Posted on 04/14/2003 9:18:12 AM PDT by knighthawk
FORT BLISS, Tex. - In the end, the young soldiers went with a fresh, unopened, purse-sized pack of Kleenex on every other seat, atop the programs, and several big opened boxes placed strategically on the cool tiled floor of every row in the vast building.
They had tried every other imaginable combination -- a small pack on every seat; only the large boxes on the floor; lining up the top edges of the little packs with the lower edge of the program, and then with the upper.
It was the same with the nine empty pairs of combat boots, set below the nine empty helmets and the nine M-16s and the nine framed pictures draped with nine Purple Hearts, that sat at the front of the room.
Two young men in DCUs (Desert Camouflage Uniforms, which they are entitled to wear because their unit is deploying) fiddled and futzed with the tongues of those boots, first fluffing them out, then flattening them down, until finally an officer came over and gently whispered, "Just leave them alone. They're fine."
This is what life in the Army teaches: That through routine and mind-numbing repetitious task shall you keep at bay frustration, temper, fear, panic and the great sweeping tide of human emotions.
Only enormous loss pays no heed. Only death thumbs her nose.
It was toward the end of the roll call -- the traditional salute to fallen comrades, with each name called aloud three times, each time louder, until it is clear there will be no response of "Present!" -- that Command Sergeant-Major Hank Young began to cry.
He was a few feet away from me at the big deployment centre yesterday, from whence, not even two months ago, the 100 members of the 507th Maintenance Company first set off for Iraq, and where now nine of those soldiers, killed in action at an ambush near Nasiriya, were being remembered.
I noticed him first because he has one of those marvellous, ruddy, proud faces that men who are both hard and soft end up wearing. Miners have them, and some old hockey players and construction workers: They look always a hair away from either awful quiet coldness or tenderness, and it is hard to tell which is coming down the pipe.
Command Sgt.-Maj. Young was sitting on the aisle, and in the long wait for the service to begin -- everyone was urged to come early, but the soldiers, better used to doing what they're told than the general public, were there hours before -- younger men and women kept coming up to him. He would lean into them, and they would roughly bump shoulders, then clasp arms around one another.
He participated in every step of the service with restrained dignity.
When the pianist was warming up, and tinkling a few bars of God Bless America, I saw his shiny black boots playing out the tune; when he stood for the national anthem, he was ramrod straight; during the several prayers, he folded his big red hands together and placed them mid-chest and bent his head; when a woman belted out a wonderful version of America the Beautiful, he sang every word and never once had to look at his program; when Colonel Robert Woods gave his odd, stirring speech, closing with the line that sometimes, meeting the challenge ends up "with a helmet, a rifle, a pair of boots and a couple of ID tags, displayed as they are here today" and a great shout of "Hoo-wa!", Command Sgt.-Maj. Young shouted along.
When a wiry little woman, Specialist Kristine Hadano, marched to the microphone to give the tribute -- and told a little something about each one of the lost soldiers, including Command Sgt.-Maj. Young's friend, First Sergeant Robert Dowdy -- he really began to struggle. His face grew redder; it seemed he was having trouble catching his breath.
But it was the roll call that did him in, the handsome drill sergeant in his dark green BDUs (Battle Dress Uniforms, which most of the soldiers were wearing), barking out, "First Sergeant Dowdy! First Sergeant Dowdy! First Sergeant Robert J. Dowdy!" to the most awful silence.
Command Sgt.-Maj. Young reached a hand to his face and pretended to scratch it, several times.
The volleys were fired then, followed by the most splendid imaginable version of Taps, and then the pipers of the 62nd Army Band came into the room, first one playing Amazing Grace, the others joining in until the music swelled to the rafters. And then it was over.
I introduced myself to him, and got his name. "I was watching your lovely face as you tried not to cry," I said. He smiled, a huge, sweet grin that ate up all the tough edges that decades of Army life leave. "It's always hard to lose brothers and sisters," he said. "It's like losing your family." Then, "It is losing your family."
"How long have you been in?" I asked.
"Twenty-six years," Command Sgt.-Maj. Young replied. He is 48.
"You must like it?"
"It's OK," he said, then grinned again. "I love it."
"What was that shoulder-bumping thing you did?" I asked.
"That was just us hugging," he said.
Then the TV people swarmed him and I shook his hand and left.
The nine who died were Private Ruben Estrella-Soto, who was 18 and due to be married; Private Brandon Sloan, who was 19 and known for his light heart and eagerness to learn; Private First Class Howard (Hojo) Johnson II, who at 21 was much loved and deeply religious; Specialist Jamaal Addison, 22 and genuinely spiritual; Specialist James Kiehl, 22, who was known for his work ethic and was about to be a father for the first time; Specialist Lori Ann (Pie) Piestewa , a 23-year-old native American with a broad smile; Sergeant Donald Walters, 33, a company cook who fed his soldiers much more than food; First Sgt. Dowdy, 38, loved and respected for his fairness and competence; and Chief Warrant Officer Johnny Villareal Mata, nicknamed "Chief," who "always led from the front" whether in training runs or at work, in overalls.
They are the first combat casualties for Fort Bliss, the second-largest base in America, since the Vietnam War.
Command Sgt.-Maj. Young's face was actually the second one I noticed. The first man I spotted was a rangy fellow with a hawk face and thick grey hair who seemed uneasy in his dark suit, the pants too long for his cowboy boots.
He was another, like Command Sgt.-Maj. Young, who before the ceremony started, was being swarmed by younger soldiers, who approached him with great smiles of welcome. That got my attention, but it was his booming cry of, "It's a great day to be a soldier!" that had me run after him.
He is Barry Caldwell, the former chief of staff at Fort Bliss.
"If you say one thing in whatever you're going to write," he said, "say it's a great day to be a soldier."
This, of course, is the motto of the base, emblazoned over an overpass near one of the gates.
The slogan of the 507th Maintenance Company, perfect because it is as imperious as the orders its members must get, is, "Just Fix It!"
They couldn't fix things yesterday, but they made them better, and it was still a great day to be a soldier.
cblatchford@nationalpost.com
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