When a young Marine in dress uniform had boarded the plane to Reno, the passengers smiled and nodded politely. None knew he had just come from the plane's cargo hold, after watching his best friend's casket loaded onboard. At 24 years old, Sgt. Gavin Conley was only seven days younger than the man in the coffin. *snip*
When the airline crew found out about Conley's mission, they bumped him to first-class. He had never flown there before. Neither had Jim Cathey.
[the Marine he was escorting home]
On the flight, the woman sitting next to him nodded toward his uniform and asked if he was coming or going. To the war, she meant. He fell back on the words the military had told him to say: "I'm escorting a fallen Marine home to his family from the situation in Iraq." The woman quietly said she was sorry, Conley said. Then she began to cry.
As did I. As would any decent person with even half a soul.
When the plane landed in Nevada, the pilot asked the passengers to remain seated while Conley disembarked alone. Then the pilot told them why. The passengers pressed their faces against the windows. Outside, a procession walked toward the plane. Passengers in window seats leaned back to give others a better view. One held a child up to watch.
Most Americans (and others) really are decent, caring people. And will show it every time they have a chance.
From their seats in the plane, they saw a hearse and a Marine extending a white-gloved hand into a limousine, helping a pregnant woman out of the car. On the tarmac, Katherine Cathey wrapped her arm around the major's, steadying herself. Then her eyes locked on the cargo hold and the flag-draped casket. Inside the plane, they couldn't hear the screams.
From another of the 12 stories at the site:
Commercial airplanes transport caskets every day - including service members killed in action. For the most part, the passengers have no idea what lies below.
Most people will never see the Transportation Security Administration officials standing on the tarmac with their hands over their hearts as a body is unloaded. They won't see the airport police and firefighters lined up alongside their cars and engines, lights flashing, saluting the hearse on its way out.
Occasionally, a planeload of passengers is briefly exposed to the hard reality outside the cabin. "They're going to remember being on that plane for the rest of their lives," Beck said, looking back at the passengers. "They're going to remember bringing that Marine home. And they should."
As we all should.
A deeply moving tribute to fallen Marines - and the Marines who care for the families through the notification, funeral, and after. It broke my heart, but I had to read it all the way through. There is no other choice.
| Remains are shipped from Kuwait, for Iraq, and Bagram, for Afghanistan, to Dover AFB. The mortuary's a largish one-story building adjacent to the flight line. The staff is mostly Air Force, with a small Army contingent. The Medical Examiner is a civilian. He's a stiff-necked, very meticulous fellow, who seems to remember the details of every case he's handled. Each set of remains has an escort for the entire journey. There's a rather uncomfortable waiting room for them at the mortuary. Every time a set of remains leaves the mortuary the entire staff turns out to render military honors. The families are assigned a Casualty Assistance Officer whose assignment is to assist them with the military bureaucracy. They assist with the funeral and they help with questions on the deceased's personal effects. The military does its best to take care of its fallen. |