My friends and family,

My best wishes to you and your loved ones on this Memorial Day. I must
admit, in the past, this day’s special status lay more with the fact that my
family kicked off our summer party season at our family retreat than it did
with our nation’s fallen veterans. Sure, each Memorial Day I took time to
remember our nation’s dead in a moment of reflection, but once over, my
attention turned to the festivities planned down at “camp.” Today, however,
this day holds a particularly special place in my heart – a place that I
think will forever be occupied by remorse, sorrow, grief, reverent respect,
and hope that our departed lay in peaceful eternal rest.

Thus, on this Memorial Day, I’d like to share with you our military’s most
somber ceremony – a ritual so few outside our ranks get to witness or
experience. I ask that as you celebrate today with many barbeques,
gatherings, parades, etc. that you take a moment to remember our nation’s
quiet veterans – especially the dead, whose place should occupy a hallowed
hall of our memories.

*24 MAY 2008: *Several days ago two officers, a Navy Lieutenant Senior Grade
and an Army First Lieutenant, perished with their interpreter a few hours
south of our base. They died horrifically in a massive explosion that also
killed their interpreter – victims of our enemy’s most deadly weapon:
improvised explosive devices (IED). Tragically but honorably, their names
now join the elite ranks of our nation’s most honored heroes – warriors who
gave their lives so that others could live free. (Out of respect for their
families, I will refrain from using their real names).

I awoke early Saturday morning with a profound sadness in my heart: today we
would say goodbye forever to fallen comrades, friends, American brothers.
Though I never personally met or knew these men, their deaths strike a very
real chord concerning the threats we face: death lurks around every corner,
knowing only the boundaries of our enemy’s resolve and creativity. As I
dressed, I made sure to put on a clean uniform – a small, ultimately
meaningless token to show my solidarity and respect for these true heroes.
With each battlefield injury, each combat engagement, and each fatality, I
return to the predominant riddle of my own mortality: how odd it is to not
know one’s last day alive. These men when they woke on their final morning
had no idea that in a mere matter of hours, their lives would cease in a
horrific fireball, cut short by the flames and concussion blast of a device
crudely assembled hours prior by the hands of the most malicious of men. The
device would lay in wait for its victims, baking under the hot unforgiving
Afghan sun, till a near instant surge of electricity would power a charge
that would ignite an explosive and violently rob three brave men of a much
earned future. Undoubtedly, as in all wars, a weapon creates victims beyond
their kinetic targets – three families (two American, one Afghan) are
forever incomplete – a sense of loss will accompany them for the remainder
of their days. For these people, Memorial Day will forever hold a new,
unwanted, irreplaceable meaning surrounded by the most profound sorrow.

We arrived at FOB Ghazni thirty minutes before the ceremony began, taking
our places in the ranks of assembled soldiers, sailors, airmen, Afghan
allies, and civilians gathered to pay respect to the eternally departed.
People came as far away as the Pakistan border to say one final goodbye,
offer one final salute, to men they’d never met.

As I stood under the same hot, unforgiving Afghan sun that had only days ago
sat silently over the very device and people who would cause this ceremony
to take place, I could not help but again ponder my own demise. I decided
that should I die, I wouldn’t want to be remembered in such a way. The mood
was so somber, so tragic – as if life is something to be mourned. I
disagree, no matter how tragic or untimely the loss, the fact is, we’ve
lived – and to me that is cause for celebration. I wondered how these men –
could they offer up their own opinion – would react to their own memorial
ceremony. I then realized, however, that ceremonies to honor the dead are as
much a means for the living to openly express grief. Moreover, this
ceremony, so steeped in the most humble and dignified of traditions, is our
nation’s last official act to honor our bravest of citizens. Indeed, upon
further reflection, I could think of no better way to honor their sacrifice.

For thirty silent minutes we stood in ranks in abject silence, interrupted
only by the music playing over the PA system (modern day patriotic hymns
born forth from country music stars ensconced in Nashville mansions) and the
drum beat of a lone helicopter arriving from an unknown mission. Five
minutes prior to the ceremony, a contingent of Polish Honor guards (we share
our battle space with our Polish allies) marched in the utmost military
precision to join us in ranks to pay their respects.

The ceremony began like all others in the military: the playing of our
national anthem and an invocation offered up by an Army chaplain. To honor
our fallen Afghan comrade, the Afghan national anthem was also played. To
honor the Afghan nation, all assembled brought themselves to the position of
attention and held a steadfast hand salute through the playing of both
nation’s anthems – a sign of the highest respect.

The invocation went as all others due, with heads bowed, somber silence
reverberating across the sea of mournful bodies.

