Читать книгу One September Morning - Rosalind Noonan - Страница 20

Camp Desert Mission, Iraq

The ritual of sending off a fallen soldier can bring tears to any man’s eyes, but today is special. As if the hands of God descended to the earth to shield this region of Iraq from the desperate winds that blew through the night, a stillness looms over the desert now. A sudden break from the vicious Sharqi winds.

A miracle, just in time to allow the pomp and circumstance of a hero’s farewell, John Stanton’s final departure from Camp Desert Mission.

He straps his rifle on—the stealthy cause of death, no doubt—and joins the other soldiers, the sea of desert khaki. Marching at parade rest alongside the stretcher, he feels a frisson of excitement, a tingling awareness that he is observing history. John’s send-off is unlike any event that has ever transpired on this Forward Operating Base.

Not that they haven’t sent scores of bodies home on Hero Flights. This unit has seen mass casualties. During bad times they’ve had days with twenty or thirty people dead, and each body got a send-off, a guided procession to the helicopter that bore it off to Kuwait. Yes, the soldiers of Bravo Company have sent plenty of fallen soldiers home to their final resting place.

But none of the previous casualties came close to John Stanton’s status as a celebrity, a star, a hero. And true to his legendary status, he is getting a hero’s exit, complete with an opening in the heavens that allows pink and gold sunlight to emanate over the pale horizon like a photo on a goddamned greeting card.

A picture-perfect moment, and a huge turnout. Many final ceremonies attract fifty men, maybe a hundred, but today it looks like every soldier from Camp Despair and neighboring outposts turned out to honor John.

The sight of so many somber, silent men is quite the spectacle—further proof of the king’s stature. A person could easily feel a twinge of jealousy. Except, of course, for the obvious fact that Stanton is dead, no longer able to suck up the adulation.

All the king’s men are in attendance: dutiful brother, loyal friends, fellow soldiers, surly superior officers. Hell, even a handful of reporters got here for the early-morning service, sandstorm and all. That’s fame for you. The guys from the media stand among the nearly three hundred men who line the path to the ambulance when the litter bearing John Stanton’s body emerges from the temporary morgue, carried by John’s favorites.

Everyone knows who the king’s favorites were.

But no one realizes that one of them betrayed him.

John’s death will go down in history as a combat casualty.

And it’s all rather beautiful. The snow-white litter bearing the body. The crimson, white, and navy of the flag draped squarely over his body. The hard-jawed, somber male soldiers standing in a line so long their desert fatigues form a ribbon of muddy brown that ripples against the stone color of the sand flats.

The beauty of the ceremonial send-off on a Hero Flight has eluded him until this day when the body of a fallen hero is borne by his buddies down the path of soldiers.

An American flag with a light shines on the hero, a fallen man, yet his light shines on.

The pallbearers pause at the ambulance as a soldier wearing a purple vestment around his neck says a prayer. “Lord, we pray that this soldier’s life was not in vain, that his hard work on earth furthered your cause of peace and justice. Heavenly Father, into your hands we commend the spirit of John Laurence Stanton…”

Words, words. They buzz in his head, often too loud and distorted to decipher. He wishes the chaplain would finish so that the hero’s grand ceremony could continue, the king’s litter progressing down the line so that every mourning soldier could bear witness to his fallen power.

The greatness that once reigned.

The power and light that passed into me the moment I took his life.

“Amen.” The soldiers’ voices are a thunderclap as the chaplain closes his prayer book. The litter is loaded into an ambulance and the mourners march on in silence, forward to the helicopter pad.

No one flinches when the winds kick up dust and grit.

No one misses a step in the hero’s last march.

At the helicopter pad, the ambulance rolls to a stop. Two men from Stanton’s platoon open the vehicle’s rear doors, and the priest steps forward to lead another prayer. This time the chaplain dashes holy water over the body, then over the crowd.

A clot of thick holy water lands in the new hero’s hair, and he imagines it seeping into his scalp, into the follicles, his pores soaking it up in the same way he has soaked up John Stanton’s soul.

“Remember, man, that you are dust,” the chaplain says, “and unto dust you shall return.”

A soldier steps forward, lifts a bugle to his lips, and blows taps as John’s boys lift the litter from the ambulance and carry it to the helipad. With gravity and reverence the snow-white litter is lifted into the helicopter, like some ancient emperor who has been granted the gift of flight. The men duck low and scurry away as the chopper blades begin to rotate.

And then the soldiers stand at attention and salute their fallen hero.

The final salute.

The king has fallen. The survivors will battle on.

Sleep well, he thinks as the copter lifts from the ground. Sleep on into eternity, and I will take care of the living.

To the victor go the spoils.