thedrifter
06-11-07, 01:03 PM
Pride but no pleasure in funeral detail
By Sonja Elmquist - The Associated Press
Posted : Monday Jun 11, 2007 7:35:19 EDT
GREENSBORO, N.C. — It’s not easy being the face of death.
Chief Warrant Officer Timothy Andrew takes pride in his assignment as casualty assistance officer. But not pleasure.
It’s Andrew who tells the family when a Marine from Greensboro is killed in action. It’s a small but highly visible role he fills for Detachment 1, Electronics Maintenance Company, Greensboro’s Marine reserve unit.
He knows mothers pray not to see him. One said it to his face when her son returned from deployment.
“I knew what she was talking about,” Andrew said, “but that sucks. I don’t want to be the face of death incarnate.”
“I don’t want my military career to be defined by this,” he said.
When a military service member dies on active duty, that death sets into motion an intricate process that reaches its climax at the tradition-steeped ritual of a military burial.
The logistics of coordinating the hundreds of moving parts are daunting. The solemn pageantry of a meticulously disciplined funeral detail is extraordinary. And when it’s their duty to bury a brother in arms, the warriors take pride in performing the ceremony to perfection, despite the enormous emotional burden of burying a comrade.
“You don’t want to be a robot,” Andrew said. “But you have to keep it together for the family.”
But it’s impossible not to be affected by the death.
“Take off the uniform, take off everything and you’re a human being,” he said.
Andrew has a shelf full of binders in his office, each containing the details of a notification he’s done.
Most of them have been their parents’ only son. Andrew’s only child is a boy, too.
“If I think about that too much, I can’t help the family my best,” Andrew said. And through the cool polish of his military professionalism, his eyes redden. “Then I go home and hug my son.”
Members of a funeral detail don’t wear name tags. It’s a subtle detail, perhaps. But it means everything.
“It’s about the deceased,” said Capt. Jeremy Pace, a member of the N.C. National Guard’s Honor Guard. “It’s about the ceremony. It’s not about us.”
It’s that honor and deference that gives members of a funeral detail the strength to stand, still as a statue, for hours in baking noonday sun. And to practice firing rifle volleys until the riflemen can anticipate each other’s movements as though reading each other’s minds.
The honor guard is a team of eight full-time guardsmen who provide funeral details around the state. Most of their work now involves World War II veterans.
Some members of the honor guard have attended a special funeral training school conducted by Arlington National Cemetery’s Old Guard.
Sgt. Stephen Fitts, 24, did well enough at that training to be certified to train others.
“It’s not just a funeral. It’s an honor,” Fitts said. “I’m happy to be able to do this all the time.”
And for Fitts, the feeling is no different at an 85-year-old veteran’s funeral than for a soldier his own age who has died in combat.
“Because he’s a veteran, I’m sure he has done it for someone,” Fitts said. “He earned it. He deserves it. I’m happy to be the one to be here and give it to him.”
“It just feels right,” he said.
Greensboro Marines practice for days leading up to a funeral.
Sgt. Chris Hoagland, a Greensboro Marine reservist, has performed all of the duties of a military funeral at different times: pallbearer, rifleman and on the flag folding detail.
“First and foremost in all of our minds is pride in our job and respect for the service member we’re bringing home,” he said.
Hoagland said there is both mental and physical preparation to undertake for a funeral.
“We practice an hour more almost every day leading up to the event so we can keep it crisp,” Hoagland said.
The detail goes to the church before the funeral and counts the steps between the casket and the hearse.
They keep a practice casket at the drill hall so the pallbearers can get used to moving smoothly as a unit. And get used to the weight.
“We’re not about to tell the family: ‘Could you please get a metal casket because it’s easier on us?”’ Andrew said.
And seven riflemen firing seven shots that sound like one doesn’t happen automatically.
“We don’t want it to sound like a machine gun, and that takes practice,” Andrew said. “So we do it over and over and over again.”
And after a funeral, Andrew watches a video of the ceremony with the funeral detail members, critiquing the performance and looking for ways to improve.
Jim Carter, head of airport security at Piedmont Triad International Airport, was a casualty assistance officer in Greensboro before he retired from the Marine Corps.
