While serving in Afghanistan, I served in a relatively safe position. I was the NCOIC of the Camp Cunningham Fitness Center. I ran a gym. Specifically, I ran the small Air Force gym nestled in the AF camp in an Army Airfield. The two Army gyms were larger, more popular, and run by contractors instead of soldiers. Due to the fact that my gym was less crowded and still run by military personnel, it had a diverse group of regulars from across all units, branches, and allied forces, meaning I had the pleasure of knowing someone from just about everywhere on the base.
There was (is still, I suppose) a tradition at Bagram AF. The large hospital on the base served most of the area and had the largest mortuary in theatre. It also had a large airfield, and that meant that those who had died in theatre would be transferred through the hospital mortuary and moved to aircraft to return home. The result was the passage of bodies through the streets of the base. They were loaded into the back of trucks, draped in American flags and their units, friends, and loved ones in Afghanistan would accompany them on this final journey. An alert would sound and every available person on the base would line the streets of the route from the hospital to the flight line offering a final, somber salute to them.
I was lucky, I never knew anyone in those boxes that passed by on the streets of Bagram as I held a salute. Oftentimes, though, I would know those in the bed of the truck with them. Perhaps that led to my detachment from the ceremony, or perhaps, it was easier not to think too much about those hundreds of bodies I watched pass by during my time there. I would watch the faces of those who escorted their wingmen one last time, searching for regulars at my gym, trying to gauge their response to prepare myself for when they returned to working out, and try my best to offer them what little therapy I could, maybe a new workout, an offer to talk if they needed it, or an attempt to sell them on my yoga classes. The chaplain worked at the building next door to my gym, and regularly came over to work out, so perhaps I would speak to him and try to make sure he was there at the same time as that face on the back of the truck.
It was a strange thing to watch the responses of those faces, some somber, some detached, some disciplined as though the betrayal of emotion would be an insult to the life they were missing. Some units would be smiling and laughing, some clutching crosses or rosary beads. I often wondered if they were dependent on the character of the person in the box or the character of those who rode along with them. Those who were laughing, were they irreverent or was the deceased? Had someone in the truck just shared a memory of the dead that made them all laugh? Those who clung to faith, were they praying to their God of the God of the deceased? Were those who were somber and detached present at the explosion that took their friend’s life? Did they work closely with, but not really like the person, were they wrestling with the conflicting emotions?
The worst of these processions would have many boxes, but few escorts. You knew that most of a unit or convoy had been taken out when you saw that. Too many bodies, not enough survivors to escort them.
The flag draped coffins I’ve escorted all came after. The friends I’ve lowered into the ground came as a result of suicide months and years after the fact. Sometimes, I’d stop at these funerals and look around for the military faces in the crowd. I’d watch like I did in Afghanistan, thinking maybe I was looking into the face of the next funeral I’d attend and wondering if I could take them to the gym later. It’s a strange response to years spent watching parades of coffins, but the war goes on, now the longest in American history, so the neatly folded American flags are still placed in widows hands, the bugle still sounds, the 21 guns still ring out, the faces of those who fought alongside them still register guilt and grief.
I left Afghanistan in 2009. I lowered the last friend into the ground in 2014. I still watch, I still wait, because I still love people who will go to war and come back forever changed. 1 nephew and 2 nieces have gone overseas to fight in wars that started before or just after they were born. Friends from my weapons and services career fields have gone back, and those who I knew in 2009 still wrestle with demons they don’t talk about. So I wait.
In the years since, I’ve worked as an advocate to end the Forever Wars, to address military sexual assault, to recognize the damage done by burn pits, all the things that I think lend themselves to that black parade that plays on a loop now. It didn’t hit me there, but now I see the coffins on the days that I remember a friend. An irreverent friend that would have wanted us laughing remembering him, a fellow survivor of MST that was disciplined and quiet that we would have had to hold straight and emotionless faces in the bed of that truck, a Catholic friend who left me his St. Michael medallion and rosary beads that we got together in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, I suppose I would have been praying with him if we had to do that ride. Luckily I was able to grieve each of them in my own way, with access to a LCSW at the VA to help me work through it, and loved ones that tolerate me when I need to be angry or irreverent, or sad or confused and comfort me.
An end to the war in Afghanistan has been announced and perhaps we can take a collective breath this Memorial Day realizing that; but, remember that after 20 years the bodies will continue to make that journey in flag-draped coffins and that there’s always another war waiting. Too many of us return home, but still sit in the back of those trucks in our minds. For those who leave the war, many still struggle with PTSD, depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, hypervigilance, chronic pain. The war sits in our bones, in our DNA, in our dreams and memories, and too many of us still take our own lives because of it. This Memorial Day, I thank those who have died in service to their nation both in combat and outside of it. This Memorial Day, as always, I pledge to make that parade of flag-draped coffins shorter, however I can.
If you are a Veteran in crisis please call the VA Crisis helpline:
If you are an MSAT survivor know that you are not alone. The VA recently released an app that can help for those struggling (call the crisis line above if you are in crisis), you can download it here:
Katie Sponsler is a veteran of Operation Enduring Freedom, among other things. She is currently seeking the Democratic nomination for the 66th District in the Virginia House of Delegates. You can find out more about her campaign at: