Last Full Measure, a Memorial Day reflection

It was an early summer night in 2011 at Balad Air Base, the primary air base in and out of the Iraq theater. I recently arrived and began my service as one of the final US Air Force chaplains to serve in the country. It was early into my first and only deployment in a combat zone. I’d been reassured multiple times, hostile activities were at an all time low. American and allied forces were preparing to withdrawal. After nearly a decade, it was time to turn Iraq’s long term security to her own forces. Spirits were high. A sense of peace was in the air. I rested well in that environment. All I needed to do was “play my part” for the next six-eight months and I’d be able to come home an actual war veteran. Easy enough.

As such, I was sleeping, enjoying the peace and quiet in my CHU (Containerized Housing Unit) when the call went out.

From the moment the alarm sounded the only thing that flooded my mind was, “I’m not ready.” I thought I was. I had the training. I earned the credentials. I wore the rank and insignia on my uniform. I told myself and others I was “good to go” if/when I needed to respond to a critical incident. Then the call went out and my worst nightmare came to fruition. A nearby convoy of American soldiers had been ambushed. While soldiers, they weren’t “combat troops.” Their mission wasn’t to attack or to kill. They were merely moving equipment from point A to point B for our eventual departure from the country. That didn’t matter. They hit an IED, terrorists flanked their position and they took casualties. They were being choppered into the trauma center on base and were due to arrive any minute.

I leapt out of bed and into my truck. The drive from my CHU to the hospital was mere minutes but it felt like an eternity. Thoughts of doubt and insecurity raced through my mind. “Why me?! Who am I? What can I possibly do to help those who were injured? What am I supposed to do to honor those who might not survive?” Once I arrived at the hospital, I was immediately greeted by a flurry of activity. Nurses and doctors were scrambling to greet the arriving choppers. I quietly filed in behind them. I tried to keep my head down. I didn’t want to look stupid. I didn’t want to stand out. I was scared. I felt I didn’t belong.

Everything changed the moment I witnessed the first stretcher being rushed down “Heroes Highway.” That was the nickname given to the passage between the helipad and the ER/trauma center of the Balad AB hospital (see the attached image above). The moment those choppers dropped off their passengers, everyone jumped in, one after another, to wheel those who were injured into the hospital for rapid medical intervention. The self absorbed thoughts, every fear, every selfish insecurity washed away the moment I made eye contact with those living the real terror, the fear of not making it home.

I grabbed hold of one of the stretchers and assisted wheeling a young man, no older than 20 into the emergency room. I had no idea the extent of his injury but I’ll never forget the amount of blood on his pants and boots. The look of sheer terror on his face has been forever seered into my psyche. I quietly prayed over this young man. He clutched my hand as I prayed for him. I later received word he was airlifted to Germany shortly thereafter and received lifesaving surgery there before ultimately heading home.

I encountered another soldier, this one older, a higher ranking NCO. He had a more grizzled look on his face, but still he was nervous and anxious. He was awake and alert enough to ask me if I’d heard of the condition of some of his solders. I had no idea. I wasn’t even sure who to ask, but I told him I’d investigate and get word to him. He begged me to keep them, not him, in my prayers. It wasn’t long before I learned that two of the individuals he asked me about didn’t survive. That NCO along with a smattering of others gathered together for prayer and honors. We recited scripture and the Lord’s Prayer. A flag was draped over their remains.

Eventually the flurry of activity quieted down. I made my rounds, visiting everyone I could. I shook a lot of hands. I grabbed hold of a lot of shoulders. I offered a lot of prayers. I wanted to ensure everyone, patients and hospital staff alike, knew how much they were loved by their Creator and by me. It was a long night but a night I’ll never forget.

Hours prior, I was an insecure, self absorbed stranger to nearly everybody in that hospital. By the early hours of the following morning, I earned the title of “padre,” “father,” “pastor,” and “chaplain” to dozens of men and women in need of support. I wish I remembered every name and every home town of those I was called on to care for that night. I have no idea who they are or where they wound up. Thankfully, I’ll never forget their faces and it’s those faces I remember and honor every Memorial Day.

Every year on this day, while enjoying a cook out with my family, sipping a beer or a whiskey, taking in a ball game or simply enjoying a day off of work, I find a little time, in a quiet place, to remember that night and those faces. There would be other incidents like that night during my military career, but that memory is the one I remember most vividly because it was the night I learned first hand the true cost of freedom and the power of putting the needs and concerns of others above my own.

I love this nation. I was honored to serve this nation in uniform for a number of years. If Memorial Day reminds us of anything it’s that this country and the boundless blessings it provides are not free. This day is not about you and what you can get out of it (your day off, your special discount, your plans, etc). Today is a day to look beyond yourself, and find a way to do your part, even if it means stepping outside of your comfort zone. Most of all, today is a day to pause and honor those who gave the last full measure of devotion to our nation in the service and defense of people they never knew.

Happy Memorial Day, friends.