On that day ... a reminder of why the national anthem plays

  • Published
  • By Maj. Mike Stolt
  • 97th Flying Training Squadron
It was a hot Tuesday afternoon. I was leaving Bldg. 402 after updating my base vehicle sticker.

As I walked toward the double-glass doors leading to the parking lot, I encountered a small group of people standing just inside the door -- two Airmen, a civilian employee and one captain. As I reached for the door, the captain said, "You don't want to go out there right now."

I looked out and saw traffic stopped and several people standing in the hot July sun, gazing westward, some saluting, some standing at attention and some with their hands laid on their chests.

No, I don't really want to go out there right now. I looked at my watch -- 4:30 p.m.

I stood with the group that now numbered five. No one spoke. One Airman made a call on her cell phone, the other shifted his gaze back and forth between his shoes and the wall. The captain sifted through a folder of papers. The civilian and I watched through the glass doors as a technical sergeant stood at attention, saluting ... a sweat ring growing on his back. It seemed to go on forever.

The base loudspeakers squeaked out the last recorded notes of the national anthem. The cars rolled forward, the technical sergeant lowered his salute. The civilian pushed our door open and walked out. The rest of us followed. When the heat hit me, I felt fortunate that my timing had kept me inside during the long ceremony.

I thought about that day for weeks. Images of the episode flashed through my mind as if I'd witnessed a crime -- the plate-sized sweat ring, the glow of the cell phone on the Airman's cheek, the civilian's hand resting on the door handle, the glare of the sun, the heat.

I recently read an article about the war on terror and learned that we average 2.35 Americans dead and 10 wounded every day in the area of responsibility. That day leapt back into my thoughts. A few hours of research helped me identify the date -- July 14, 2005.

On July 14, 2005, 23-year-old Cpl. Chris Winchester and 22-year-old Cpl. Cliff Mounce were killed when their vehicle was targeted by an improvised explosive device in Baghdad.

On that day, 21-year-old Pfc. Tim Hines Jr. died when an IED hit his Humvee.

On that day, 34-year-old Staff Sgt. Tricia Jameson was killed by a secondary IED while she was treating a victim of the primary IED. She, Chris Winchester and Cliff Mounce all died in Trebil. We can assume she was treating Chris, Cliff or another in their group. She volunteered to go to Iraq and had been in-country three weeks.

On that day, four American Soldiers died in Iraq and numerous others were wounded.

On that day, four families were plunged into mourning.

On that day, I flew one sortie, sifted through e-mail, updated my base vehicle sticker and hid from the heat behind a glass door.

Why does it matter that I avoided participating in retreat? Some may think it's silly symbolism, that it's not real. An aircraft is real. A computer, a vehicle sticker -- they're real.

I believe that anything that you allow to move you, or that inspires those around you to search their hearts, is as real as the bomb that tore Chris Winchester's body apart. Anything that forces an entire base to stop and listen to their thoughts for a while is real. Anything that causes you to pause and acknowledge that American Soldiers may be under fire as you listen to the national anthem is real.

As we five stood inside that doorway, the Soldiers killed and wounded that day may have been bleeding, screaming and dying in the sand.

If my timing is ever again as perfect as it was that day, I'll be prepared. I'll be ready with, "Yes, I do want to go out there right now." You may not come with me, but I'll bet you think about it for weeks.

If I had stepped outside to pay respect to the flag and to the four Soldiers who died that day, how long would it have taken?

One minute and 28 seconds.