Two Naval officers dressed in fresh whites, one from the line and the other a chaplain, stepped out of the gray Navy sedan and walked slowly toward an enlistedman’s quarters in the dependent housing area on the Norfolk Naval Station.

Monday, October 23, 2000

Two Naval officers dressed in fresh whites, one from the line and the other a chaplain, stepped out of the gray Navy sedan and walked slowly toward an enlistedman’s quarters in the dependent housing area on the Norfolk Naval Station. Their eyes focused on the walkway before them to avoid as long as possible making eye contact with those on whom they were calling. Neighbors, even children at play, stopped in their tracks up and down the street, and a awful silence fell on the neighborhood. All knew why they called. The word had spread quickly, respectfully that this is the family of one of the sailors reported still missing on the U.S.S. Cole in the Yemen harbor. I cried. Although I but watched it on television news, I was there because I have been there scores of times. (Details I suggest couldn’t be seen in the shot, but I know them.)

Delivering a military death notice, especially of one killed in action, is at once a most distasteful and unpleasant task and a most worthwhile and honorable ministry.

The 30 KIA funerals I conducted as an Army chaplain during the Vietnam War also were difficult but worthwhile, yet reality had settled in by then and some adjustments made. A funeral seeks to create closure. This is different: It tears souls open. Families had been going about their daily routine unprepared for what we had to tell them out of the blue. Their teen-age son was killed in battle. Her young husband, father of her several young children, is not coming home. They will never again hug Daddy or feel his strong arms hold them.

Some had been conscious of the very real presence of danger, but most assumed this is something that happens to someone else. They read about it and, with a self-conscious sense of guilt, thanked God it wasn’t theirs. Or they knew the person and went to the funeral and cried, because they could put themselves in the place of those who lost. They thought they knew how those people must feel. But they didn’t.

They would learn, and it was we who would force this upon them. The notification officer: the line officer who would give the official notice. The chaplain, who would then take over and seek to minister pastorally. The survivor assistance officer, who would come soon and spend days with the grieving family and help them with administrative arrangements. The escort officer or enlistedman of the same rank, who would accompany the body and stand by until burial. Most of them would do this only once in their careers, but they will never forget and will continue to serve as changed comrades. Although I don’t now wish to count the times I have been involved, alone in the earlier days, I carry those scenes in my mind and still feel them in my heart.

Those have been some of the hardest things I have ever had to do, but among the most important. I think they are also, now, among those of which I am most proud and for which I feel most honored.

Often, the families knew intuitively why we came. They prayed they would hear "wounded" or "missing" or even "prisoner." Some fought us to delay or even deny the one word they did not want to hear. They would refuse to open the door or run through another door and lock it or shout: "No! No! Not that!" Those were the most agonizing moments. The most trying was when we received no reaction and didn’t know whether to repeat and twist the knife in an open wound or to move on and wound them the more with perceived indifference.

In great tribute to those families and the American spirit, I report that every one at least eventually not only accepted our ministry but expressed or demonstrated deep gratitude for it. Rather than pushing us out as the bearers of bad news, they came to embrace us as intimate friends. They sensed we were in this together.

The most indicative reaction came from a mother who said nothing for a long while. After processed all this mentally, she looked at me with a wry smile: "You sure have a (expletive) job!" As improper as it may seem, that remark ranks among the most rewarding I have heard. She understood my position and cared about how I felt. We suffered together.

The tune "Melita" floats through my mind as I write, carrying as it does the words of the Navy hymn:

 

Eternal Father, strong to save,

Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,

Who bidd’st the mighty ocean deep

Its own appointed limits keep:

O hear us when we cry to thee

For those in peril on the sea!

Wallace Alcorn’s column appears Mondays