Honored Guest

The day was almost perfect; a bright, clear-blue sky, a slight cool breeze from the west, the sun high in the sky and barely a cloud to be seen. It is the kind of late October day that is best suited for family picnics, baseball games, small town parades, or a hand-in-hand walk in the park. This just makes the day all the more poignant because of what I am about to witness: something to touch the heart and soul.

There are literally hundreds of people, if not a thousand or more, gathering on the “main” street of our little “town”. There really is just one street that passes through our town. It is the life artery for everything that passes through here. The irony is not lost on me.

People from more than 20 nations live here and just as many languages are spoken at any one time. There are people dressed in all types of garb. There is a man with tattoos on his neck and arms. He has large hoops in his ears, a stud in his tongue and lips, and a ring through his eyebrow. He is talking to a man in new blue jeans, a long-sleeve button down shirt, and a huge cowboy belt buckle on his belt. Across the street is a woman in black slacks and a white blouse; very conservative for this place. She appears rather somber and deep in thought. Most of the people are wearing uniforms of one type or another. Nearly everyone is talking in hushed tones. Others are like the woman across the street – contemplative.

We are all here for the procession that will pay tribute to this day’s guest of honor. The street is lined shoulder-to-shoulder with those invited to this event. Every one of us took our lunch hour to see our guest of honor one more time before he or she goes home to be with family and friends. They will not pass this way again and no one wants to miss the opportunity to say goodbye and show our respect. You see, we don’t know the guest of honor, but, we do know they are important to us.

It is almost time for the arrival of our guest. Up and down the street, people stop talking and take their place along the very edge of the road. We all want to be as close as possible to the guest of honor. We want to remember this event, but out of respect for our guest of honor no one will take pictures, no one will wear sunglasses, and everyone dresses appropriately. As far as I can see, in both directions, there are people standing next to each other on both sides of our main street.

Quite some distance down the street, I can see people coming to attention as the motorcade slowly passes in front of them. We all come to attention. People in uniform render a crisp, clean salute. Others not in uniform remove their hats and place their hands over their hearts.

The armored vehicle passes in front of me. My right hand clutches my hat over my heart. I can see the flag draped coffin which contains our guest of honor: our Fallen Comrade. Oh dear God in heaven – there are two vehicles with flag draped coffins. This is unexpected and only adds to our grief. Most of us, if not all, did not expect to see two Fallen Comrades.

At the realization of the additional guest of honor, people stand a little taller, a little straighter and with a little more pride. Eyes fill with tears and thoughts of what is really important to us come to mind: family, friends, country, and our freedom.

The woman across the street is crying. The airman standing to her right and the soldier to her left are also crying. The tattooed man next to me has wet eyes. And, I admit, my eyes are also wet. How can they not be?

If our time along the street and the respect we pay to our Fallen Comrades can give comfort to the loved ones of our Fallen Comrades, then it is the least we can do for our heroes. Our heroes are fathers, mothers, wives, husbands, brothers, sisters, friends, and loved ones. We do not know their names, but we do know they are loved and will be missed by many.

I live and work at Bagram Air Field, Afghanistan. Our Fallen Comrades lost their lives in the service of their country. The Fallen Comrade ceremony is an all-too-often occurrence around here. We all gather along the main street at all hours of the day or night. It does not matter to us when the call is made: we answer the call. It is humbling sight to behold and one that I pray to God will never occur again: but, I fear it will continue.