Kimberly’s name on the Wall of Valor in the Veterans’ War Memorial Garden at the Pickens County Courthouse.
Visitation was at the Robinson Funeral Home in Easley the night before the funeral. Dale and I thought we’d schedule the visitation, a time when people come and pay their respects to the family, about an hour before the service, but the funeral director firmly suggested we do it the night before.
That turned out to be a good plan. We had no idea how many people would show up. It was a long night filled with surprises. Will and family members stood with us for five hours as family, friends, and strangers streamed through the receiving line, shedding tears and sharing condolences, hugs and support. It was amazing to see how many people shared in our daughter’s life.
Lieutenant Colonel Terry Morgan came from Ft. Bragg with about a half dozen officers from the 82nd Airborne. They formed an honor guard by Kimberly’s closed, flag-draped casket. People from across the country who had served with Kimberly and local folk who never knew her all came to pay their respects.
When Lieutenant Colonel Morgan arrived, he brought tragic news. Another member of Kimberly’s unit, CWO2 Aaron Weaver, had died when a medevac helicopter he was riding in was shot down on January 8, less than a week after Kimberly’s death. Aaron had survived Somalia and cancer. He had been told he couldn’t go to Iraq with the unit because of the cancer treatments he needed, but he insisted on going anyway. He was on his way for a treatment when the helicopter was shot down.
Although our hearts were breaking with our loss, we realized that we weren’t alone. Another family was going through the same thing, and our hearts went out to them as well.
We would later learn that even in death, Kimberly had given Aaron’s younger brother, Ryan, an amazing gift he would never forget.
It’s still difficult to talk about the funeral. The sanctuary at Rock Springs Baptist Church overflowed with mourners and emotion when Kimberly was laid to rest on January 10. It was a heroine’s funeral with full military honors. Kimberly would have been embarrassed by the attention and the fuss.
Al Geiger, the Presbyterian College piper, strolled outside the sanctuary door in kilts and played the bagpipes. Haunting strains floated across the parking lot on a light breeze, accenting the already somber tone on the cold and overcast winter day, setting the tone before people even entered the church.
Red, white, and blue flowers and ribbons adorned the front of the church. Kimberly’s senior portrait from college was on an easel next to her flag-draped coffin.
The portrait brought back memories for Kimberly’s college friend Kelli Kirkland, who took a seat at the end of a pew with the Presbyterian College tennis team. Everyone on the team Kimberly played with was there, except two women who lived too far away to attend. They served as ushers and then sat together, with Donna Arnold, for the funeral. At visitation the night before, Kelli Kirkland kept looking at Kimberly’s portrait, trying to grasp the fact that Kimberly was gone and remembering their time together:
I was there when the picture was taken. I helped her pick out what she was going to wear for it. It was a khaki colored sleeveless linen dress. I think it had a little slit in the middle. I had probably worn it at some point. I wore a lot of her dresses.
Visitation was the hardest time for me. At the funeral, with all these people coming into town and asking questions: “How are you?” and “Are you ok?” and “Where are you at now?” all of those things overshadowed the day for me. The visitation was more of a personal time for me to deal with things.
Not being able to see her was hard. The fact that her body was in that box but her soul was not. It was like, ‘wait a second, you were here yesterday and now you’re not,’ just the disbelief that comes from that. It was very overwhelming. I was just sitting there in front of her casket and looking at it and looking at her picture and trying to put it together.
The most intriguing thing to me was the person who accompanied the body. That’s a whole job in the army, to be with her body until it’s buried. She was one of my best friends and she died. That’s awful, but she was also in the army, and she’s a hero. All that began to hit when the army kind of took over her funeral with the full military thing.
Being there with all of the tennis team that day was special. It was a neat overlapping of all the people she had played with. I just kept thinking, “Kimberly, where are you? Everyone’s here and we’re all together and it’s time to have a reunion and you’re not here.” I couldn’t shake the feeling that Kimberly was going to walk in at any moment. I felt Kimberly’s presence in the room.
Soldiers with the 82nd Airborne came by bus from Ft. Bragg and served as pallbearers. Wives of some of the soldiers who served with Kimberly and were still in Iraq came on the bus from Ft. Bragg as well. Other friends from Kimberly’s military career found their way to Easley on their own, drawn to say farewell to a friend.
