A knock on my door jolted me awake at 2 a.m.
“Twenty minutes, sir!” a voice announced.
I rolled out of my cot and shook the sleep from my mind and body. The unexpected wake-up call meant more U.S. soldiers had been killed. It was time for another Hero Mission time to get on the helicopter and collect the remains somewhere in northern Iraq.
As a chaplain’s assistant, it was my job to go on these Hero Missions almost as soon as the soldiers were killed, day or night. As the helicopter landed, blades still running, I’d hit the ground and collect the remains and make sure everything ran smoothly. We’d do a ceremony for them, and transport them down to a bigger air base to prepare them for the ramp ceremony so they could fly home.
What I saw, smelled, and touched on these Hero Missions was pretty bad, but I had to do it. Even though I didn’t know the soldiers personally, I felt like I did. I thought about their families back home and the buddies they left behind. I just wanted to do the best I could to honor them.
During the fifteen months in Iraq, I flew more than three hundred flight hours for close to eighty Hero Missions and there were multiple remains each time. I recognize that nothing is promised. Soldiers in combat died, but guys who would just be walking to the mess hall would be killed by a mortar, also.
It all goes back to the Lord Jesus Christ, just putting my life in his hands. That’s the only way I dealt with it. I still struggle, at times, sleeping, as I think about those soldiers we picked up. I probably will for the rest of my life. It was hard, but I also felt honored to be able to minister in this special way.
Lord, when confronted with the atrocities of war and other injustices of the world, show me what I can do about it, and what I need to leave in your hands.
“The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong… but time and chance happen to them all. Moreover, no man knows when his hour will come.” (Ecclesiastes 9:10–12)