April 9th, 2004, FOB War Eagle
In the early hours of April 5th, we launched a counter-offensive to take back the city. I don’t remember much of it except that I hardly ever felt tired and my leg hurt like the dickens. It took almost a week to put the enemy back on their heels and another 81 days of daily, sustained combat to bring the insurgents to the peace table. We stayed busy which kept us from imploding under the weight of our memories.
About a week after that first engagement, our battalion took a knee briefly to remember our dead and honor their sacrifice. It is tradition to erect a small monument to the fallen using their own personal effects. We attach the soldier’s bayonet to their weapon and stand it up, barrel down, into a wooden base. The dog tags of the fallen hang from the pistol grip. We complete the memorial by placing their boots in front of and their helmet on top of the rifle. Perhaps you’ve seen pictures.
The day we paused to pay our last respects there were eight memorials, eight soldiers who had paid the final price for freedom. Most of them had died on the 4th while trying to rescue our platoon. Trying to rescue me. We honored each one in turn, the First Sergeant of the dead warrior calling their name as part of a roll call that began with the two soldiers immediately preceding the deceased in alphabetical order according to their assigned company.
First Sergeant Casey Carson called out a name that I don’t recall. He would have been the man in our company who immediately preceded Chen alphabetically. The soldier responded smartly, “Here, First Sergeant!”
The First Sergeant called out, “Chen.” Silence.
“Sergeant Chen!”
“Sergeant Yihjih Lang Chen!” The silence was horrible.
Once all the names were called from the Roll of the Dead, the bugle played “Taps” while a detail fired three volleys of seven shots. To this day I can’t bear to hear that awful, irrevocable song. We all bowed our heads as the chaplain led us in prayer. Many tough, tough men openly wept. When the “amen” was given we filed by the memorials one by one. I stopped at each shrine, held the dog tags in my hand and whispered, “Thank you.”
I lingered long in front of Eddie Chen’s boots. They were clean enough to make me suspect that they weren’t his or that perhaps they had chosen another pair. Clean, without spot. I looked down at the blood on my boots. Chen’s blood. Eddie was gone. All that I had left were memories and blood.