Matt Brady, who had taken Kimberly along on the medevac mission in Afghanistan, was working in a mobilization office in Oregon when he learned about Kimberly’s death. He flew to Ft. Bragg and borrowed a friend’s truck and drove to Easley to be at the funeral. He was driving across the Carolinas and realized he had no idea how to reach us because our phone number was unlisted. He checked into an Easley motel and left a message at the funeral home for me to call him on his cell phone.
“Kimberly would want you to be here,” I said when I called him back, not realizing he was in town.
“No, Kimberly would want you to be here in Easley.”
“I am here,” Matt said.
I finally realized what he meant. I gave him directions to the house to be with the family.
Old friends from school days, family friends, and people from every corner of Kimberly’s life filled the pews and balcony. Folding chairs were brought out to handle the overflow crowd as more than a thousand people filled the church. A place was reserved for newspaper and television reporters in a back corner of the sanctuary where they could set up cameras. Dale and I prepared a simple statement to be distributed to the press:
We would like to express heartfelt gratitude to our family and friends, the local community, and members of the United States Army who have come forward to give comfort and assistance during last week.
This outpouring of support has helped us immeasurably in dealing with the grief caused by the loss of our daughter Kimberly.
We also want to convey the pride we feel in the job our daughter was doing serving our country and to express our deepest support for the men and women of our armed services and their families who continue to make sacrifices each and every day in protecting our freedom and the freedom of others around the world.
The organist played “Let There Be Peace on Earth,” “America the Beautiful,” and “My Country ‘Tis of Thee,” as soldiers with the 82nd Airborne filed into the choir loft. I walked in with Dale and Will on either side of me, and we took our places in the front pew.
The Rev. Dr. David Gallamore, pastor of the church, stepped to the lectern and began:
Today we give honor to a great American. A lot of accolades have been given to her and rightfully so, and more are to come. The Bible says no greater love than this that a man or a woman lay down their life for a friend. That’s exactly what Kimberly did for you and for me and this great country that we live in.
Sam read scripture from John 14:1–6 and 25–27:
Let not your heart be troubled: trust in God, and trust also in me. In my Father’s house there are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. … This I have spoken while still with you, but the Counselor, the Holy Spirit whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things, and remind you of everything I said to you. Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you: I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your heart be troubled, do not let it be afraid.
Two additional passages were read from the scripture: the well known passage from Ecclesiastes, “To every thing there is a season. …,” and the Sermon on the Mount from the Gospel of Matthew, “… Blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted. … blessed are the peacemakers for they will be called children of God.”
The organist played “God Bless America,” and Dr. John V. Griffith, president of Presbyterian College, talked about Kimberly’s love of a challenge and the kindness and generosity of spirit that were “always present in the remarkable smile that lit up her face.”
The sun broke through the clouds outside and the light spilled through the sanctuary windows as he spoke:
I saw God’s grace in Kimberly’s life. It would be easy to say for such a competitive, seemingly driven person, that a huge list of accomplishments, and there were many, must have been for personal gain. Never once did I see her wear her many successes and achievements on her sleeve. She walked in to the classroom, the tennis court, and I imagine the battle field, with confidence, dignity, calm, and an eye for her fellow man. Her teammates, those in the army for whom she was responsible, her fellow students, all saw her as a natural leader.
Then it was Kimberly’s college tennis coach Donna Arnold’s turn to speak:
When Ann had asked if I would speak, I readily agreed but I wondered if I was up to the task. As my former tennis players gathered at the church that morning, I was overcome with emotion by their presence and was I afraid I’d choke up and let Ann and Dale down. But I could hear Kimberly’s voice in my ear.
“You’ve got to be tough.”
I walked to the front of the church and found the strength I needed. It was as if Kimberly was cheering me on from the sidelines, as I’d done for her on the tennis courts years before.
I talked about Kimberly’s tennis career, her love of family and friends, how she loved Presbyterian College and how Presbyterian College loved her.
“Kimberly made me a better tennis coach. She pushed me as much as I pushed her,” I said and told the quick step ladder story. The congregation laughed through their tears when I delivered the punch line, “We finally found something Kimberly couldn’t do.”
Lieutenant Colonel Morgan followed Donna, with a tribute to Kimberly’s service and her trademark smile and wink:
Each day Kimberly would greet every one of us with a simple smile and an eagerness to conquer the challenges that lay ahead. Mr. and Mrs. Hampton, your Kimberly was an outstanding paratrooper, confident, decisive, energetic. She truly enjoyed being a soldier and she truly enjoyed being a cavalryman, aviator and leading American sons and daughters as a commander. She answered a call to serve and defend our nation and our way of life. Just as she gave 100 percent to everything she did, she gave the ultimate sacrifice in this nation’s fight against terrorism. Kimberly will be remembered as a commander who died leading her troops from the front and taking the fight to the enemy.
