The last time I had been in a car with my brother was on the way to a greasy spoon in Fort Benning, this time it was just on the way to Fort Benning. We arrived at the airport and security was informed that yes, I was transporting human remains, and yes I was authorized to do so.
I landed in Atlanta close to midday, and transferred my brother to a second plane. I recall thinking that this was his fifth flight in 24 hours and how lucky he was to have avoided customs, a procedure he hated. We arrived at the Columbus airport a mere forty minutes later, and I hastily had the baggage handlers place the flag on the cardboard box containing my brother. Barking orders, I was equal parts stoic and merciless, I must have seemed slightly insane to the poor men who were working that day. The box was loaded into yet another hearse and transferred to the funeral home. I officially released custody of my brother to the mortician and went home, a long day ended.
The funeral was on the 6th of the month. We traveled in government vehicles with a police motorcade to the funeral home, had a private service, and traveled again via motorcade to a cemetery on Fort Benning. The service was brief, but efficient. On behalf of a grateful nation...the rest is lost to tears and sobs as my mother received the flag. My father sent a company representative, he couldn't bring himself to attend I later learned. The first volley of the seven rifles sent a chord of grief through my core, the echoing report merely a memory when the second was fired, and the third. Sharp, sudden, and final, my brother was placed in a hole in the ground. The only thing left was to say our goodbyes. My oldest brother and I each gathered a handful of soil and dropped it into the hole. From the earth, to the earth.
The following few days were both joyful and sad. As a family, we had never been so close. We all made plans and promises to stay in touch with each other more closely and to meet yearly or as often as we could. I was reminded of a phone call my brother and I shared, where we discussed meeting up for a beer when he returned. I had just turned twenty-one and wanted to have my first beer as an adult with the man who raised me. I often wonder how it would have been, in a smoky room, around the family table or down by the lake we frequented. I can always change the details in my mind, but the outcome remains the same. There were calls, often an unknown number, every Sunday near or at 5 pm for six months or so afterwards. The calls were always static and white noise, with some muffled words.
I suppose my brothers death taught me a few things. The only thing I can say for sure is that I don't count on tomorrow. I plan for it and prepare for it, but I don't depend on it. I've become more steel than flesh in the last eleven years, but recently I have softened somewhat. I've never been a man of many words, but even so I've learned to say the things that matter and to say them often. I just wish I would have said them on September 23rd instead.