(This was linked in DU thread about letters to Stars and Stripes.)
http://stripes.com/article.asp?section=125... Opinion:
My respect for ‘quiet clay’ is loud and clear
By Dr. (Col.) W. Thomas Frank
European edition, Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Editor’s Note: This column appeared Sept. 26 on the Opinion page in the Mideast, European and Pacific editions.
It’s Sunday in Afghanistan.
I was sitting — completing some clerical task or other — when the patient administration clerk stood at the door.
“Sir, mortuary affairs needs a doctor.”
....
I picked up the clipboard. “Cause of death.” I obviously couldn’t write “head blown off.” I thought for a minute. “Traumatic brain injury.” I first printed, then signed my name.
In the clerk’s office of this girl’s hometown, three pieces of paper would likely summarize her life — a birth certificate, a marriage certificate and a death certificate.
....
I stood back. It was so quiet. A poet once referred to a corpse as “quiet clay.” How odd, I thought when I first read it. How true, I thought, as I looked upon these three dead American soldiers. They never expected to die. Given a choice they would not be dead now.
They, like me, had read each day the names and number of the day’s dead in our newspaper, Stars and Stripes. They, like me, never thought their names would one day appear. They were driving down the road. They never saw the blast. Their vehicle was engulfed in flames. One had died in the explosion — instantly. The other two could not get out before being consumed by the fire. So now there were three dead American soldiers.
They were dealt a bad hand. Today I considered something I had never before given much thought — the fact that I, too, am playing at the same table.
I have six more months of hands to play. Six more months of hands to be dealt. Like me, they too were married. They too expected to return to their lives again. When they pulled their belts tight … they expected to loosen them again. Now someone else will loosen them.
....
I go to ceremonies like this at least once or twice a week. But today was different. I had seen these soldiers — I knew what was in those boxes.
....
Each person in the plane walked past the coffins and knelt — most in prayer. I rested my hand on each box and said to myself, “I’m sorry this happened to you.”
Tomorrow, when I cinch my belt, I will think of three dead American soldiers and I will think of my wife and my daughter and of home.
