It was early afternoon, but it was already getting dark. I looked down and inspected my Class A green uniform one last time. I had spent the preceding hour obsessing over every insignia, ribbon, and rogue thread. Infantry insignia: centered five-eighths of an inch below the notch on my collar; U.S. insignia, captain insignia, unit crest, all meticulously placed within an eighth of an inch; ribbons pinned exactly an eighth of an inch above my left breast pocket. I’d used a Bic lighter to burn off the fraying threads that Navy folk call Irish pennants or IPs. I finished by using a roll of packing tape wrapped around my hand to remove every fleck of lint.
Never before, for an inspection or ceremony, had I cared so much about the minute details of this, my uniform, and never before had I felt so clearly the honor that it conveyed. Had the moment not been so heavy, I would have smiled at a job well done. I knew, however, that in this uniform on this day I would conduct the most difficult mission of my young military career.
In the fall of 2004, I transferred from the Navy to the Army and went from being a lieutenant junior grade to being a first lieutenant. After completing Infantry Officer Basic Course, I moved to Fort Richardson, Alaska, near Anchorage. In Alaska, I served as a rifle platoon leader in the 3rd Battalion, 509th Airborne Infantry. A few months before my unit deployed to Iraq in the fall of 2006, I was selected to be the battalion rear detachment commander for the first half of the battalion’s yearlong deployment. This was not a duty that I had requested, and I felt guilty and a bit disappointed that I would not be accompanying my unit into combat (at least not initially). As rear detachment commander, I would serve as the commander of all those soldiers who were to remain behind, whether for medical, disciplinary, or administrative reasons. I was also supposed to train replacement soldiers who reported to the unit throughout the deployment. In addition, I would serve as the liaison between the deployed unit and the Family Readiness Group (FRG), consisting of spouses and family members. This meant sending out information on the unit when available and trying to help any FRG members with problems they were having. Lastly, I had to serve as casualty notification officer, which would prove to be my most challenging duty.
As a casualty notification officer, I would be notifying the families when their soldiers had been wounded or killed in action. In the case of a wounded soldier, I would make a telephone call. When a soldier from our battalion was killed in action, I had to notify the family face to face, dressed in formal Army attire, with an Army chaplain present. I dearly hoped that I would not have to perform this duty, but in my gut I knew it was pretty much inevitable. The Army gave me some training on casualty notification, but there is only so much that you can learn on paper. Performing the duty itself turned out to be a whole different challenge, one for which nothing in my previous military experience had prepared me.
My first killed in action (KIA) notification came a few months into my unit’s deployment, in the winter of 2006. It was a Sunday afternoon when I received the call from the U.S. Army Alaska Casualty Assistance Center that Sgt. Brennan C. Gibson had just been killed by an improvised explosive device (IED) while on patrol in Baghdad.
Senior officers had been telling me that a KIA was inevitable and to be prepared for it, but how does one do that? It felt as if I had a hole in my stomach; at the same time, a slight feeling of nausea came over me as I considered what I would have to do next. I checked and double-checked my Class A green uniform to make sure that it was in immaculate condition. Pride in the uniform, whether Navy, Army, Air Force, or Marines, takes on a lot more meaning after those you serve with die while wearing it. It represents the ideals and values that they died to protect. Even if no one had noticed a flaw in my uniform, I would have known, and that was unacceptable to me.
I drove to the Casualty Assistance Center at Fort Richardson to receive my briefing. There I met the chaplain who would accompany me for the notification. He was a lieutenant colonel who had done this quite a few times. In the briefing, we learned the specific circumstances of Sergeant Gibson’s death and received the script that we would read to his wife. I had memorized it already and knew the procedure, but since this was the real thing, it was good to hear it one more time. We also learned that Gibson had a child who had been born shortly before he deployed. We then drove the white government SUV to Mrs. Gibson’s home. She lived in post housing on Fort Richardson, so the entire ride lasted only a few minutes. I would have appreciated a longer drive during which to collect my thoughts, although I doubt any amount of time would have been enough.
The evening was young, but in the Alaskan winter it was already dark outside. When we arrived at the house, we could see that Mrs. Gibson had friends over for Sunday dinner, most likely other wives from our battalion. I thought this was a good thing, since at least she wouldn’t have to be alone after the notification. We parked the SUV in front of the house and walked up the steps to the front door. I saw through the window that one of the other wives saw us coming. The look on her face told me she knew why we were there. We rang the doorbell, and the sergeant’s wife opened the door. We had met briefly at one of the FRG meetings, so she knew who I was. It took her a moment to realize what was going on. I asked if we could come in.