The bagpiper played Amazing Grace, and some Blue Star Mothers presented me with a Gold Star banner, given to mothers whose children made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. One of the women, who also was a Gold Star mother and recently lost a son, clung to me and cried. I was amazed that she could be there and I knew she knew all of the emotions that I was feeling probably more so than any other person in the church. We received Kimberly’s Bronze Star, Purple Heart, and The Air Medal. As we walked down the steps from the church, the soldiers lined up across the street, saluting as Kimberly’s casket passed by. The tribute they paid her was awesome. The entire ceremony was somewhat surreal; we were just numb. We had to be. So many eyes were on us. The pain was so raw. We had to stay numb in order to make it through the day. The day Kimberly died was the hardest, but this was a close second.
The crowd followed the family out of the church into the afternoon chill with few words, climbing into their cars for the drive to Robinson Memorial Gardens about a mile away. The sides of the roads were lined with men, women, and children waving flags and saluting as the long funeral procession drove by. The feeling of Kimberly’s presence that helped Donna deliver her speech remained as she slid behind the wheel of her car to drive to the grave site. It was as if Kimberly was sitting in the car next to her and she spoke out loud:
“Kimberly, you would not believe all the people who are here for you.”
Little children who didn’t know Kimberly waved American flags because they knew what she had done. World War II veterans who had lost limbs in another cause waited on the roadside in wheelchairs to salute their local hero as the hearse passed. It struck Donna that Kimberly now belonged to all of Easley and all of South Carolina. She represented the patriotic pride and family values prevalent in this place. Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted a more stirring small town scene as Kimberly was taken to her final resting place and her place in history.
The scene reminded Rick Simmons of a World War II movie when everyone came home a hero. Along the route he spotted his first grade teacher with her son, who was home on leave from active duty in the navy. She’d become assistant principal of McKissick Elementary in Easley, and children at the school had sent care packages to Kimberly during her time in Iraq.
Rick had been allowed to sit with Kimberly’s unit in the church choir loft. At the cemetery he stood in formation with them as the caisson bearing Kimberly’s flag-draped casket passed by. He felt humbled to be included with them and proud to have been Kimberly’s friend.
RICK SIMMONS—
There were a lot of tears being shed by soldiers that day for their commander. Her death has great meaning. It was not in vain. She was doing exactly what she wanted to do. She’s immortalized herself. A lot of people never have that opportunity.
A team of six English Shires, huge white draft horses, pulled the caisson through the cemetery. The only sound was the clip-clop of their hooves on the pavement. An outrider, the officer giving commands to the team, rode a seventh white English Shire. The honor guard from Ft. Bragg walked beside the caisson. A guidon bearer carried the red-and-white Darkhorse Troop guidon, which had been shipped back from Iraq for the funeral.
Another large draft horse, a black Percheron with an empty saddle was led behind the caisson to symbolize the fallen cavalry soldier. Spit-shined black riding boots were reversed in the stirrups and a sword was placed on the opposite side from where it would normally have been carried. The presence of the riderless horse was a high honor and distinction.
Before the last horse-mounted cavalry unit was disbanded in 1942, a fallen soldier’s horse was draped in black, unless it was a black horse, and followed the casket. The military still uses a riderless horse for the funerals of higher ranking officers, full colonels and generals. But because the last mounted cavalry manual printed still called for a soldier’s horse to follow the remains of all mounted personnel, and because Kimberly was a commander of a cavalry troop, the rules were bent for her funeral and she was buried in the old tradition in keeping with cavalry tradition.
Steve Riggs, who headed the caisson unit as a volunteer lieutenant colonel serving under South Carolina’s adjutant general was impressed with the efforts of the soldiers from Ft. Bragg:
The 17th Cavalry really did a great job of bringing back two hundred years of U.S. Cavalry in its traditions. They thought it was important. They understood their heritage. They understood their mission. It was a joy to work with them.
Dale, Will, and I walked behind the riderless black horse. It was a cold, cold day, and by then we were numb physically as well as emotionally. About fifty family members and close friends were in a procession behind us that followed the caisson to the grave site. Dale had pinned Kimberly’s Bronze Star to the left breast of his black overcoat, over his heart. His right arm was around my shoulders, and he held me tight as if willing us both to get through this. He held my left hand in his, and Will, on the other side of me, held my right hand. As we walked behind the casket, the sun came out from behind the clouds once again, as it did during the church service. As the hint of warmth brushed my cheeks, I felt like Kimberly was sending us a sign that she was fine and brighter days would come.
