The Foreign Service Journal, October 2015

THE FOREIGN SERVICE JOURNAL | OCTOBER 2015 27 w Working with the military brought the realities of war very close to home. During the year I was in Afghanistan, I attended dozens of Purple Heart pinning ceremonies at the Kandahar trauma center, ramp ceremonies at Kandahar Air Field and memorial services on bases scattered across southern Afghani- stan. One Purple Heart ceremony involved a soldier who lost three limbs; another, a recent West Point graduate originally from South Korea, who had two legs blown away. When paying tribute to wounded soldiers, Gen. Abrams typically described the Kandahar health unit as “the best trauma center in the world.” He also praised the stricken soldiers for their sense of duty and self-sacrifice, adding that their only task now was to recover, heal and be made whole. The ramp ceremonies were always held alongside military aircraft at Kandahar Air Field. Sometimes they took place under a hot and almost unbearable sun, but most often they happened late at night or very early in the morning, when the sky seemed to stretch like a dark quilt above us, broken only by the tiny sparkling pinpricks of a thousand stars. The setting made all of us seem very small and insignificant, as if nothing that we did mattered. Sometimes the outline of a full moon cast a brighter light on the scene below, as hundreds of soldiers from many nations gathered in quiet solemnity to pay final respects. Each time, the flag-covered metal iceboxes containing last remains were car- ried on a caisson pulled by an MRAP, then shouldered by fellow soldiers to a waiting transport plane for the long journey home. The air crew always stood at attention outside their airplane, arms lifted in a somber salute. Almost every service included a reading from Scripture, a brief summary of the soldier’s life and the sorrowful sounds of a taped version of the bagpipes playing “Amazing Grace.” The casualties came from every part of the United States, their names pointing to parents and grandparents from all over the world: Asia, Africa, Latin America, Europe. One detachment of soldiers in Zabul served in the Alaska National Guard, some having grown up in small communities north of the Arctic Circle. The names stitched on their uniforms included “White Feather” and “Boy Scout.” Other soldiers were more recent immigrants from places like Uzbekistan and Nepal. One ramp ceremony was for a teenager from New York whose parents were not happy when he joined the armed forces, and even less thrilled when he became a Navy SEAL. Another was in honor of a young soldier blown up the day before by an improvised explosive device. The soldiers lifting his flag-draped metal box were trailed by a black dog. Follow- ing respectfully a short distance behind his late master, the dog walked gamely with his new handler, head cocked to one side as if waiting for the sharp crack of another explosion. The more formal memorial services held on distant bases were very moving. The chaplain would offer a few words of comfort, on occasion making the case for mercy and forgive- ness. The late soldier’s commander, usually a lieutenant or a sergeant, then shared brief reflections followed by recollec- tions from fellow soldiers—some humorous, most serious, all heartbreaking. After the last roll call and a rendition of “Day Is Done” (taps) on a bugle that seemed to quaver with every note, we walked in silence to the front of the tent. There we paused at the upturned rifle, helmet and boots arranged as a temporary shrine, linger- ing briefly to touch the small metal dog tag worn only days before in battle. The boots were always brown, caked with the ubiquitous dust of Kandahar. w On a less somber note, we had opportunities to connect, often in surprising ways, with the people and places of Afghani- stan. Some clearly sympathized with the Taliban and looked forward to their return. Others dreaded it, either out of genuine fear for their lives or because it meant the flow of foreign funds would stop, or both. Afghans were always happy to talk: anytime, anywhere and with anybody. Once, an imam who was sympathetic to the Taliban embraced me as I departed, saying, “I have no voice and no one listens to me.” This is the message that he wanted the world to hear: Without justice, there will never be peace in After the last roll call and a rendition of “Day Is Done” (taps) on a bugle that seemed to quaver with every note, we walked in silence to the front of the tent.