by JeremyC » Tue Mar 02, 2010 7:00 am
By Lt. Col. Christopher O. Darling
Before I even got to work yesterday, I knew there was going
to be a Ramp ceremony. The route to the U.S. Air Force compound
goes by the base commander’s building, and flags flying
at half-staff will tell you in an instant that the Coalition has suffered
a loss in combat. On this day, the word went out a U.S.
Marine was killed in action in Marjah, and the dignified transfer
of remains ceremony would take place on the aircraft parking
apron at 2 p.m.
It felt almost hot on the ramp. Even though it’s still February
in Afghanistan, the afternoon temperature was in the 70’s as
personnel began to gather for this event. Soldiers, sailors, Marines
and Airmen from the United States and from all the countries
of the coalition began to arrive in groups in order to send
home the fallen Marine. People stood around at the edge of the
ramp waiting for the appointed time, while the grey-painted
C-17 transport with a Dover Air Force Base, Del., tail flash
squatted with open cargo bay doors on the ramp. Normal conversations
were still taking place throughout the crowd, but
they gradually began to die away as the atmosphere of the event
began to infiltrate among the gathered military troops.
Finally, a contingent of Marines formed up and marched to
the rear of the C-17 to form the inner cordon of honor. Then
formations of troops of all services and all nations began to
build and march into place behind the Marines. Australians,
French, Dutch, and British were all there; hundreds of military
personnel in total. The sight of the British sergeant major with
some sort of ornamental cudgel fashioned from a thorny tree
branch reminded me of their long military traditions and that
they in particular have been in this place a lot longer than we
have. The British army was deployed and fighting in Afghanistan
170 years ago. Then a US Army sergeant major stepped
forward and issued instructions to my formation, pronouncing
us the “VIP” formation of E-9s and O-5s and above—a label
everyone present recognized as patently absurd, because clearly
the troops in the inner cordon, not the brass, were the only VIPs
present.
In any case, we marched to the rear of the aircraft, took our
positions along with the rest of the gathered troops, and assumed
Parade Rest.
A command rang out, and the formation snapped to attention
as a Marine color guard marched forward. A Navy chaplain
stepped to a lectern and began to speak, and the massed personnel
strained to hear the words, but it was difficult. The auxiliary
power unit on the C-17 emitted a constant whine.
The buzz of two fighter jets taking off on the runway added
to the background. And the roar of arriving cargo planes also
intruded, but this is an active airfield in combat, and missions
cannot be stopped.
Troops in the field are in contact with the enemy, and close
air support missions have to take off. Helicopters clatter around
constantly.
Transport aircraft completing journeys of 10,000 miles or
more arrive overhead, low on fuel, and urgently have to land.
Kandahar Airfield never closes, not even for a ceremony like
this. The Chaplain’s words provided some fragments of information,
and we all took in what we could: United States Marine
… 24 years old … Camp Lejeune, North Carolina …
leaves behind a young wife.
Later we would read reports from the field that it may have
been a single rifle shot from very long range that felled this
Marine, but we can’t be sure.
A sand-colored Mine-resistant, Ambush-Protected vehicle
drove slowly to the back of the cordon and stopped. These
MRAPs are 40,000 pound trucks that constitute the standard for
combat vehicles in today’s world, and it was fitting a vehicle
like this rather than some sort of ambulance was chosen to
transport this warrior. The casket was passed from the back of
the truck into the hands of the detail chosen from his fellow
Marines.
Another command rang out, and the multi-national formation
snapped to attention and right hands were raised in unison,
and held, in salute.
Several long moments passed, with no sound except the snap
of the color guard flags in the wind and the whine of the jet’s
APU. My hand is at the brim of my hat now, and I can see
nothing to my right, although I know the detail must surely be
approaching. And then suddenly the six-man detail appears
before me, marching slowly and carrying the casket of one of
America’s best on their shoulders.
The casket is wrapped by the stars and stripes, folded and
pressed and cinched tight at the corners, and the long aluminum
box is barely disturbed by the footsteps of the Marines as they
carry it smoothly and gingerly to the waiting aircraft. The flag
is startling to see, its colors seeming impossibly bright compared
to the dusty tan and grey and drab green background of
this place.
The second man in the detail on my side is visibly stricken,
his face a mask of grief as he carries his comrade on the first
leg of his journey home. As the detail passes in front of me at a
distance of maybe 20 feet, I watch the second man and I see
that the arm of the Marine opposite him in the detail is extended
beneath the casket. That man’s hand is in the center of the second
Marine’s back, clenching his uniform blouse in his fist,
physically holding him upright even as they walk together carrying
their burden.
It’s a sight I’ll never forget. And then I’m physically reminded
of the anger and hurt I feel for this warrior and his comrades
and his family. It will always affect me, no matter how
many of these ceremonies I have witnessed since 2004.
Seeing a sight like those Marines carrying their comrade,
that’s when you feel your jaw take a set; that’s when you feel
your throat constrict; that’s when it suddenly gets hard to
breathe.
And then the detail passes into the aircraft and is out of
sight. The whir of the electric motors raising and closing the
aircraft cargo ramp adds to the sounds of the scene, followed by
the thumps and clangs of the ramp toes as they fall with a clatter
as the ramp raises past the vertical. The electric motor
stops, and suddenly the ceremony is over.
The formation faces to the aircraft for one final salute, and
then we all disperse and walk away lost in our own thoughts
until the next time we have to again gather on The Ramp.
By Lt. Col. Christopher O. Darling
Before I even got to work yesterday, I knew there was going
to be a Ramp ceremony. The route to the U.S. Air Force compound
goes by the base commander’s building, and flags flying
at half-staff will tell you in an instant that the Coalition has suffered
a loss in combat. On this day, the word went out a U.S.
Marine was killed in action in Marjah, and the dignified transfer
of remains ceremony would take place on the aircraft parking
apron at 2 p.m.
It felt almost hot on the ramp. Even though it’s still February
in Afghanistan, the afternoon temperature was in the 70’s as
personnel began to gather for this event. Soldiers, sailors, Marines
and Airmen from the United States and from all the countries
of the coalition began to arrive in groups in order to send
home the fallen Marine. People stood around at the edge of the
ramp waiting for the appointed time, while the grey-painted
C-17 transport with a Dover Air Force Base, Del., tail flash
squatted with open cargo bay doors on the ramp. Normal conversations
were still taking place throughout the crowd, but
they gradually began to die away as the atmosphere of the event
began to infiltrate among the gathered military troops.
Finally, a contingent of Marines formed up and marched to
the rear of the C-17 to form the inner cordon of honor. Then
formations of troops of all services and all nations began to
build and march into place behind the Marines. Australians,
French, Dutch, and British were all there; hundreds of military
personnel in total. The sight of the British sergeant major with
some sort of ornamental cudgel fashioned from a thorny tree
branch reminded me of their long military traditions and that
they in particular have been in this place a lot longer than we
have. The British army was deployed and fighting in Afghanistan
170 years ago. Then a US Army sergeant major stepped
forward and issued instructions to my formation, pronouncing
us the “VIP” formation of E-9s and O-5s and above—a label
everyone present recognized as patently absurd, because clearly
the troops in the inner cordon, not the brass, were the only VIPs
present.
In any case, we marched to the rear of the aircraft, took our
positions along with the rest of the gathered troops, and assumed
Parade Rest.
A command rang out, and the formation snapped to attention
as a Marine color guard marched forward. A Navy chaplain
stepped to a lectern and began to speak, and the massed personnel
strained to hear the words, but it was difficult. The auxiliary
power unit on the C-17 emitted a constant whine.
The buzz of two fighter jets taking off on the runway added
to the background. And the roar of arriving cargo planes also
intruded, but this is an active airfield in combat, and missions
cannot be stopped.
Troops in the field are in contact with the enemy, and close
air support missions have to take off. Helicopters clatter around
constantly.
Transport aircraft completing journeys of 10,000 miles or
more arrive overhead, low on fuel, and urgently have to land.
Kandahar Airfield never closes, not even for a ceremony like
this. The Chaplain’s words provided some fragments of information,
and we all took in what we could: United States Marine
… 24 years old … Camp Lejeune, North Carolina …
leaves behind a young wife.
Later we would read reports from the field that it may have
been a single rifle shot from very long range that felled this
Marine, but we can’t be sure.
A sand-colored Mine-resistant, Ambush-Protected vehicle
drove slowly to the back of the cordon and stopped. These
MRAPs are 40,000 pound trucks that constitute the standard for
combat vehicles in today’s world, and it was fitting a vehicle
like this rather than some sort of ambulance was chosen to
transport this warrior. The casket was passed from the back of
the truck into the hands of the detail chosen from his fellow
Marines.
Another command rang out, and the multi-national formation
snapped to attention and right hands were raised in unison,
and held, in salute.
Several long moments passed, with no sound except the snap
of the color guard flags in the wind and the whine of the jet’s
APU. My hand is at the brim of my hat now, and I can see
nothing to my right, although I know the detail must surely be
approaching. And then suddenly the six-man detail appears
before me, marching slowly and carrying the casket of one of
America’s best on their shoulders.
The casket is wrapped by the stars and stripes, folded and
pressed and cinched tight at the corners, and the long aluminum
box is barely disturbed by the footsteps of the Marines as they
carry it smoothly and gingerly to the waiting aircraft. The flag
is startling to see, its colors seeming impossibly bright compared
to the dusty tan and grey and drab green background of
this place.
The second man in the detail on my side is visibly stricken,
his face a mask of grief as he carries his comrade on the first
leg of his journey home. As the detail passes in front of me at a
distance of maybe 20 feet, I watch the second man and I see
that the arm of the Marine opposite him in the detail is extended
beneath the casket. That man’s hand is in the center of the second
Marine’s back, clenching his uniform blouse in his fist,
physically holding him upright even as they walk together carrying
their burden.
It’s a sight I’ll never forget. And then I’m physically reminded
of the anger and hurt I feel for this warrior and his comrades
and his family. It will always affect me, no matter how
many of these ceremonies I have witnessed since 2004.
Seeing a sight like those Marines carrying their comrade,
that’s when you feel your jaw take a set; that’s when you feel
your throat constrict; that’s when it suddenly gets hard to
breathe.
And then the detail passes into the aircraft and is out of
sight. The whir of the electric motors raising and closing the
aircraft cargo ramp adds to the sounds of the scene, followed by
the thumps and clangs of the ramp toes as they fall with a clatter
as the ramp raises past the vertical. The electric motor
stops, and suddenly the ceremony is over.
The formation faces to the aircraft for one final salute, and
then we all disperse and walk away lost in our own thoughts
until the next time we have to again gather on The Ramp.