Two Years

On August 13, 2007 I lost a friend to a roadside IED. Two other soldiers were also lost that day.  I knew them all, but the loss of my friend left an indelible mark behind. 

It was a day pretty much like any other day we had in Iraq.  I was on a PSD patrol to meet some sheik and win some hearts and minds.  We received a call that one of our patrols had been hit and that there were casualties. They needed some security on scene, and the commander wanted to make an assessment, so we stopped our meet and greet and sped off to the site of the IED. 

Somehow, I knew before we arrived that my friend was among the casualties.  Maybe it was because I knew his platoon was scheduled to patrol that area, maybe it was because I knew that he liked to sit in the first vehicle, even as a medic.  Maybe it was divine intervention preparing me for the next several hours, I don’t know.  We pulled up on scene a few minutes after the blast.  The bodies, or what was left of them, had already been placed in body bags, and the patrol that was hit was preparing to return to the FOB.  There was a young medic on the scene as he had been along on the patrol in the last vehicle.  That’s when I knew for sure my friend had been killed.  He looked at me and with a tremble in his voice, he said “I’m sorry. I couldn’t do anything.”  I reminded him there was nothing to do and that he had done the right thing by treating the lone survivor.

As the other patrol left the scene, I took in the site.  In the middle of the intersection was the burned hulk of a humvee.  It was almost unrecognizable, except for the fact that the front bumper and Rhino were sticking straight up in the air.  The entire roof, quarter inch steel with a turret in it, had been thrown several hundred meters into a field by the blast.  There were magazines, clothes, and small bits of equipment strewn around the area.  I spotted my friend’s aid bag and recovered it.  It was shredded and bloody as I examined it and ensured the narcotics were accounted for.

After surveying the site and making sure that there were no civilian wounded, I spoke to my Platoon Leader.  All of the insurgents responsible had been killed or captured.  Two had been killed escaping by boat across the river.  The third had been shot and the IA tracked him by his blood trail, finding him hiding in a canoe down the road.  That’s when we started “assessing” the site.  This turned out to be one of the most gruesome things I have had to do, although it was necessary.  Basically, a hand full of the soldiers on scene not involved in security got on line and started walking hand in hand through the area.  We were recovering pieces of our comrades to ensure that every part of their bodies would be returned to their loved ones.  We were picking up pieces as small as a dime and as large as 3” – 4” in diameter.  It reminded me of uncooked fat and everyone was quiet, robotically moving as we recovered the pieces.  Pieces of the IED and vehicle were also found, but its the body recovery that sticks in my mind the most.  Not only was I picking up pieces of a human, but pieces of a friend of mine as well.  I was picking up the pieces of somebody who I had been a friend to.  I knew his family, had been to his house, and met his kids.  I couldn’t tell if the pieces belonged to him or one of the other casualties, but it made no discernible difference. Eventually, we finished the “assessment” waited while EOD blew the unexploded ordinance on scene, and the wreckage was loaded on to a truck to return to the FOB.

While we were recovering the scene, all the casualties arrived back at the aid station.  My friend was a medic and friend to everyone in the aid station.  The PA and doctor had to verify the remains, ensure the paperwork was filled out, and assist in making arrangements for the “hero” flight.  By the time our recovery was finished, I had missed the hero flight and the opportunity to see my friend go home.  Several months later, the IPs were building a station next to the site and the US security team discovered some more remains.  These were handled as carefully as the first and sent home to be placed with my friend in his final resting spot.  When we left Iraq, my friend’s aid bag was still sitting in the back corner of the aid station.

My wife, and several other wives, helped his wife through the next several days.  I went to a memorial for the casualties of that day, said my goodbyes, and listened to the father of one of the other soldiers speak when we returned home.  The mission continued as we completed our rotation, but things were never the same after that day.  The group never really got together again after we came home as we had before we deployed, and we all eventually went about our own paths – PCS, ETS, etc. 

I am reminded almost everyday of that day, and the memory helps remind me about the temporality of my existence.  We never know when we might pass, so I try to acknowledge what I have everyday and let my family know I love them.  You never know when it might be your time.