“Once you get the news, you kind of psych yourself up,” he said. “You’re going to face a family you’ve never faced before. You’re going to give them the worst news they could possibly have in their life. You don’t know their personality.
“You don’t know how you are going to act,” Carter said. “You discipline yourself. You dig down deep.”
After hearing the news that any service members had died in a battle or attack, Carter said he would find himself waiting for the phone to ring. And hoping it wouldn’t.
“You go about your duties, and in the back of your mind, you’re waiting for the phone call,” he said.
And when the phone call comes, everything else stops.
Andrew is always ready for the call from Marine Corps Headquarters.
“When you’ve got a notification, it becomes your first priority,” he said.
He keeps a dress uniform pressed and ready to go at his office at the Triad Reserve Center and a designated cell phone at his hip. When the call comes, he has four hours to notify the family.
The only time the four-hour rule gets waived is when it would mean telling a family in the early morning, between 12 and 5 a.m., Andrew said. It’s too difficult to get in touch with outside support.
“We don’t just deliver the bad news and leave,” Andrew said.
At least two Marines go to a family’s house for the notification. Andrew prefers to have four.
“You don’t want to go by yourself,” he said. “Once that door opens, you have to be prepared for anything.”
Andrew said he has had family members scream at him and tell him he’s wrong. Regardless of their reaction, he stays to take care of anything the family wants: calling a pastor, answering questions.
“There’s really no script,” he said.
In the coming days, casualty assistance officers coordinate with the funeral home and the airport for a plane-side service.
They also fill in, as much as is possible, the miles of paperwork.
“We’re not attorneys, we’re not accountants, but we try to coordinate that,” Andrew said.
In a few weeks, the service member’s personal effects are shipped from where he or she was serving. The casualty assistance officer hand delivers the box.
“In our experience, it’s best that Mom doesn’t go through all that stuff by herself,” Andrew said.
After a while, there is nothing left to help with.
“There comes a point where legally, we’ve completed everything,” Andrew said. “But we kind of try to stay in touch with our families. ... We leave the families alone to grieve, but we let them know the hand is there.”
Ellie
By Sonja Elmquist - The Associated Press
Posted : Monday Jun 11, 2007 7:35:19 EDT
GREENSBORO, N.C. — It’s not easy being the face of death.
Chief Warrant Officer Timothy Andrew takes pride in his assignment as casualty assistance officer. But not pleasure.
It’s Andrew who tells the family when a Marine from Greensboro is killed in action. It’s a small but highly visible role he fills for Detachment 1, Electronics Maintenance Company, Greensboro’s Marine reserve unit.
He knows mothers pray not to see him. One said it to his face when her son returned from deployment.
“I knew what she was talking about,” Andrew said, “but that sucks. I don’t want to be the face of death incarnate.”
“I don’t want my military career to be defined by this,” he said.
When a military service member dies on active duty, that death sets into motion an intricate process that reaches its climax at the tradition-steeped ritual of a military burial.
The logistics of coordinating the hundreds of moving parts are daunting. The solemn pageantry of a meticulously disciplined funeral detail is extraordinary. And when it’s their duty to bury a brother in arms, the warriors take pride in performing the ceremony to perfection, despite the enormous emotional burden of burying a comrade.
“You don’t want to be a robot,” Andrew said. “But you have to keep it together for the family.”
But it’s impossible not to be affected by the death.
“Take off the uniform, take off everything and you’re a human being,” he said.
Andrew has a shelf full of binders in his office, each containing the details of a notification he’s done.
Most of them have been their parents’ only son. Andrew’s only child is a boy, too.
“If I think about that too much, I can’t help the family my best,” Andrew said. And through the cool polish of his military professionalism, his eyes redden. “Then I go home and hug my son.”
Members of a funeral detail don’t wear name tags. It’s a subtle detail, perhaps. But it means everything.
“It’s about the deceased,” said Capt. Jeremy Pace, a member of the N.C. National Guard’s Honor Guard. “It’s about the ceremony. It’s not about us.”
It’s that honor and deference that gives members of a funeral detail the strength to stand, still as a statue, for hours in baking noonday sun. And to practice firing rifle volleys until the riflemen can anticipate each other’s movements as though reading each other’s minds.
