Afghanistan

I deployed to Iraq, not to Afghanistan. 

But this is what Afghanistan means to me.

(I would normally keep this to myself, but it's the only way I feel I can properly honor those who need to be honored after the last few days.)

Today, auditing loans at work, I was remembering. In 2012, I drove 6 hours through West Virginia with the duty chaplain on a beautiful August evening. In the front passenger's seat, I read and reread a single piece of paper: 

SSG ****, killed by IED on combat patrol, Afghanistan.

It was a gorgeous evening, but I wished it was rainy or storming. Because forevermore, every beautiful evening like this in August was going to remind this family of that terrible day. The day when a young Captain and a chaplain knocked on their door to tell them that their son had been killed in Afghanistan.

We walked to the door, and the mother was standing there silently, tears streaming down her face. 

She called to her husband, and he immediately began to cry out, "No! No! No!".

They held onto one another, weeping. 

I delivered the message, the details I knew about.

The father paced, hitting his hand with his fist. 

The mother looked at us kindly. 

Through tears, she whispered, "I'm sorry he's angry. He is a Vietnam Veteran."

"It's okay, Ma'am. Our hearts are with you."

The chaplain provided comfort. He calmed. 

The father wept. "He is my SON."

She held one of his hands with her two hands.

Soon, it was time to leave.

"Wait."

He left the room, came back bearing an AIT photo of the SSG. 

Today, I was a casualty notification officer.

Yesterday and tomorrow, I was an AIT Company Commander. 

I had been on respectful autopilot, but now I felt something hit me hard. He was already one of ours, but he could have been one of mine at the barracks.

"Gentlemen. Will you join me in rendering honors to my son?"

The chaplain and I nodded.

The old man placed the picture on the table.

He straightened, ramrod straight, eyes burning ahead at something a thousand miles away. 

The old NCO from Vietnam gave the order, "Attention!"

We stood still like three statues. 

I could hear the mother breathing.

"Hand... SALUTE!"

We saluted, eyes on the photo.

The young man had a brave, innocent face.

My eyes traveled to his father.

Tears welled up, but he fought them.

We stood there a long time.

Finally, a hoarse whisper, "Order, arms."

We brought our salutes slowly home.

Suddenly, we were back in the vehicle, traveling through the night in silence. But for the next 6 hours, I was still in that room, holding my salute, sharing the anguish of a mother and father.

 

Afghanistan. Afghanistan. Afghanistan.

When I hear that word, I think of that day in August.

I remember the young man in that photo.

I remember his mother and his father.

Do not dishonor the fallen by giving up what they gave their life to defend. 

This is what I think about when I hear about Afghanistan.

I think of SSG **** and his family in West Virginia.

By Michael Burns, 16 August 2021