One September Morning by Rosalind Noonan Page B

Ground Zero, the resounding choruses of “America, the Beautiful” that filled sports arenas and hearts at a time when the country was so shaken by acts of terrorism against innocent people.
    Was it patriotism that made her throat tighten in a lump as she watched the soldiers in John’s brigade line up to board their buses, their desert fatigues a speckled sea of muted tones? So many of them, men and women…and which ones would return healthy? Which would lose their lives or come home damaged and traumatized?
    Or was she unpatriotic to want her husband out of the war? Was it wrong to want to keep him here in the States, out of harm’s way? Was it selfish to wish he’d stayed in pro football, playing out his battles on Astroturf a few Sunday afternoons during the season?
    “I’m not sure what patriotism means anymore,” Abby says, surprised at her own honesty in front of Sharice. “But I have to admit, when John got on that bus to go to Iraq, I didn’t want him to be like the other men. I wanted him to be special, protected, as if he had a guardian angel watching over him.” She can still recall the eerie feeling as she scanned the long line of men, some turning to wave, others facing away, anonymous heads. “I knew some of those men would die, but I didn’t want it to be John. And knowing how strong and tall and courageous he was, I was sure he would survive. So sure.”
    “I’m sure he died in a state of grace,” Sharice says, “knowing that he gave his all for his country.”
    Abby suspects that Sharice has it all wrong, that John would be frustrated by his own pointless death, but she doesn’t have the energy to go there. She and Sharice have a long history of political friction, and after heated discussions of the exigencies and tragedies of war have come to a silent agreement not to venture to those dangerous territories in conversation. They agreed to disagree, but here is one occasion in which Abby wishes she shared her mother-in-law’s views. She presses the framed photo to her heart, hoping that Sharice is right, and that John found some peace as he left this world. At the very least, a glimmer of peace.

Chapter 13
     
    Camp Desert Mission, Iraq
     
    T he ritual of sending off a fallen soldier can bring tears to any man’s eyes, but today is special. As if the hands of God descended to the earth to shield this region of Iraq from the desperate winds that blew through the night, a stillness looms over the desert now. A sudden break from the vicious Sharqi winds.
    A miracle, just in time to allow the pomp and circumstance of a hero’s farewell, John Stanton’s final departure from Camp Desert Mission.
    He straps his rifle on—the stealthy cause of death, no doubt—and joins the other soldiers, the sea of desert khaki. Marching at parade rest alongside the stretcher, he feels a frisson of excitement, a tingling awareness that he is observing history. John’s send-off is unlike any event that has ever transpired on this Forward Operating Base.
    Not that they haven’t sent scores of bodies home on Hero Flights. This unit has seen mass casualties. During bad times they’ve had days with twenty or thirty people dead, and each body got a send-off, a guided procession to the helicopter that bore it off to Kuwait. Yes, the soldiers of Bravo Company have sent plenty of fallen soldiers home to their final resting place.
    But none of the previous casualties came close to John Stanton’s status as a celebrity, a star, a hero. And true to his legendary status, he is getting a hero’s exit, complete with an opening in the heavens that allows pink and gold sunlight to emanate over the pale horizon like a photo on a goddamned greeting card.
    A picture-perfect moment, and a huge turnout. Many final ceremonies attract fifty men, maybe a hundred, but today it looks like every soldier from Camp Despair and neighboring outposts turned out to honor John.
    The sight of so many somber, silent men is quite the