thedrifter
03-15-09, 09:01 AM
Cleaning up after Iraq
By Kevin Horrigan
ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH
Sunday, Mar. 15 2009
This is a war story. It's also an economy story. It's like a Horatio Alger
story, only with body parts.
One day four years ago, two young Marines were sitting around their quarters at
Camp Taqaddum in central Iraq, talking about what they'd do with their lives
after their enlistments were up. All Marines are riflemen first, but these two
guys had been taught a particular skill, one they thought might transfer nicely
to civilian life.
Sgt. Ben Lichtenwalner, then 23, and Corporal Ryan Sawyer, then 20, were
members of the 4th Marine Logistics Group, a reserve unit based in Marietta,
Ga. Lichtenwalner, who grew up in Lee's Summit, Mo., had been trained as a
cook. Sawyer, a Georgia boy, had been assigned to the motor pool.
But when their reserve unit was activated, they were "voluntold," as they say
in the Marines, for what now is called a Personnel Retrieval and Processing
unit.
In those days, the unit's name was a little less impersonal. It was called
Mortuary Affairs.
What Lichtenwalner and Sawyer did in Iraq was care for the bodies of dead
Marines. Also dead soldiers, sailors, contractors, civilians and an occasional
insurgent. But mostly Marines. This was in 2005, arguably the worst year of the
war, in eastern Anbar province, which from 2004 to 2006 accounted for more U.S.
fatalities than any other province in Iraq.
They got some training before they headed over to Iraq and then spent a week
learning the ropes from their predecessor unit at Camp Taqaddum, west of
Baghdad between Fallujah and Ramadi. Marines call it TQ.
"As soon as they handed things over, that day I had to drive out to the flight
line to pick up three bodies," Sawyer recalls. "TQ is a major air base, so
they'd fly the bodies back to us. We'd check the dog tags and the personal
stuff, make a tentative identification, put them in body bags and into what
they call a transfer case, drape a flag over it and get them back out to the
flight line. It was time-sensitive. We had to get everyone back to Dover [Air
Force Base, Del., home of the Pentagon's mortuary facility] within 48 hours,
with sensitivity and respect."
When the bodies didn't come to them, they went to the battlefield to pick them
up.
"Very often they were dismembered," Sawyer said. "You have to focus on the good
you're doing. You can't look at the bad side of it, put yourself in that kind
of stress. You have to view it as keeping a promise, that no man is left
behind. That is our promise. To him and his family. If you hold it to your
heart, you're going to get messed up."
Lichtenwalner and Sawyer were Marines. They didn't have to like the job to see
it as important and try to do it well. Each Marine got a warrior's farewell, a
short and moving ceremony from his fellow Marines. "It was a very sacred
moment," Sawyer said.
Other moments were less sacred. "We had a lot of downtime, so Ben and I got to
talking about what we wanted to do when we got home," Sawyer said. "Other guys
would be sitting around reading Maxim magazine, we'd be reading business books."
Said Lichtenwalner: "We figured there were families back home going through
this kind of thing."
The more they investigated, the more they discovered that no one back home in
Atlanta really specialized in cleaning up after crime scenes and suicides.
Thus was born Biotrauma Inc., whose first website was launched from Camp
Taqaddum. Since 2006, Lichtenwalner and Sawyer have been entrepreneurs,
building a business in between running out to crime scenes and suicide scenes,
handling the grisly cleanup with what they pledge is same care and sensitivity
they gave fallen Marines.
"When we get to the scene, the body is gone," Sawyer said. "Our job is what's
left. Seventy-five percent of suicides are by firearms. When someone takes a
weapon to their head, it causes quite a mess."
But as with most start-up businesses, things are tough at first.
"There are 1,000 suicides and 600 homicides in Georgia every year,"
Lichtenwalner said. "You do the math. We ought to be working five to 10 times a
week. Eighty percent of the time families do it themselves, even though it's
covered by most homeowner's insurance policies. Sometimes families were hiring
some guy with a mop and a bucket, a guy who does fire and water and mold clean
up. We specialize, get every ounce of blood out, pull up subfloors and
wallboards, and then bring in contractors."
Once a Marine, always a Marine, so they keep plugging along. They hired a PR
firm to get their story out, even to far-flung places like St. Louis, because
even if you're not anywhere close to Biotrauma's offices in suburban Atlanta,
they'll find someone to do the job for you.
I called them up said I hoped I never needed their services, but I'd be happy
to write about them. They did a nasty job well, and I hope things work out.
Someone besides Iran and Halliburton ought to benefit from that damned war.
