Ramp Ceremony

0230, Kandahar Airfield, a cold rain fell, the tarmac slick and shiny under the portable lights. Lightning played across the sky and thunder cracked impossibly loud. I thought, God must be angry with Afghanistan to thunder so loudly.

I stood at rigid attention along with a hundred other Marines, sailors, soldiers from a dozen nations. The Stars and Stripes and Marine Corps flags carried proudly by the color guard whipped in the steady wind. The heavy sounds of the C17 cargo plane’s engines hummed. The ramp lowered. The Chaplin struggled against the elements to raise his voice in prayer vainly using a hand held loud speaker. I could not hear him. I said my own silent prayer and good bye to the fallen. From the distance a bagpiper played. The tune was indiscernible as it marched slowly closer. The pall bearers, six large, grim faced Marines carried our comrade on their shoulders. Silver metal casket draped in the Flag, its bright colors standing in stark relief against the black and brown backdrop of Afghanistan. I could now make out the tune, the Marine Corps Hymn, played to the slow march, melancholy. The rain splashed against my face and Icy water trickled down the back of my neck as the rain found its way over my Gortex jacket collar. The cold forced an involuntary shiver.

I watched the slow progression of the casket, followed reverently by the Colonel and the SgtMajor they marched up the ramp into the cavernous belly of the C17 heads bowed to the wind. The C17 capable of carrying hundreds of troops would carry but one this morning for it took our brother on his last flight home. Sometimes the flags are different, the tunes played new to my ears but in the end it is all the same. Warriors paying respect to the fallen. Men and women whose sacrificial legacy will be known only to history, the odds are against us. No one said it would be easy. There is so much to do here, I often wonder if we can do it in the time allowed? The only certainty is that more will die and we must make sure it is worth it.

I thought back on all this as I walked through mud puddles to the gravel laid parking lot to the Frat House. The lightning crashed again, shaking our little wooden shack. Perhaps not in anger, perhaps tonight the lightning was a salute in honor of yet another man gone to his “Gawd like a soldier” in this strange land.