The honor guard is a team of eight full-time guardsmen who provide funeral details around the state. Most of their work now involves World War II veterans.
Some members of the honor guard have attended a special funeral training school conducted by Arlington National Cemetery’s Old Guard.
Sgt. Stephen Fitts, 24, did well enough at that training to be certified to train others.
“It’s not just a funeral. It’s an honor,” Fitts said. “I’m happy to be able to do this all the time.”
And for Fitts, the feeling is no different at an 85-year-old veteran’s funeral than for a soldier his own age who has died in combat.
“Because he’s a veteran, I’m sure he has done it for someone,” Fitts said. “He earned it. He deserves it. I’m happy to be the one to be here and give it to him.”
“It just feels right,” he said.
Greensboro Marines practice for days leading up to a funeral.
Sgt. Chris Hoagland, a Greensboro Marine reservist, has performed all of the duties of a military funeral at different times: pallbearer, rifleman and on the flag folding detail.
“First and foremost in all of our minds is pride in our job and respect for the service member we’re bringing home,” he said.
Hoagland said there is both mental and physical preparation to undertake for a funeral.
“We practice an hour more almost every day leading up to the event so we can keep it crisp,” Hoagland said.
The detail goes to the church before the funeral and counts the steps between the casket and the hearse.
They keep a practice casket at the drill hall so the pallbearers can get used to moving smoothly as a unit. And get used to the weight.
“We’re not about to tell the family: ‘Could you please get a metal casket because it’s easier on us?”’ Andrew said.
And seven riflemen firing seven shots that sound like one doesn’t happen automatically.
“We don’t want it to sound like a machine gun, and that takes practice,” Andrew said. “So we do it over and over and over again.”
And after a funeral, Andrew watches a video of the ceremony with the funeral detail members, critiquing the performance and looking for ways to improve.
Jim Carter, head of airport security at Piedmont Triad International Airport, was a casualty assistance officer in Greensboro before he retired from the Marine Corps.
“Once you get the news, you kind of psych yourself up,” he said. “You’re going to face a family you’ve never faced before. You’re going to give them the worst news they could possibly have in their life. You don’t know their personality.
“You don’t know how you are going to act,” Carter said. “You discipline yourself. You dig down deep.”
After hearing the news that any service members had died in a battle or attack, Carter said he would find himself waiting for the phone to ring. And hoping it wouldn’t.
“You go about your duties, and in the back of your mind, you’re waiting for the phone call,” he said.
And when the phone call comes, everything else stops.
Andrew is always ready for the call from Marine Corps Headquarters.
“When you’ve got a notification, it becomes your first priority,” he said.
He keeps a dress uniform pressed and ready to go at his office at the Triad Reserve Center and a designated cell phone at his hip. When the call comes, he has four hours to notify the family.
The only time the four-hour rule gets waived is when it would mean telling a family in the early morning, between 12 and 5 a.m., Andrew said. It’s too difficult to get in touch with outside support.
“We don’t just deliver the bad news and leave,” Andrew said.
At least two Marines go to a family’s house for the notification. Andrew prefers to have four.
“You don’t want to go by yourself,” he said. “Once that door opens, you have to be prepared for anything.”
Andrew said he has had family members scream at him and tell him he’s wrong. Regardless of their reaction, he stays to take care of anything the family wants: calling a pastor, answering questions.
“There’s really no script,” he said.
In the coming days, casualty assistance officers coordinate with the funeral home and the airport for a plane-side service.
They also fill in, as much as is possible, the miles of paperwork.
“We’re not attorneys, we’re not accountants, but we try to coordinate that,” Andrew said.
In a few weeks, the service member’s personal effects are shipped from where he or she was serving. The casualty assistance officer hand delivers the box.
“In our experience, it’s best that Mom doesn’t go through all that stuff by herself,” Andrew said.
After a while, there is nothing left to help with.
“There comes a point where legally, we’ve completed everything,” Andrew said. “But we kind of try to stay in touch with our families. ... We leave the families alone to grieve, but we let them know the hand is there.”
Ellie