The Angels
I usually have very little difficulty sleeping. Every once in a while, after I’ve gotten up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom I will drum my fingers on the mattress to lull me back to sleep. Or sometimes I will let my curiosity get to me and I will turn on the television. Tuesday night, I turned on the TV around 0100 AM and then turned it off again. I was still unusually restless and then the knock on my door came. “Sir?!” “Yes!” “We have an angel.” Angels are what we call our fallen soldiers. This soldier came from one of our attached units.
SPC Hargrave retrieved a vehicle while I put on my gear. Due to the fact that we keep light discipline on base, the ride over was dark and dusty. It’s a little difficult to see some of the dirt road turns as well partly because of the dark and partly because of the limited visibility the humvees have. Mortuary Affairs is located in an old concrete hangar. It is run by the Marines. It is one of the very few buildings on post that have exterior lights. When its lights are on, it is for the purpose that they can be easily located for those who have business there. In the day one can read from far away the sandbags that have been placed on the roof to outline the words “No One Left Behind.”
I entered the door and was greeted by a Marine who showed me the way to the chaplain’s office. Chaplain Rivera, a U.S. Navy chaplain is assigned to Mortuary Affairs. He takes care of all the Marine casualties that come through and the MA team members. Unit chaplains come in for the Army so that we can “take care of our own.” It is partly a matter of duty and continuity of pastoral care. The fallen soldier or “angel” was from our brigade, but it is too dangerous for chaplains at other bases to make the trip down so I go on behalf of all the units in the brigade.
CH Rivera, SPC Hargrave and I spent a few minutes together in his office before we were told that the team was ready for me. On the floor in front of me was a box draped with an American flag. Around the coffin gathered about a dozen Marines at a slight distance. I read Psalm 139 and a short prayer for fallen soldiers. Even though I had done many funeral services, I was a bit shaky doing all this. It seemed very intimate and more “real” than before. It must have been that I understood that this was another man who also wore the uniform and that the only real difference between us at the moment was I was standing and he was in a box going home.
I was visited an angel of a different sort a few days later. He came in the form of an infantry soldier (a sergeant) who was part of a unit that got caught in an ambush at a hardend structure. He was one of at least five soldiers who had to be evacuated. He had no outward injuries other than a likely concussion. He also had been treated for smoke inhalation. What he did have was some post traumatic stress. He was referred to me by an infantry captain.
He was about 6’1”, 200 lbs with brown hair, blue eyes, and a nose that had been broken from football or wrestling. He came from Pottsville, PA. His two greatest concerns were his one year old daughter and the men of his unit. As I attempted to assess how stressed he was, I saw that his thinking was very clear. However, he had some small ticks of rubbing his head and lightly rubbing his face. It may have been from the phantom feelings of debris or something else entirely. He also had some difficulty sleeping.
Since WWI the wisdom that has prevailed is that soldiers with combat stress do better when they have the chance to return to their unit as quickly as possible. That’s what he wanted. And he was a few days away from leave when he would get to go home and see his child. He had been separated from his wife who also has made a career of the service. There was something very solid about this man. He was part of a world so very different from my own. He seemed duty bound and yet already had the kind of eyes that have known suffering. I wanted to touch him in order to reassure and comfort (as I sometimes do), but restrained because I felt that I might break a plane that would possibly suggest that I thought he belonged in a different world than the one he chose.
I told him that I would check with him the next day. I ran into the SGT at the internet café and we began to talk again. I asked about his sleep and made no mention of the ticks that I observed. He told me that he was still restless, but got some sleep during the day. As he rubbed his right arm, he adjusted his t-shirt sleeve to cover a tattoo (an act of modesty.) I told him that at this point I was far too curious and that he had to show me. He revealed a Jesus about 5” tall in a white gown with his arms outspread. Then he showed me his other arm, a tattoo of an upside down Satan in free fall. At that moment I remembered that I had seen an engraving tool in the supply sergeant’s room. I went and looked for it and brought back a small Celtic cross with his name engraved on it as a gift from his chaplain. I told him to put it in his pocket, but he chose to put it on his chain with his dog tags.
What I am discovering is that I am mostly sustained by the rich stories soldiers have to share with me. Many are difficult stories, but most reflect something eloquent about adversity and inner strength. I don’t think I would rather be anywhere else right now as crazy as that sounds.
SPC Hargrave retrieved a vehicle while I put on my gear. Due to the fact that we keep light discipline on base, the ride over was dark and dusty. It’s a little difficult to see some of the dirt road turns as well partly because of the dark and partly because of the limited visibility the humvees have. Mortuary Affairs is located in an old concrete hangar. It is run by the Marines. It is one of the very few buildings on post that have exterior lights. When its lights are on, it is for the purpose that they can be easily located for those who have business there. In the day one can read from far away the sandbags that have been placed on the roof to outline the words “No One Left Behind.”
I entered the door and was greeted by a Marine who showed me the way to the chaplain’s office. Chaplain Rivera, a U.S. Navy chaplain is assigned to Mortuary Affairs. He takes care of all the Marine casualties that come through and the MA team members. Unit chaplains come in for the Army so that we can “take care of our own.” It is partly a matter of duty and continuity of pastoral care. The fallen soldier or “angel” was from our brigade, but it is too dangerous for chaplains at other bases to make the trip down so I go on behalf of all the units in the brigade.
CH Rivera, SPC Hargrave and I spent a few minutes together in his office before we were told that the team was ready for me. On the floor in front of me was a box draped with an American flag. Around the coffin gathered about a dozen Marines at a slight distance. I read Psalm 139 and a short prayer for fallen soldiers. Even though I had done many funeral services, I was a bit shaky doing all this. It seemed very intimate and more “real” than before. It must have been that I understood that this was another man who also wore the uniform and that the only real difference between us at the moment was I was standing and he was in a box going home.
I was visited an angel of a different sort a few days later. He came in the form of an infantry soldier (a sergeant) who was part of a unit that got caught in an ambush at a hardend structure. He was one of at least five soldiers who had to be evacuated. He had no outward injuries other than a likely concussion. He also had been treated for smoke inhalation. What he did have was some post traumatic stress. He was referred to me by an infantry captain.
He was about 6’1”, 200 lbs with brown hair, blue eyes, and a nose that had been broken from football or wrestling. He came from Pottsville, PA. His two greatest concerns were his one year old daughter and the men of his unit. As I attempted to assess how stressed he was, I saw that his thinking was very clear. However, he had some small ticks of rubbing his head and lightly rubbing his face. It may have been from the phantom feelings of debris or something else entirely. He also had some difficulty sleeping.
Since WWI the wisdom that has prevailed is that soldiers with combat stress do better when they have the chance to return to their unit as quickly as possible. That’s what he wanted. And he was a few days away from leave when he would get to go home and see his child. He had been separated from his wife who also has made a career of the service. There was something very solid about this man. He was part of a world so very different from my own. He seemed duty bound and yet already had the kind of eyes that have known suffering. I wanted to touch him in order to reassure and comfort (as I sometimes do), but restrained because I felt that I might break a plane that would possibly suggest that I thought he belonged in a different world than the one he chose.
I told him that I would check with him the next day. I ran into the SGT at the internet café and we began to talk again. I asked about his sleep and made no mention of the ticks that I observed. He told me that he was still restless, but got some sleep during the day. As he rubbed his right arm, he adjusted his t-shirt sleeve to cover a tattoo (an act of modesty.) I told him that at this point I was far too curious and that he had to show me. He revealed a Jesus about 5” tall in a white gown with his arms outspread. Then he showed me his other arm, a tattoo of an upside down Satan in free fall. At that moment I remembered that I had seen an engraving tool in the supply sergeant’s room. I went and looked for it and brought back a small Celtic cross with his name engraved on it as a gift from his chaplain. I told him to put it in his pocket, but he chose to put it on his chain with his dog tags.
What I am discovering is that I am mostly sustained by the rich stories soldiers have to share with me. Many are difficult stories, but most reflect something eloquent about adversity and inner strength. I don’t think I would rather be anywhere else right now as crazy as that sounds.
posted by Chaplain (CPT) Fokas at 9:10 AM
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