Table of Contents
ALSO BY JIM SHEELER
Obit:
Inspiring Stories of Ordinary People
Who Led Extraordinary Lives
For everyone who opened the door
PART I
THE KNOCK
You can almost see the blood run out of their body and their
heart hit the floor. Its not the blood as much as their soul.
Something sinks. Ive never seen that except when
someone dies. And Ive seen a lot of death.
MAJOR STEVE BECK
I
Marine Lance CorporalKyle W. Burns
Laramie, Wyoming
THERE WERE NO footprints in the snow.
The thought struck the Marine major as he stared from his truck at the pristine white powder on the sidewalk of the dark neighborhood street in Wyoming. Soft flakes struck the warm windshield, then melted and dripped down the glass.
Every second the major waited was one more tick of his wrist-watch that, for the family inside the house, everything remained the same. To the major, the small wooden home looked as if it could have been dropped from his own hometown in Oklahoma a house his own mother might have lived in if she were still alive. Now he had to walk up to someone elses mother, carrying the name of someone elses son.
Less than an hour earlier, just outside Laramie, the major and his passenger, a gunnery sergeant, pulled the Chevy Suburban into a small gas station and grabbed their garment bags.
The two men walked into the station dressed in street clothes. When they emerged from the restroom, their spit-shined black shoes clicked on the floor. Their dark blue pants, lined with a red stripe signifying past bloodshed, fell straight. Their dress blue jackets wrapped their necks with a high collar that dates back to the Revolutionary War when Marines wore leather neckstraps to protect them from enemy swords. As they walked out of the gas station, the major felt the eyes of the clerk.
He knows, the major thought.
Once they arrived at the wooden home blanketed in snow, the major looked at his watch. When he had left Denver hours earlier, it was still November 11, Veterans Day, named for the eleventh hour of the eleventh month of the eleventh day of 1918 when an armistice declared an end to "the war to end all wars.
In Wyoming, it was well past midnight. Veterans Day was over.
Throughout the two-hour drive, the major imagined what would happen at the door and what he would say once it opened. This was his second notification. He had easily memorized the words in the acronym-studded manual:
Although no firm instructions can be given to cover the varied and sometimes difficult situations that may arise when making personal notifications, the following guidance applies:
1. The visit may last as long as necessary; however, remain cognizant of the next of kin (NOK)s right to privacy and do not remain longer than necessary
2. Before beginning notification, verbally verify that the correct person is being addressed.
3. If the NOK does not offer entrance into the home, ask permission to enter. It is helpful if the NOK is seated prior to delivering the news.
4. Use good judgment and do not pass gory or embarrassing details.
5. When addressing the casualtys family, make every effort to display an understanding and helpful demeanor which will give comfort to a bereaved family
6. Speak naturally and at a normal pace. An overly formal approach or a flippant manner may seriously damage the Marine Corps reputation with the family, and possibly an entire community. The following is suggested and may be modified as appropriate:
DEATH CASES: "The Commandant of the Marine Corps has entrusted me to express his deep regret that your (relationship), John, (died/was killed in action) in (place of incident) (city/state or country) on (date). (State the circumstances.) The Commandant extends his deepest sympathy to you and your family in your loss.
The major never liked scripts.
EVERY DOOR is different. Some are ornately hand-carved hardwood; some are hollow tin. Some are protected by elaborate security systems, some by flapping screens. The doors are all that stand between a family and the message.
For Major Steve Beck it starts with a knock or a ring of the doorbella simple act, really, with the power to shatter a soul.
Marines are trained to kill. They are known for their blank stare and an allegiance to their unofficial motto, "No greater friend, no worse enemy. Since 2003, as the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan intensified, Marines such as Major Beck found themselves catapulted into a duty they never trained fora mission without weapons.
As a Marine the forty-year-old had already won accolades as the most accomplished marksman of his class. He later earned two masters degrees in a quest to become a leader on the battlefield. He had hoped to deploy during the Persian Gulf War but was still in training when the conflict ended. He then trained and led Marines in preparations for conflicts in Somalia, Bosnia, and Haiti at the Marine Air Ground Task Force Training Command in Twentynine Palms, California. During the attacks of September II, 2001, he served as a recruiter for the war he ached to join. During the initial invasion of Iraq, he was finishing his term at the Air Command and Staff College, hoping to transfer quickly to a deploying unit. Instead, he was sent to Colorado where he once again trained Marine reservists for war, expecting that he would soon join them.
He found himself faced with an assignment that starts with a long walk to a strangers porch and an outstretched hand sheathed in a soft white glove. It continues with a promise steeped in the history of the Corps that most people associate only with the battlefield: Never leave a Marine behind.
In combat, men have taken bullets while retrieving their comrades bodies, knowing that the dead Marine would have done the same for them. It is a tradition instilled in boot camp where Marines are ingrained with 230 years of history and the sacrifices of tens of thousands of lives.
For Major Beckand thousands of men and women throughout the world tasked with notification dutyit is a promise that holds long after the dead return home.
Ask a Marine. Even the "grunts on the front lines say they would rather be in the danger zone in Iraq than have to stand on that porch. From the beginning, Major Beck decided, if he was going to have to do it, he would do it his way, the way he would want it done if he were the one in the casket.
Over the next two years and through several notifications, Beck made a point of learning each dead Marines name and nickname. He touched the toys they grew up with and read the letters they wrote home. He held grieving mothers in long embraces, absorbing their muffled cries into the dark blue shoulder of his uniform. Sometimes he returned home to his own family and cried in the dark.
When he first donned the Marine uniform, Steve Beck had never heard the term casualty assistance calls officer. He certainly never expected to serve as one. As it turned out, it would become the most important mission of his life.
As VETERANS DAY slid into another blank date on the calendar, the Marines drove through the snowy streets of the Laramie neighborhood. The house found them first, beckoning with the brightest porch lights and biggest address numbers on the block. Inside the SUV, the major played out scenarios with his gunnery sergeant as if they were headed into battle.