Hundreds of people filled the cemetery watching. There had been more than a thousand people in the church and even more were in the cemetery for the graveside military service. Active military and former soldiers lined the sides of the way saluting. Members of the American Legion and Veterans of Foreign Wars came from across the region and stood at attention. Governmental officials came to pay respects. Friends, acquaintances, local and national media, and other spectators watched from hillside vantage points as the procession slowly moved toward the Robinson Funeral Home canopy that had been erected over the gravesite. The sight of the grave and the reality it represented was almost too much to bear. I reminded myself that Kimberly had served a cause she deeply believed in. I was proud of her service and her courage, and grateful for all the people who had come to honor her. But I really just wanted to wake up from this as if it was all a dream. A bell tolled and the pallbearers lifted Kimberly’s casket from the carriage and placed it at the front of the canopy. Dale, Will, Dale’s mother, and I sat in the first four folding chairs under the funeral home canopy and held hands.
The pallbearers took the flag from the casket, folded it carefully into a triangle, and brought it to me. The officer who made the presentation made a short speech. He placed the folded flag in my arms and as he moved away I spoke saying, “I’d rather have Kimberly back instead.” I had spoken softly, but aloud. I couldn’t help myself. My words were barely audible. I don’t know if the officer even heard. My words weren’t meant for him. I was speaking to myself.
Dale and Will, on either side of me were having a tough time, also. Dale was focusing on staying numb. Will had attended other military funerals, although none as personally meaningful or big as this. He knew the sequence of events to come. As a soldier, he wanted to remain stone-faced and he tried his best. But when the bugler played Taps and the honor guard fired three volleys in perfect unison, he cried with the rest of us at the finality the two traditions represent.
When the formal military ceremony ended, everyone under the canopy placed yellow roses on the casket, yellow being the color of the U.S. Cavalry. Dale and I clung to each other and just stood there, frozen in grief, looking at the long stemmed roses and unaware of a crowd of photojournalists who snapped photos for the evening news and morning papers.
We remained at the gravesite for about an hour and a half as well wishers, from senators to strangers, offered condolences and reminisced and brought us back to the present. I shook off my sorrow as best I could and thanked them for coming.
Ken Porter carried a stack of box lunches over to a bus that soldiers were boarding for the five-hour trip back to Ft. Bragg. Dale had called him the day before the funeral and said he had a favor to ask:
“If I order some box lunches from the Honey Baked Ham is there any way you could pick those up” he asked me. “I can’t imagine those folks riding all the way down here and not having anything to eat on the way back.”
So as soon as the funeral was over I went over and picked up the lunches and brought them to the bus. Walking onto that bus with those meals and looking into the faces of those soldiers, and a lot of them had their spouses with them, it was like walking into a classroom of the brightest, most personable, best looking people that you could ever assemble together. These people are willing to die, to put their lives on the line every day. It just touched me, to walk in and be that close to them and be able to thank them for their service, to thank them for caring enough to come down that day. To think they are over there fighting so I can play golf or do whatever I want to do, it really got a hold of me that day. It was a bus full of “Kimberlys,” men and women. They all had that personality and air of confidence about them. And they are all volunteers. No one drafted them. We take those people for granted and the sacrifices they make. To be around so many heroes like that, it was powerful.
As the members of the caisson unit loaded the horses into a trailer in a field at the edge of the cemetery and prepared to leave, a major general approached them with thanks and a request. He asked if they also would serve at Aaron Weaver’s funeral in Tampa, Fla. The caisson unit readily agreed to do it. It was an honor to serve, and a way they could give thanks. As they discussed the arrangements, Sam Cooper, a member of the caisson unit, was struck by tears he saw streaming down the face of one of the officers with the major general.
SAM COOPER—
To see 82nd Airborne guys crying after the funeral, that told you how much they thought about her.
The sun had fallen low in the sky and the cemetery was nearly empty when Dale and I finally left. The core group of friends and family members returned to the house with us. We were exhausted. It was over.
The day after the funeral the house was still busy, but by the next day the activity began to wane. A few days after the funeral, Dale and I drove Will to Atlanta for his flight back to Ft. Campbell. I was so grateful he had been allowed to come and I hated to see him leave, especially knowing that the following day he would board a military plane and return to Iraq.