tinyurl.com/kyfdo -> www.nytimes.com/2006/06/29/world/middleeast/29soldier.html?_r=2&oref=slogin&oref=slogin
Forum: The Transition in Iraq The doors to the little morgue swung open, and six soldiers stepped outside carrying a long black bag zippered at the top. They had gathered in the sand outside this morgue at Camp Ramadi, an Army base in Anbar Province, now the most lethal of Iraqi places. A line of blue chemical lights marked the way to the landing strip not far away. Sergeant Lisk had been standing near an intersection in downtown Ramadi on Monday morning when a 120-millimeter mortar shell, fired by guerrillas, landed about 30 paces away. The exploding shell flung a chunk of steel into the right side of his chest just beneath his arm. The pallbearers lifted Sergeant Lisk into the back of an ambulance, a truck marked by a large red cross, and fell in with the others walking silently behind it as it crept through the sand toward the landing zone. Death comes often to the soldiers and marines who are fighting in Anbar Province, which is roughly the size of Louisiana and is the most intractable region in Iraq. Almost every day, an American soldier is killed somewhere in Anbar in Ramadi, in Haditha, in Falluja, by a sniper, by a roadside bomb, or as with Sergeant Lisk, by a mortar shell. In the first 27 days of June, 27 soldiers and marines were killed here. In small ways, the military tries to ensure that individual soldiers like Sergeant Lisk are not forgotten in the plenitude of death. One way is to say goodbye to the body of a fallen comrade as it leaves for the United States. Here in Anbar, American bodies are taken first by helicopter to Camp Anaconda, the big logistical base north of Baghdad, and then on to the United States. Most helicopter traffic in Anbar, for security reasons, takes place at night. In the minutes after the mortar shell exploded, everyone hoped that Sergeant Lisk would live. Although he was not breathing, the medics got to him right away, and the hospital was not far. Sean MacFarland, the commander of the 4,000-soldier First Brigade. "If he can be saved, they'll save him," said Colonel MacFarland, who had been only a few yards away in an armored personnel carrier when the mortar shell landed. Whenever a soldier dies, in Iraq or anywhere else, a wave of uneasiness fear, revulsion, guilt, sadness ripples through the survivors. It could be felt on Monday, even when the fighting was still going on. "He was my best friend," Specialist Allan Sammons said, his lower lip shaking. Specialist Sammons said, "I'll be fine," his lip still shaking. Sergeant Lisk's friends and superiors recalled a man who had risen from a hard childhood to become someone whom they counted on for cheer in a grim and uncertain place. He said he would write a letter to the family to whom it was not clear just yet. Hours later, at the landing zone at Camp Ramadi, the helicopter descended. Without lights, in the darkness, it was just a grayish glow. With its engines still whirring, it lowered its back door. The six soldiers walked out to the chopper and lifted Sergeant Lisk's body into it. In the darkness, as the sound of the helicopter faded, Colonel MacFarland addressed his soldiers. "I don't know if this war is worth the life of Terry Lisk, or 10 soldiers, or 2,500 soldiers like him," Colonel MacFarland told his forces. "A Greek philosopher said that only the dead have seen the end of war," the colonel said. The soldiers turned and walked back to their barracks in the darkness.
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