By Araceli Cruz
By Tessa Stuart
By Anna Merlan
By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
I hardly knew Sergeant U., but as it happened I was the last person to lay a hand on his casket.
Sergeant U. and I served in the same Marine Reserve infantry unit in 2002, when 9-11 was still fresh in our minds and any talk of invading Iraq was a rumor at best. By the time I deployed to the war six months later as U.S. forces began pounding north to Baghdad, Sergeant U. had left the Marine Corpsbut not, as it turned out, for good.
One of the few memories I have of Sergeant U. is a clear, silent picture of him walking away from me down the barracks hallway, wearing athletic shorts and flip flops. The leopard tattoo spread across the entirety of his back stares at me, curving its paw over his left shoulder. Sergeant U. is calling out to someone ahead of him. It's a joke, because the other guy is laughing and giving him a mighty flip of the middle finger.
Not until I returned home and settled into the predictable rhythms of civilian life did I learn that Sergeant U. had recently volunteered for deployment. Hed said he felt guilty that his friends went to fight the war and he hadnt.
Sergeant U. was killed when a sniper shot him in the armpit, just between the front and back body armor platesone of those freak shots you could have done nothing to prevent.
His funeral was in the autumn of 2004 in upstate New York. The sun was still strong enough to give comfort through a thin band of clouds, and what breeze there was blew warm and unassuming. This was a small working-class town. The houses were nondescript, the streets bare.
There were no seats left inside the church, and I stood next to the others who knew Sergeant U. only as a Marine. We listened as intimate details of his life came forth in eulogies and the anecdotes of family and friends. Still caught between acceptance and shock, the mourners sat with different emotions flickering on their faces from one second to the next. When one speaker remembered Sergeant U.s ladies' man tendencies, half a dozen old flames trembled and fell forward with their foreheads pressed to the pew in front of them.
Sergeant U.'s last-minute confidences to a favorite uncle before leaving were recounted. His last e-mail from the front was read aloud. Both humorous and telling, the message described a mortar attack that happened just as Sergeant U. was sitting down to enjoy a slice of pizza.
The service ended with a passionate rock ballad played through the straining speakers of a portable boom box. Outside, as pallbearers slid his casket into the hearse, a ragged pickup truck swerved around a nearby street corner and flew by, the driver leaning on the horn. Two American flags rigged to its cab whipped violently in the wind.
I found my good friend Corporal A. at the cemetery after the service. We stood almost exactly 90 degrees to each other as if wanting to talk, but needing to be alone at the same time. It was only because Corporal A. and I were so close, and had been through so much, that we could remain this way and avoid feeling uncomfortable. We were waiting for the family to file past the casket. I remember a young woman in a formfitting grey suit who began shaking and had to be held tight in consolation. She kept muttering, They killed him, they killed him. I wondered who she considered to be theysnipers, insurgents, terrorists, Iraqis? Her friends offered some distracting jokes and she drew her lips a tight smile and wiped her tears.
Corporal A. and I were the last ones in line to pay our respects to Sergeant U. His parents had l drifted away into a crowd of well-wishers. Most of his friends were already on their way to the bars. The cemetery manager was politely trying to ask us if we would be done soon.
I motioned for Corporal A. to go first. He did the same to me. So we went together, our feet falling into step. Without thinking, we executed a simultaneous left face and found ourselves in front of the coffin. We knelt. I reached toward the coffin. Id never put my hand one, not even at my grandmothers funeral. The casket was a matte grey, with sturdy polished silver handles, and cold to the touch. I closed my eyes, and had to concentrate to keep them shut.
I felt Corporal A. shifting next to me. For a second I had a mental picture of Corporal A. with a bandana tied around his head waiting for the helo to take us into Iraq--an image borrowed from an actual picture I took. He still asks me to make him a copy of it. He says its the only good photo of him from the war. Then I saw Corporal A. in the coffin in front of me. Why, I dont know. But I was ashamed at this thought. Perhaps because it so easily could have been Corporal A., or me, locked inside that silver box. For those of us in uniform, we were all interchangeable.