thedrifter
10-27-05, 08:11 AM
Oct 27, 2005
Compassion Needed Most For Warrior's Toughest Job
By RICHARD LARDNER
rlardner@tampatrib.com
TAMPA - -- Norma Aviles remembers the car pulling into the driveway of her south Tampa home on the evening of April 7, 2003.
She remembers looking through the living room window and seeing a group of Marines in their dress uniforms step out of the vehicle.
As they walked toward her front porch, she remembers screaming for her husband, Oscar, and how he hesitated before opening the door.
She remembers the Marines asking whether they could come inside, and she remembers hoping they had the wrong address, wishing that it was all a terrible mistake.
After that, she doesn't remember much.
They were there to tell the Avileses their son Andrew had been killed just hours earlier by enemy artillery fire in Iraq.
Just 18, Lance Cpl. Aviles had joined the Marine Corps after graduating third in the 2002 class at Robinson High School.
"I was praying that they would tell us our son was injured in an accident," Oscar Aviles said. "But that wasn't the case."
It's news no one wants to deliver, and no one wants to get.
"It's a tough duty, and I don't like doing it," said Marine Corps Lt. Col. Kent Ralston, inspector-instructor for the 4th Assault Amphibian Battalion in Tampa.
"The most difficult thing we have to do as Marines is go out to a family and tell them that their loved one is deceased," he said.
Rules Are Strictly Followed
Yet death notification is one of the harsh realities of combat. Since the war in Iraq began in March 2003, military services have performed the grim ritual more than 2,000 times; 25 of those notifications have been in West Central Florida.
Each military branch cares for its own fallen. Of the 25 local casualties, 16 have been soldiers, eight Marines, and one a sailor.
Notifications are carefully orchestrated, and the teams are told not to stray from the script, according to defense officials.
Team members need to know as much about the deceased as possible but are told not to cloud the conversation with their own combat experiences. Passing on conjecture and supplying gory or embarrassing details are off limits.
But the notifiers cannot be mechanical or without empathy, said Air Force Lt. Col. Dave Anderson, commander of the 6th Services Squadron at MacDill Air Force Base.
"This is something you definitely need to do with compassion," said Anderson, who also serves as the base mortuary officer.
"Their world has been turned upside down, and they're getting a knock on the door that no family ever wants to get," he added. "To handle that appropriately is critical."
The news is delivered in person as soon as possible to the next of kin so they don't hear it first from another source.
That's not always easy, especially when family members are separated by geography.
After Aaron Weaver, an Army warrant officer, was killed in Iraq in January 2004, his wife, Nancy, was the first to be told of the loss by military personnel at Fort Bragg, N.C.
By the time a pair of Army officers from MacDill arrived at Mike Weaver's home in Inverness, he knew his son had died after the helicopter he was riding in was shot down near Baghdad.
"We can advise the spouse, and let her know someone will be knocking on her in-laws' door," said Hazel Vukovich, chief of the casualty operations center at Fort Stewart, a sprawling military base near Savannah, Ga. "But if she chooses to pick up that telephone and call, there's really not a lot we can do about it."
Casualty teams always ask to come inside for privacy reasons and so family members are in more comfortable surroundings. They also are not to physically touch next of kin unless there is a medical emergency.
What a notifier thinks to be a sympathetic gesture could be perceived as inappropriate contact by the family member, said Col. Mary Torgersen, director of Army Casualty and Memorial Affairs in Alexandria, Va.
"This is a mission where there's no room for error," Torgersen said. "It's all very carefully done."
Hoping For A Miracle
When two soldiers came to Jeanette Carrasco Baez's home in Town 'N Country this month, they asked to speak to her husband, Carlos, who had left for work at Tampa International Airport.
She refused to let them in while she called him and told him to hurry home. She then waited anxiously inside, not wanting to hear what the visitors had to say.
When Carlos Baez arrived, the team told him that their son, Roberto, had been killed Oct. 3 in Iraq by an improvised explosive device. Roberto, a 19-year-old private first class, had graduated in 2004 from Alonso High School.
"I didn't want them to tell me he was dead," Jeanette Carrasco Baez said. "Even today I'm hoping for a miracle, that my son will walk through the door."
With so much attention focused on Iraq, it's easy to forget U.S. forces remain engaged in Afghanistan.
More than 250 American troops have died during operations there and four of those casualties are from West Central Florida.
On May 8, 2004, Ronnie and Aileen Payne were in the living room of their Lakeland home when Marine sergeants knocked on the door.
They told the Paynes their 23-year-old son Ron, a corporal, had died, the first Marine to be killed in action in Afghanistan.
"We felt at first that their demeanor was cold," Aileen Payne said. "Not that they were insensitive, but there's no easy way to break that news."
After the initial shock, the Marines went from bearers of the worst possible news to being part of the healing process, helping with paperwork and funeral arrangements.
"I couldn't have asked for two better people to come to our door," Aileen Payne said.
