Fallen

A deployment to Afghanistan for myself has been one of many firsts. This past week saw one I had hoped to never experience. It was my first ramp ceremony. All available Canadians- soldiers, and civilian collected at the airfield. There was conversation and light banter, and an avoidance to discuss the reason we all gathered.

The sun had set a while ago but it was still warm, relatively so. There was a continuous breeze blowing, and if you believe in such things it could have easily been taken as prophetic. We gathered and formed with a bit more purpose than I’ve usually seen of large groups of soldiers gathering, there was little complaining, little noise.

Things progressed quickly and soon we found ourselves on the march to take our positions. We made the solemn, and quiet march through the hazy darkness. The only sound was the mild and continuous wind in my ears, and the muffled staccato of hundreds of combat boots on the tarmac. We marched from the weak light of the hanger through the darkness towards the looming brightly lit beacon that was the Hercules waiting.

As we Canadians formed, tightly packed, shoulder-to-shoulder-to-shoulder three deep in a long line, we formed a corridor that would act as the final Kandahar road for a fallen comrade. As we shuffled into position, quietly, reverently I heard something that surprised me; though it shouldn’t have. Row after row of soldiers from other countries, marines, Brits, Aussies, Dutch all formed row after row behind us.

I was positioned in the front rank about 30 feet from the yawning open end of the Herc. We waited for what seemed an eternity, lined at attention. The precision, formality, and ambiance reminded me of ancient Viking tributes, or final tributes to fighting Kings. It made me think in that moment, that it is only in death we soldiers, we average Canadian men and women are Kings and Queens, if only to our peers.

Then there was a whine from a microphone, as it itself caught the wind. The Padres spoke their lines, and they were no longer the trivial platitudes of Remembrance Day of yesteryear. The words reverberated, and stuck. They were quick, efficient, and articulate.

The emotion was thick and palpable. And then the command sang out. “Task Force Afghanistan to your Fallen Comrade salute.”

I have always been moved by the haunting skirl of the bagpipes, but hearing it here, under these circumstances was like an emotional punch in the gut. I think we all stood there steeling ourselves, but still the weight of it hits you like a tidal wave. It was a slow moving tsunami that started at the far end of the lines, and then progressed as the slow cadence brought another Nova Scotian son his last 500 meters across Kandahar Airfield.

The procession was slow, as if purposely driving the point home, building and building. I watched the Padres, then the coffin itself pass in front of me, so close that I could have reached out and touched it. Then world was then like a kaleidoscope, colour and light blurry and refracted. The wave passed me by then, and I hitched in a deep breath. A few minutes later there were the muffled footsteps inside the belly of the aircraft.

I watched the faces of those across from me. Many of which I knew were like me, and did not know Cpl Megeny. But he was Canadian, he was young, and he may only be the first of our rotation. So, there etched on many face were grim looks, made even more fierce in the weird shadows cast by the spotlights, and there were the telltale glistening sparkles of tears in eyes and cheeks.

You haven’t seen anything until you have seen soldiers cry. I hope I never see it again.