Ellie
By Kevin Horrigan
ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH
Sunday, Mar. 15 2009
This is a war story. It's also an economy story. It's like a Horatio Alger
story, only with body parts.
One day four years ago, two young Marines were sitting around their quarters at
Camp Taqaddum in central Iraq, talking about what they'd do with their lives
after their enlistments were up. All Marines are riflemen first, but these two
guys had been taught a particular skill, one they thought might transfer nicely
to civilian life.
Sgt. Ben Lichtenwalner, then 23, and Corporal Ryan Sawyer, then 20, were
members of the 4th Marine Logistics Group, a reserve unit based in Marietta,
Ga. Lichtenwalner, who grew up in Lee's Summit, Mo., had been trained as a
cook. Sawyer, a Georgia boy, had been assigned to the motor pool.
But when their reserve unit was activated, they were "voluntold," as they say
in the Marines, for what now is called a Personnel Retrieval and Processing
unit.
In those days, the unit's name was a little less impersonal. It was called
Mortuary Affairs.
What Lichtenwalner and Sawyer did in Iraq was care for the bodies of dead
Marines. Also dead soldiers, sailors, contractors, civilians and an occasional
insurgent. But mostly Marines. This was in 2005, arguably the worst year of the
war, in eastern Anbar province, which from 2004 to 2006 accounted for more U.S.
fatalities than any other province in Iraq.
They got some training before they headed over to Iraq and then spent a week
learning the ropes from their predecessor unit at Camp Taqaddum, west of
Baghdad between Fallujah and Ramadi. Marines call it TQ.
"As soon as they handed things over, that day I had to drive out to the flight
line to pick up three bodies," Sawyer recalls. "TQ is a major air base, so
they'd fly the bodies back to us. We'd check the dog tags and the personal
stuff, make a tentative identification, put them in body bags and into what
they call a transfer case, drape a flag over it and get them back out to the
flight line. It was time-sensitive. We had to get everyone back to Dover [Air
Force Base, Del., home of the Pentagon's mortuary facility] within 48 hours,
with sensitivity and respect."
When the bodies didn't come to them, they went to the battlefield to pick them
up.
"Very often they were dismembered," Sawyer said. "You have to focus on the good
you're doing. You can't look at the bad side of it, put yourself in that kind
of stress. You have to view it as keeping a promise, that no man is left
behind. That is our promise. To him and his family. If you hold it to your
heart, you're going to get messed up."
Lichtenwalner and Sawyer were Marines. They didn't have to like the job to see
it as important and try to do it well. Each Marine got a warrior's farewell, a
short and moving ceremony from his fellow Marines. "It was a very sacred
moment," Sawyer said.
Other moments were less sacred. "We had a lot of downtime, so Ben and I got to
talking about what we wanted to do when we got home," Sawyer said. "Other guys
would be sitting around reading Maxim magazine, we'd be reading business books."
Said Lichtenwalner: "We figured there were families back home going through
this kind of thing."
The more they investigated, the more they discovered that no one back home in
Atlanta really specialized in cleaning up after crime scenes and suicides.
Thus was born Biotrauma Inc., whose first website was launched from Camp
Taqaddum. Since 2006, Lichtenwalner and Sawyer have been entrepreneurs,
building a business in between running out to crime scenes and suicide scenes,
handling the grisly cleanup with what they pledge is same care and sensitivity
they gave fallen Marines.
"When we get to the scene, the body is gone," Sawyer said. "Our job is what's
left. Seventy-five percent of suicides are by firearms. When someone takes a
weapon to their head, it causes quite a mess."
But as with most start-up businesses, things are tough at first.
"There are 1,000 suicides and 600 homicides in Georgia every year,"
Lichtenwalner said. "You do the math. We ought to be working five to 10 times a
week. Eighty percent of the time families do it themselves, even though it's
covered by most homeowner's insurance policies. Sometimes families were hiring
some guy with a mop and a bucket, a guy who does fire and water and mold clean
up. We specialize, get every ounce of blood out, pull up subfloors and
wallboards, and then bring in contractors."
Once a Marine, always a Marine, so they keep plugging along. They hired a PR
firm to get their story out, even to far-flung places like St. Louis, because
even if you're not anywhere close to Biotrauma's offices in suburban Atlanta,
they'll find someone to do the job for you.
I called them up said I hoped I never needed their services, but I'd be happy
to write about them. They did a nasty job well, and I hope things work out.
Someone besides Iran and Halliburton ought to benefit from that damned war.
Ellie