Ellie
Compassion Needed Most For Warrior's Toughest Job
By RICHARD LARDNER
rlardner@tampatrib.com
TAMPA - -- Norma Aviles remembers the car pulling into the driveway of her south Tampa home on the evening of April 7, 2003.
She remembers looking through the living room window and seeing a group of Marines in their dress uniforms step out of the vehicle.
As they walked toward her front porch, she remembers screaming for her husband, Oscar, and how he hesitated before opening the door.
She remembers the Marines asking whether they could come inside, and she remembers hoping they had the wrong address, wishing that it was all a terrible mistake.
After that, she doesn't remember much.
They were there to tell the Avileses their son Andrew had been killed just hours earlier by enemy artillery fire in Iraq.
Just 18, Lance Cpl. Aviles had joined the Marine Corps after graduating third in the 2002 class at Robinson High School.
"I was praying that they would tell us our son was injured in an accident," Oscar Aviles said. "But that wasn't the case."
It's news no one wants to deliver, and no one wants to get.
"It's a tough duty, and I don't like doing it," said Marine Corps Lt. Col. Kent Ralston, inspector-instructor for the 4th Assault Amphibian Battalion in Tampa.
"The most difficult thing we have to do as Marines is go out to a family and tell them that their loved one is deceased," he said.
Rules Are Strictly Followed
Yet death notification is one of the harsh realities of combat. Since the war in Iraq began in March 2003, military services have performed the grim ritual more than 2,000 times; 25 of those notifications have been in West Central Florida.
Each military branch cares for its own fallen. Of the 25 local casualties, 16 have been soldiers, eight Marines, and one a sailor.
Notifications are carefully orchestrated, and the teams are told not to stray from the script, according to defense officials.
Team members need to know as much about the deceased as possible but are told not to cloud the conversation with their own combat experiences. Passing on conjecture and supplying gory or embarrassing details are off limits.
But the notifiers cannot be mechanical or without empathy, said Air Force Lt. Col. Dave Anderson, commander of the 6th Services Squadron at MacDill Air Force Base.
"This is something you definitely need to do with compassion," said Anderson, who also serves as the base mortuary officer.
"Their world has been turned upside down, and they're getting a knock on the door that no family ever wants to get," he added. "To handle that appropriately is critical."
The news is delivered in person as soon as possible to the next of kin so they don't hear it first from another source.
That's not always easy, especially when family members are separated by geography.
After Aaron Weaver, an Army warrant officer, was killed in Iraq in January 2004, his wife, Nancy, was the first to be told of the loss by military personnel at Fort Bragg, N.C.
By the time a pair of Army officers from MacDill arrived at Mike Weaver's home in Inverness, he knew his son had died after the helicopter he was riding in was shot down near Baghdad.
"We can advise the spouse, and let her know someone will be knocking on her in-laws' door," said Hazel Vukovich, chief of the casualty operations center at Fort Stewart, a sprawling military base near Savannah, Ga. "But if she chooses to pick up that telephone and call, there's really not a lot we can do about it."
Casualty teams always ask to come inside for privacy reasons and so family members are in more comfortable surroundings. They also are not to physically touch next of kin unless there is a medical emergency.
What a notifier thinks to be a sympathetic gesture could be perceived as inappropriate contact by the family member, said Col. Mary Torgersen, director of Army Casualty and Memorial Affairs in Alexandria, Va.
"This is a mission where there's no room for error," Torgersen said. "It's all very carefully done."
Hoping For A Miracle
When two soldiers came to Jeanette Carrasco Baez's home in Town 'N Country this month, they asked to speak to her husband, Carlos, who had left for work at Tampa International Airport.
She refused to let them in while she called him and told him to hurry home. She then waited anxiously inside, not wanting to hear what the visitors had to say.
When Carlos Baez arrived, the team told him that their son, Roberto, had been killed Oct. 3 in Iraq by an improvised explosive device. Roberto, a 19-year-old private first class, had graduated in 2004 from Alonso High School.
"I didn't want them to tell me he was dead," Jeanette Carrasco Baez said. "Even today I'm hoping for a miracle, that my son will walk through the door."
With so much attention focused on Iraq, it's easy to forget U.S. forces remain engaged in Afghanistan.
More than 250 American troops have died during operations there and four of those casualties are from West Central Florida.
On May 8, 2004, Ronnie and Aileen Payne were in the living room of their Lakeland home when Marine sergeants knocked on the door.
They told the Paynes their 23-year-old son Ron, a corporal, had died, the first Marine to be killed in action in Afghanistan.
"We felt at first that their demeanor was cold," Aileen Payne said. "Not that they were insensitive, but there's no easy way to break that news."
After the initial shock, the Marines went from bearers of the worst possible news to being part of the healing process, helping with paperwork and funeral arrangements.
"I couldn't have asked for two better people to come to our door," Aileen Payne said.
Ellie