22 August 2008
AN HOUR BEFORE the memorial service, Hill found himself outside the TOC hovering near the memorial stands, looking at Donnie Carwile’s picture. Desert camouflage uniform, Oakley shades, looking off to the right. A serious Donnie. But he had actually laughed a lot; Hill wished they could have found a photo showing that.
He tipped his face skyward and breathed deep. Though it was still morning, a dry heat pressed in. He pulled written remarks from his chest pocket, unfolded and scanned the pages. There were only two. He had tried hard to keep it short, but tender and sincere. The remarks weren’t the problem, though. For a couple of days, twin curtains of tears had hung just behind Hill’s eyes, sometimes spilling over. The families would see today’s videotaped memorial. Out of respect, he wanted to maintain his composure.
By noon, Dog Company had formed up for the service. CPT B and his Special Forces team joined the formation. Often bearded and in plain clothes to resemble their Afghan counterparts, they had shaved, gotten haircuts, and put on uniforms. Hill, Scott, and Kay walked up and down the ceremony area, making sure all was in order before the official party arrived—Colonel (COL) John “Pete” Johnson, Command Sergeant Major Vincent Camacho, LTC DeMartino, and Battalion Sergeant Major Charles Judd. Judd had been on Airborne for a couple of days now, checking on the troops, lending an ear to the men where he could.
Mo paced the edges of the formation with a camera in his hand. It was a practice he’d begun in Iraq, during Operation Iraqi Freedom. Memorial services were usually videotaped, but he wanted the families to get the whole picture: the rifle-and-boots stands, fellow soldiers paying their respects.
Over his twenty-year career, Mo had watched many soldiers process the deaths of their battle brothers. The immediate reaction was almost always rage, accompanied by a seething desire to lay waste to the enemy. Then came deep, solemn reflection punctuated by convulsing guilt, and days or even weeks when a laugh or a joke seemed so inappropriate as to be grotesque. If the lost soldier had been a close friend, grief burrowed in deep—an insidious monster that stacked weights on a man, like lead plates on his chest, making it difficult to drag himself from his bunk, lift his weapon, or even breathe.
Kris Wilson stood with the rifle detail to the rear and right of the main body. The last memorial he’d attended was for SFC Greg Rogers in Ramadi, Iraq. Rogers was Wilson’s platoon sergeant and mentor then, and had been grooming him to take over a platoon himself. Then Rogers was killed by an IED in April 2006, and Wilson replaced him as platoon sergeant. It was the shittiest way on earth to get a promotion.
At Rogers’s memorial service, Wilson’s overriding hope had been that he would never have to attend such a service again. But now, here he was.
Larry Kay took his place next to Second Lieutenant (2LT) Pat Curran, Dog Company’s fire support officer, behind 3rd Platoon, which was centered on the rifle-and-boots stands. Dave and the CI team joined the ceremony, careful to stay on the periphery where their unorthodox appearance wouldn’t detract from the rite’s order and solemnity. Dave surveyed the traditional monuments then gazed past them to the FOB gate, the Afghan bazaar outside, and the near-distant mountains that marked the entrance to the Jalrez Valley beyond. Even now insurgents were likely scoping these soldiers in formation, trying to scramble a mortar team.
He thought about the local nationals who’d both failed the XXXXX and popped up in intel reports. He had no doubt that Dog Company’s insider threat had killed these two men.
The official party filed in and took their places. Then Hill walked to a wooden podium and began his remarks, directly addressing the families of the fallen as if they were right down front.
“I’ll never forget Paul’s smile and humor,” Hill began. “His humor and laughter were contagious. He was kind and had a natural instinct to care for things or others that were weaker than himself.”
Hill stopped. Actual pain pierced his chest, as though an unseen hand were sawing his heart in two with a bayonet. He took a breath, then switched from addressing the families and spoke directly to the assembled men.
“Paul’s mother, Maria, and brother, Daniel, wanted me to share with all of you not to feel badly for Paul because he believed in that for which he died… Paul’s mother also wanted the men of Delta Company to know that the best way for us to honor Paul would be to ensure that the rest of us made it back to our families safely.”
In the formation, Larry Kay heard a sound beside him. Curran, a proud, introverted New Yorker, was openly crying. Kay put his arm around Curran’s shoulders as Hill began to speak about Carwile.
“Donnie, brother, your friendship and leadership will be missed. I remember telling Shon Haskins what an awesome job you were doing just a couple of nights before you left us. I should have told you face-to-face.”
Hill felt a hitch in his voice. He paused and collected himself. “I should have told you how much I appreciated you more often, but I know you are listening even now.”
The service continued with remarks from Haskins. Staff Sergeant Anthony Dominguez shared a funny Conlon story to lift the somber mood. Then it was Tommy Scott’s task to perform the roll call, a time-honored way to remember that a soldier has not just been taken, but taken from among his brothers.
Scott walked to the podium and called the company to attention.
“Specialist Siler!” he began.
Siler had been among those pounding on Carwile’s chest, trying to revive him.
“Sergeant Eisinger!”
“Here, First Sergeant!”
“Lieutenant Carwile.”
Silence.
“First Lieutenant Carwile!” Scott said, then paused. “First Lieutenant Donald Carwile!”
Silence.
“Specialist Ochoa!”
“Here, First Sergeant!”
“Private Conlon.”
A ticking quiet.
“Private First Class Conlon!” Scott’s voice became dry and hoarse. “Private First Class Paul Conlon!”
Where men had let silent tears stream before, the sounds of grief now echoed up into the glaring sky.
“Specialist Coe!”
Coe had been driving the truck that day. His forehead was bandaged above his nose where shrapnel had zinged in and dug a divot from his skin. But he was alive while his brothers were dead. He answered Scott’s call—“Here, First Sergeant!”—and guilt flowed like acid through his veins.
Scott finished the roll call. Then a bugle sounded the plaintive notes of “Taps.” Behind the formation, Wilson commanded the rifle detail.
“Ready… Aim… Fire!”
“Ready… Aim… Fire!”
“Ready… Aim… Fire!”
Seven rifles, one report, three times. Twenty-one bullets piercing a merciless blue sky.