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Fairchild senior NCO reflects on dignified transfer mission
Posted 5/18/2012
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Commentary by Master Sgt. Michael Stewart
141st Air Refueling Wing Public Affairs
5/18/2012 - FAIRCHILD AIR FORCE BASE, Wash. (AFNS) -- I could hear the voice over the two-way radio call out "wheels rolling." That was everyone's cue to get into position and not move. Everyone was at parade rest waiting for the families to arrive.
I was nervous, more nervous than at any point in my military career. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure everyone on the flightline could hear it. I even had to remind myself to breathe. My ears could pick out every little sound, from the faint hum of my camera's internal motor, to the buzzing of insects.
Why was I so nervous? I knew I would have some nervousness, who wouldn't? But I had no clue it would be this strong. I had double and triple checked everything on my equipment; I ran the process through my mind a hundred times. The one thing I kept reminding myself of was: "don't forget to hit the record button."
I had heard about the dignified transfer mission at Dover Air Force Base, Del., while attending training in Tennessee. I was told it would be one of the most rewarding jobs I could ever do as a combat correspondent and that it touches many people's lives; but I never dreamed it would change my life, forever.
It had been 16 hours since I arrived at Dover AFB and already a call had come in informing us that we would be receiving six fallen soldiers later that night. That evening, our public affairs team loaded up our gear and headed to the passenger terminal to wait for the arrival of their remains. It was extremely cold and misty out when the plane finally arrived.
I was surprised to see that it was a commercial airliner and not a military aircraft. When I asked the other videographer why, he explained that the remains of the fallen are returned to Dover AFB by the most expedient means possible, which may mean a direct flight from theater on a civilian aircraft. The mission, he continued, is to return America's fallen to their loved ones as quickly as possible.
Once the aircraft taxied and parked at the designated spot, we drove out to set up our cameras, one camera on the flightline and one in the transfer vehicle. Once inside the vehicle, I was required to set up and level my tripod; frame and focus my camera; adjust exposure and white balance; and check my back-up recording device, all within five minutes. Even though it was very cold, I could not stop sweating from being so nervous.
When the call came in over the radio for "wheels rolling," no one was allowed to leave their designated location or even move. If we forgot an item or had a camera malfunction, we only had access to what was in our camera bag. There was no room for mistakes.
In the distance I could see the flashing lights of the security-police vehicle escorting the families out to the flightline. An Airman with two lighted batons precisely guided the surrey bus transporting the families into final position close to the aircraft. As they drove up, the families could see the flag-draped cases ready to be lowered.
As I waited, I wondered how I would react in their situation. Would I cry? And how would my family and friends respond if they were out in the cold waiting to watch me being transferred to a military vehicle?
After about 10 minutes, I could see out the driver's-side window some movement along the flightline road, far off in the distance. The carry team and the official party were on their way.
With precision and dignity, they all marched in step down the long road toward the aircraft.
As the carry team marched around the transfer vehicle and positioned themselves at attention facing the families, I finally heard the families. Quietly at first, but very clearly, I heard the cries of a lone woman calling out her Soldier's name. As she became louder, I started to hear other cries, women and then the children, over and over they cried "Daddy", "Daddy", "you promised me." It was an engulfing wall of grief. I no longer had to wonder how I would respond, I cried. I had to stay focused; this wasn't about me, this was about the families. "Do what you were trained to do and stay focused," I repeated to myself.
By the time the official party marched toward the transfer cases and stood for a moment of prayer, I quickly regained my composure. Not only was I responsible for the taping of the event, I also had to help position the transfer cases within the vehicle if they became stuck on the roller tracks.
One by one, each fallen Soldier was placed in the vehicle with the greatest of care. Every detail was thought through; even the order of the cases was done by position of honor or rank. I was never prouder in my career than when I was able to witness this process. We could not bring their Soldier back, but we could show the families through our actions that we appreciated the ultimate sacrifice that was made by their loved one.
After the last case was placed inside the vehicle, the carry team performed an about face and took about five steps out, stopped, and turned around to face their fallen comrades.
The Airman responsible for the closing of the vehicle doors did so in a very slow and deliberate manner, walking the one side of the double door all the way in and securing, then walking the other side in until both doors were secure.
As the transfer vehicle started to drive away, the commander in charge ordered "present arms," and every military person on the flightline rendered a three-second salute. The vehicle slowly headed toward the port mortuary with a security-police vehicle as its escort. As I rode in the back of the vehicle, sitting inches from six men I never had the privilege to know, I placed my hand on one of the cases and thanked all of them for their sacrifice. I thanked them not only for me and my wife and children, but for all those who were sleeping soundly that night in our free country and for all future generations.
Those six Soldiers would be the first of 183 men and women from all branches of service that I would thank during my four-month tour at Dover AFB.
So, how did it change my life? The only time we worked was when someone died. It doesn't get any more sobering than that for me. I hold my family a little tighter when we hug. I don't sweat the small stuff nearly as much as I used to. I learned to open up with my emotions the entire time I was there; I never kept things in. And, I make sure when I see a veteran at the grocery store or on the street, to go out of my way to really make it clear how much I appreciate them. |
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