(for Odie, who went for us, and William, who inspired me to tell of it)
by Richard O’Quinn
Things were already underway by the time I arrived. Word had made it back of the explosion, injuries, and deaths and the place was awhirl with movement. Hushed voices and serious faces hung in every corner. While we were accustomed to losing people, it had been some time since something like this had happened at the unit.
The leadership teams assembled in the conference room and as the commander and sergeant major entered, a stillness accompanied them. Details were shared, but I already knew many of them. The suicide bomber had detonated his vest in the mess hall where soldiers were eating and relaxing after their overnight missions. The explosion had wounded many, and killed several. Some immediately. Others died while they lay askew across tables, chairs, and floors. Some died later, while nurses sat holding their hands in quiet rooms, patiently waiting, comforting. Bodies would be flown home from the front, accompanied by teammates escorting them the entire way.
Next of kin were required to be notified within hours, and in our case, this was complicated. It was three days before Christmas and the wife and kids were already flying home to Texas to be with her parents for the holidays. Mother and father were now divorced and living in separate towns in California, with mother in Apple Valley and father in an unnamed canyon several hours drive away. The commander wanted all three – wife, mother, and father, notified at the same time. Unusual. Normally for married soldiers, only the wife is notified. This would require three notification teams, all racing the clock. I joined team mother as they prepared for the journey.
The team leader was a newly minted young major. It was his first notification, but it wouldn’t be his last. His deputy, the slightly older troop sergeant major, was also on the team, but just as inexperienced when it came to notifications. I was concerned about them and wondered how it all would turn out. We didn’t have long to prepare. It was only a matter of hours before the cross-country flight departed. The team leader called his own wife to let her know what had happened and went home, packed his dress uniform, had a bite to eat, and explained to his three young children that he needed to go away for an important trip. He promised he’d be back to watch for Santa and squeezed them tightly before leaving. Seeing it all made me melancholy as I thought of my own wife and three children far away, but I would see them later.
Holiday travel meant the team was spread out across cabin of the packed plane to Los Angeles. Everyone sat in their own trance, staring into the distance, into the depth of the situation, into the pain that they now carried to pass along. The minutes hung. The hours crept. And the sun raced ahead of us into the distance, leaving us swallowed by darkness. Many other passengers slept.
But the major didn’t sleep. Instead, he thought of his own mother, wife, and how they would feel in the same situation. He read, re-read, re-read, and re-read the regulation. It said he would be given a script. He wasn’t given a script. No one had given him a script and goddamnit why hadn’t he asked for one?
Section 5–9. Notification scripts: The Casualty Assistance Center will provide the casualty notification team with individualized scripts tailored to the specific incident, based on items 31–44 of the casualty report, and to the family members being notified, using the following templates—
- Death cases. “The Secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deep regret that your (relationship; son, John or husband, Edward; and so forth) (died/was killed in action) in (country/state) on (date). (State the circumstances.) The Secretary extends his deepest sympathy to you and your family in your tragic loss.”
He rehearsed the wording dozens of times.
“The Secretary. The Secretary of the Army. The Secretary of the Army has asked me. ME?! To express his deep regret. Bullshit. The Secretary of the Army hadn’t asked me a goddamn thing. Who the hell is the Secretary this month anyway? Has asked me to express his deep regret that your (relationship; son, John or husband, Edward; and so forth). That your son Robert (died/was killed in action). Which is it? If we’re fighting a War on Terror and a shithead terrorist detonates a vest bomb in the mess hall in (country/state) on (date) is it ‘death’ or ‘killed in action’ for god’s sake? (State the circumstances.) The circumstances. Really? The circumstances?! I’m sorry ma’am, your son died trying to eat a bowl of goddamn Fruit Loops for his dinner after having sweat his ass off all night, crawling around the backstreets of a shithole city trying to find bad guys and put holes in their heads. The Secretary extends his deepest sympathy to you and your family in your tragic loss.”
It was excruciating just watching him struggle with it all. With each repetition, I got more and more angry. I knew he just wanted to do the right thing and was probably really stressed. But as stressed, frustrated, mournful, and pissed off as he was, his perspective was really just a footnote in the whole scenario. Finally, after some time, I couldn’t watch anymore. I just wanted him to stop.