One by one, the commanders of the fallen got up to offer their respectful
accounts of the dead. The PRT (provincial reconstruction team) commander
(for whom the men had worked) offered his memories of men dedicated to the
mission, hardworking, honorable, fearless leaders, patriots to both nations.
The Navy officer had extended his tour, providing the PRT with invaluable
insight of culture and key players as the new command rotated in months ago.
The Army officer had been handpicked for this mission months prior at Fort
Bragg – and had lived up to the promise as the perfect leader for a most
difficult mission. The interpreter, the sole bread winner for a family of 11
(8 siblings and 2 parents) had fled Afghanistan during the reign of the
Taliban for the relative safety of Iran – only to return after the religious
scourge had been seemingly routed from his beloved homeland. Proudly
completing a high school education, the interpreter had hoped to continue
his studies, but the demands of a huge and hungry family pressed him into
service as an interpreter to US forces (one of the best paying legitimate
jobs in all of Afghanistan).

Following the PRT commander, an Afghan dignitary and the local Afghan Army
Commander paid their respects in quiet but meaningful speeches regarding the
worthiness of the cause, the proud traditions of the Afghan people, and the
solidarity they share with the United States.

Military memorial ceremonies work in such fashion: the overall commander
speaks, the invited guests speak, and then one member of each man’s unit
speaks regarding their memory. The speeches by the survivors are the most
emotional, the toughest to bear, and also, the most genuine. They never
cease to move me.

On this day, one speech in particular, will live in my mind forever. A
sergeant from the Army Lieutenant’s unit recounted how he was the consummate
leader – a soldier’s officer: first out front, leadership by example,
diligent to the core – caring never for himself, but always for the needs of
his men. As we roll outside the wire, all units have a similar procedure to
how they activate their electronic jammers (that allegedly disrupt the
signal that sets off an IED). Theirs went as follows:

“All Ghost Rider elements place your dukes to green.”

The sergeant, using the very words of his fallen leader, said goodbye in
this way:

(Choking on a torrent of tears ready to burst forth): “All Ghost Rider
elements, this is Ghost Rider-6 (the fallen soldier’s radio call sign),
place your dukes from standby to green…we’ll follow you always and
anywhere.”

After the speeches, the chaplain offered a final benediction to the dead,
asking God to grant their souls passage into paradise.

Following the benediction, came the most emotionally difficult part of any
military memorial: the Last Roll Call. Standing at rigid attention, a lone
sergeant called out the names of each fallen man’s unit. One by one, the
living answered “HERE, SERGEANT” when he called their name. Finally, with
tragic inevitability, the sergeant called out the one name all knew could
never be answered. “Lieutenant Smith!” Silence. “Lieutenant Smith!” Silence.
“Lieutenant Smith!” Silence. With each silence, sorrow compounded into
unbearable loss and grief – as if all in the audience urged, wished, by some
impossible miracle that the fallen would rise from the dead and answer the
call.

I jump…the first bang always causes me to jump.

“Ready! Aim! Fire!”

BANG

“Ready! Aim! Fire!”

BANG

Silence. The metallic clicks of weapons being cleared, magazines being
unloaded, weapons returning to shouldered arm.

The starkest melancholy beauty of all: Taps played by a lone bugler.

“Day is done

Gone the sun

From the lakes

From the hills

To the sky

All is well

Safely rest

God is Nye.”

The words of Taps always ring in mournful reverie in my mind with each
playing.

One by one, in groups of four, every man assembled passed in front of each
memorial erected for the fallen: a rifle with bayoneted standing alone, its
muzzle pointed to the ground, with a helmet atop the butt stock. Group by
group, we marched up to each memorial, presented a long, drawn, slow salute,
and got down on our knees. Removing our hats, we bowed in silent prayer,
asking God to grant our brother’s eternal peace and to comfort their
families’ quenchless grief. Many removed their name tags or rank and placed
it upon the box that held the weapon erect. At the First Lieutenant’s
memorial, someone had left a Captain’s rank as a sign that in death he had
achieved a rank long sought and deserved in life. Our prayers complete,
silently each group stood and offered one final, slow, longing, relentlessly
sorrowful salute to our lost brothers . In military precision, each group
performed a right face, marched the short steps to the next memorial, and
repeated the final salute goodbye.

At each memorial I offered up this silent prayer:

The Lord is your shepherd. He has led you through the valley of the shadow
of death. Thou shall no more fear evil. Go with God. May He grant you
eternal rest. Goodbye my fallen brother.

One by one, each group of mourners paid their final respects – waiting in
line for up to an hour to perform this most somber of rituals.

Walking away, I realized that Memorial Day will forever hold new meaning for
me. If nothing else, it is our sworn duty to remember these men, these
patriots each May when America is in full bloom with new life – for it is
upon their sacrifice that our liberty stands, that our freedoms are
anchored. Our debt of gratitude can never be repaid. That is why it is so
important that on this day, we take time to remember those who gave us so
much while asking nothing in return.

Today, Memorial Day, I give thanks and pay my respect to the men and women
who gave their lives so that we all may live free. Sadly, there are three
more men that we now must add to this most honored of lists – three men, who
we are duty bound never to forget.

My best to you and your loved ones on this Memorial Day.

-Cheers,

Matt

This letter has been reprinted with the permission of the author, 1LT Matt Zeller. He retains all rights to its contents.