Commentary: It’s never just a number
By Richard M. Arndt
FORT BELVOIR, Va. (Army News Service, Nov. 4, 2003) -- As the body count of U.S. service members killed in Iraq continues to climb, I fear the American public will begin to see those brave souls as mere numbers in a tragic tally.
News anchors introduce stories with phrases like, “As the number of American dead in Iraq continues to rise…”
The stories that air on the evening news seem remarkably similar … a rocket-propelled grenade here…a sniper’s bullet there. It all becomes familiar, expected after a while.
The families left behind, though, do not expect it. The young wife, who was looking forward to a lifetime together with her husband, does not expect it. Neither do the sons and daughters, who never really got a chance to know their dad. And the mother and father certainly never expect to outlive their child.
I know the families don’t expect it, because I once had the task of bringing a family the news. It wasn’t during the Iraq conflict. In fact, it wasn’t during any conflict at all. It was 1996, and I had the task of informing a couple that their son, an Army NCO, had been murdered.
I was an Army sergeant first class at the time, stationed at Fort Meade, Md. I came down on the detail roster for casualty notification duty just as all the other NCOs in the battalion did. I attended my two hours of training on Friday and went home for the weekend, never expecting to get the call.
The call came at 6 a.m. Saturday. I shook the sleep from my head as I showered and shaved, and I was already starting to get nervous as I donned my Class A’s. I’d never done this before. How was I going to face this family?
My trepidation only got worse as I drove to the post. The casualty affairs NCO on duty must have seen it written all over me as I picked up the briefing packet and address in his office. I still remember his words: “You’re going to do this just fine, Sergeant Arndt,” he said. “This is a fellow NCO’s family. He needs you to do this.”
The parents I had to notify lived near Frederick, Md., so I had a good bit of time during the drive to compose myself. I rehearsed the words over and over again as I drove: “The President of the United States regrets to inform you…The President of the United States regrets to inform you…The President of the United States regrets to inform you…”
The small town where the family lived was a long way from the nearest highway, and I had to pull the government sedan into a gas station to ask directions to the street. The attendant, suspecting the reason for my visit, asked me whom I was going to see. When I told her I wasn’t at liberty to say, her only reply was a quiet “Oh my God…”
I pulled into the short driveway leading to the small, single-story house. A neighbor was working on his car in the driveway next door. He was a graying man…old enough to recall a time when other soldiers in uniform had knocked on other neighbor’s doors. He eyed me up and down, and asked, “Their son’s alright, isn’t he?” When I didn’t respond, he turned visibly pale. “Oh no…” he said.
I knocked on the door with my hat in my hand and my heart in my throat. The door opened, and a 50-something lady looked out at me. She knew the minute she opened the door what my presence meant. The look of horror on her face made me stammer as I asked, “Are you Mrs. ‘Smith’?” She nodded, a tear forming in the corner of her eye. “I have news about your son,” I said. “May I come in?”
The rest of the words I said that day are a blur, despite the number of times I rehearsed them. I remember Mr. and Mrs. Smith sitting together on the sofa as I told them the news. I remember Mrs. Smith’s sobs and tears, and Mr. Smith’s stoic resolution to be strong for his wife, even as his heart was breaking. I remember my own tears, shed despite my best efforts, as I struggled futilely for words that would help ease this family’s grief.
After the initial wave of tears, I began telling the Smiths some of the details that they could expect over the coming days, of people who would be calling them, of chaplains who were there to help them, of the casualty assistance officer who would be helping them through the process of resolving their son’s death.
As I was explaining these things, Mrs. Smith looked at me suddenly, and asked if I knew her son. When I told her that I did not, she asked me why I was chosen to notify them.
I explained to the couple that the Army always notifies families in person, and that since her son was an NCO, I was chosen from a pool of NCOs to conduct the notification. She then asked if this was my job all the time. I told her that my normal job was an Army journalist, and this was the first time I’d had to notify a family of a Soldier’s death.
“So you were just ordered to do this?” she asked.
“Yes Ma’am,” I replied.
Her eyes filled with tears once more as she leaned forward and hugged me. “You poor thing,” she said. “What an awful thing to have to do.”
I was shocked. I had just told this woman that her son was dead, and she was feeling sympathy for me for having to be the one to break the news. I struggled for a response.
“It’s my duty, Ma’am,” I managed. “It’s the least I can do for your son.”
She leaned back and looked at me. “Thank you,” she said.
Some moments in life you never forget. Every time I hear a news report about a service member killed in Iraq, I remember Mrs. Smith. I remember the horror, the profound sadness, and the sympathy in her eyes.
Those service members will never be numbers to me, because I know that for every one of them, there’s a Mr. or Mrs. Smith, who will get that knock on the door by a man or woman in uniform, bearing the news that their son or daughter, brother or sister, husband or wife, is dead.
For those who haven’t known a Mrs. Smith, those news reports may seem like numbers. Those who have seen the human side of the reports know that they’re not. I can only hope that the American public knows the difference…for the sake of all our service members – and their mothers.
(Editor’s note: Richard M. Arndt is editor of the Belvoir Eagle newspaper.)
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