But he continued reading…
Section 5–10. Don’ts of personal notification:
- Do not notify primary next of kin (PNOK) by telephone unless the Director, Casualty and Mortuary Affairs Operation Center authorizes or unique circumstances dictate spontaneous telephonic release (for example, a Soldier is very seriously injured, just died, and family calls for status update).
- Do not call for an appointment prior to making the initial personal notification.
- Do not hold your notes or a prepared speech in hand when approaching the residence of the PNOK.
- Do not disclose your message except to the NOK concerned.
- Do not leave word or notes with neighbors or other persons to have the NOK call you.
- Do not speak hurriedly, or continuously refer to notes when talking to the NOK.
- Do not use code words or acronyms that may have been used in the casualty report.
- Do not touch the NOK in a manner that may be misunderstood. If the NOK faints or has an extreme emotional response, assist the NOK as required and request appropriate assistance.
- Do not discuss entitlements for death cases at this time. If asked, advise the NOK that a Casualty Assistance Officer (CAO) will be assigned to discuss such matters.
- Do not discuss disposition of remains or personal effects at this time.
- Do not inform the secondary next of kin (SNOK) that they will receive a visit from the CAO. Do tell parents who are SNOK that the casualty notification team will remain available as needed to render assistance and to keep them updated on the situation.
- Do not commit your organization or Commander, Army Human Resources Command (AHRC) to a given time to carry out an action or obtain particular information. Promptly forward all requests for information or other assistance to the proper agency or through the casualty reporting chain of command.
- The casualty notification team members should not have alcohol on their breath or be inebriated.
“Inebriated. If only…”
I really wanted him to get a grip. It was as though he was feeling sorrier for himself than the mother he would soon face. I wanted to say something but couldn’t. He was too lost in his own story, in his own anger, his own doubt. I left him by himself for awhile.
The plane landed and the sergeant major got the rental car while the major called the unit to let them know we’d made it to LAX. It would be another couple of hours before we got to Apple Valley. The ride from the airport to the hotel was long and eyes burned from fatigue of the long day. There would only be a couple of hours to sleep before it was time.
Everyone tried to get some shuteye, but really only drifted in and out of wakefulness. Dress greens was the uniform as everyone met in the hotel restaurant to get a bite before sunrise and the last short drive to her house. It was a pretty hushed affair with the team mostly pushing food around their plates. An elderly man shuffled up, paused, and in a clear, quiet tone said solemnly, “Thank you for your service, boys.” His watery eyes told us that he knew why we were there and as he departed, his sombre nod offered his condolences.
We pulled up short of her house and parked on the side of the road. It was just before 7am and the sun was beginning to shine in the eastern sky. In silence, we climbed from the car, donned our berets, and walked the final steps to the house, spit-shined jump boots reflecting the clear sky.
Deep breaths, three knocks, and the major cleared his throat. The door slowly opened and there she stood with a broken smile and tears in her eyes. “There he is. That’s my son,” mama said, pointing at the profile painting of me in my Green Beret hanging just inside the doorway as it had for years now. As the major fumbled through his speech, I wept uncontrollably. “Mama. Mama!,” I cried again, just as I had when the blast ripped through my body, just as I had when I lay writhing on the mess hall floor, just as I had when the nurse held my hand and I drifted away. Had she heard then? Did she hear now? She stood silently, head tilted slightly, as the major expressed the Secretary’s deepest sympathy. She already knew. She found out from my wife who was notified a few hours earlier, as I stood silently by. The other team would be notifying dad over in the canyon soon, but I’d be there in time. For now, we all sat quietly in mom’s lounge.
The team perched three across on the edge of her sofa for a while, too long, shifting uncomfortably. Then left clumsily, not really knowing how. The major stammered a feeble goodbye at the door and mom and I watched them walk back to the car, heads hung. We stood together in silence as the sun finally peaked that familiar summit to the east and shone in her eyes. And I admired the etched lines of her face.