She did not cry at first, but stood, expressionless, in a state of shock. I asked her if she wanted to sit down. She said yes and had a seat at the kitchen table. The two other wives who were there gathered around her for support. One woman, whose husband was in the same squad as Sergeant Gibson, asked if anything had happened to her husband. I knew that he had been injured but did not know the details. When conducting a notification, the families of those killed in an attack must be notified before the families of the injured are notified. I told her that I believed he was injured and that she would be receiving a notification over the phone with the details. She was visibly shaken by this news, but she did her best to comfort her friend. I then took a deep breath and recited from memory the notification script:
The Secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deepest regret that your husband, Sgt. Brennan C. Gibson, was killed in action in Baghdad, Iraq, on 10 December 2006. While conducting a combat patrol, his Humvee was struck by an improvised explosive device. The secretary extends his deepest sympathy to you and your family in your tragic loss.
I barely got through the notification without my voice cracking; my stomach was in knots. She had started to cry as I read the script—not sobbing, but tears flowed down her face. The truth was setting in, but she was trying to be strong. The chaplain then sat at the table and talked with her for a bit. He offered to stay as long as she wanted, but she declined the offer, saying that she had her friends there and that she wanted to call her family. I think she wanted us out of the house as quickly as possible, which was understandable. We departed and drove back to the Casualty Assistance Center to deliver our report. My first KIA notification had been completed, and I hoped I would never have to do another one. It had been worse than I had imagined, and I don’t think there was anything that could have prepared me for it.
About a month later, in January 2007, I received a call that another of our soldiers had been killed in action. This time it was Spc. Jeffrey D. Bisson of Vista, California. He was killed when his vehicle struck an IED in Karma, Iraq, on January 20, 2007. He was twenty-two years old. Specialist Bisson had been a soldier in my platoon, one of the thirty-seven soldiers for whom I was responsible, when I was a platoon leader in A Company, 3rd Battalion, 509th Infantry (ABN). He was a really quiet guy, a good soldier. I also knew his wife, an outspoken woman not yet twenty years old who would often come to the battalion rear detachment office to visit. The day before I received the call about her husband, she had brought brownies to my rear detachment office for the soldiers working there.
Once again I prepared my uniform, making sure it was in perfect condition, and went to meet the duty chaplain. This time it was a major, a soft-spoken man who gave the impression that he would be good at providing comfort to a grieving family. We began the drive to Anchorage, where Mrs. Bisson lived, and I considered how, as difficult as the first notification was, this would be even harder. The chaplain had experience with casualty notifications, and his easy manner relieved some of the tension I’m sure we both felt. We talked on the way over about his life and experiences, though we both grew quiet as I turned the SUV into the apartment complex.
We parked and knocked on the door. It was a little before noon on a Saturday. Mrs. Bisson opened the door and for a brief moment thought that I had just stopped by to check on her. She gave us a small smile and was about to ask us inside, then a puzzled look came over her face. She noticed the uniform, and the chaplain next to me, and it began to register. I took a deep breath, knowing that if I didn’t proceed immediately, I might not be able to proceed at all:
The secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deepest regret that your husband, Spc. Jeffrey D. Bisson, was killed in action in Karma, Iraq, on 20 January 2007. While conducting a combat patrol his Humvee was struck by an improvised explosive device. The secretary extends his deepest sympathy to you and your family in your tragic loss.
She stood in shock and did not cry immediately. She then sat down on the couch, saying that she knew something had happened, that she had felt it. She had talked with him a couple of days before, and she said he had sounded good, but over the last few days she had felt a growing sense of unease.
Mrs. Bisson was from Anchorage, and her family lived nearby, so she called her parents, and they came over immediately. She then called the rest of her relatives to tell them the news. At the same time, in California, another set of casualty notification officers was paying a visit to Specialist Bisson’s parents. The chaplain and I stayed longer this time; she wanted us there. I think it was because she knew me, and the chaplain had a calming way about him. She reminisced with us about Jeffrey, and I shared some of the memories I had of him from when I was his platoon leader. She would laugh for a bit when she remembered something funny he had done, but then she would become very quiet. We had been there a while, and she was becoming exhausted, emotionally and physically, so we left. Her parents stayed to comfort her.
Thankfully, that was the last KIA notification I had to do before I handed over command of the rear detachment and deployed to Iraq. As difficult and emotionally challenging as it was to serve as a casualty notification officer, I was honored to do it. It is the least amount of respect that soldiers, spouses, and parents deserve. It is a duty I hope to never do again, but I feel it is something that every officer should have to do at least once. That way they can experience the cost of war in a different way. We in the military usually feel the pain from the loss of a comrade in arms or a shipmate under our command. While that fills us with a deep sadness, it is quite a different thing to witness the loss felt by a wife, husband, mother, or father. Our loss of a shipmate pales in comparison, a fact all combat leaders would do well to remember.