The Final Flight

The remains of a U.S. soldier arrive at Dover Air Force Base.

I flew so many thousands of flights in my eighteen years as a flight attendant that the majority of them just blend together and fade from memory.  But there were a select few that I can still remember vividly, as if they occurred yesterday.  Having the honor of returning a United States soldier to his final resting place, back home in Hartford, Connecticut, was one of the most memorable.

I was based in Philadelphia for the last ten years of my flying career.  I began and finished every trip in Philadelphia, and often flew back through there on every day of my trip.  I came to learn the airport and its traffic, rhythms and routines like I did my own neighborhood back home in California.

The Philadelphia International Airport is the closest commercial airport to Dover Air Force Base in Dover, Delaware - home of the Defense Department's joint services morgue and mortuary - the point of entry for the remains of most U.S. soldiers arriving back home to the United States from overseas - particularly those killed in the line of duty in the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Every couple of weeks, after a particularly brutal string of casualties in the Middle East, I would be in the terminal or on a plane looking out over the tarmac, and I could spy several baggage loaders moving around the airport, each carrying a coffin wrapped in an American flag - ready for their final flight home.

With thousands and thousands of American servicemen and women dying in the wars in the Middle East, I guess I knew in the back of my mind I would have one of them on a flight at some point, but I still was stunned and surprised when it occurred.

I was the Senior, or "A," flight attendant on a trip on the Boeing 737.  Everything about the trip had been ordinary until we arrived in Philadelphia, ready to make a quick BDL (the three letter code for the Bradley Airport near Hartford, Connecticut) turn.

It was mid-afternoon during the week and the loads were light.  A gate agent came down to let us know he was going to start boarding, and that we had a Marine honor guard on board who was escorting the remains of a U.S. soldier, killed in the line of duty in Afghanistan, back home to his final resting place in Connecticut.

The Marine came down and introduced himself and we did the same.  We made a little chit-chat and asked him if he had done this assignment very often - he hadn't - and assured him we would do anything possible to accommodate him.  The young Marine, who was very polite, serious and completely focused on his task at hand - probably just like the soldier he was escorting home - seemed a bit nervous. 

I led the Marine out the jetway and down the stairs to the tarmac.  We walked around the front of the plane and I stood with him at the open forward cargo door.  I wanted to make sure the notoriously lazy and surly Philadelphia baggage handlers were aware what was going on here, and when I turned to look at a couple of them coming out of the back cargo bin, they each took a look at the Marine and nodded.  I'm sure they had seen this ceremony many times in the past, and even they were smart enough to do their jobs in this situation.  I told the Marine I had to get back for boarding and I would be at the door when he returned.

We started boarding our 40-50 passengers headed up to Hartford.  There were only a couple of people sitting in First Class, and I was able to keep an eye out on our Marine, standing below on the right side of the plane.  A few minutes passed and finally a baggage loader arrived with the flag-draped coffin, and slowly pulled up to the open cargo door at the front of the plane.  The Marine stood at attention and saluted the coffin as it arrived.  He watched as the baggage handlers scurried around and loaded the precious cargo inside the bin.  They closed and locked the cargo door and pulled the baggage loader back from the plane.  The Marine, satisfied that everything was shipshape on the ground, walked around the front of the plane and back up the jetway.  I saw him leave his spot on the tarmac and walked over to the jetway and held the locked door open as he came up the stairs.  I motioned for him to enter the plane and he walked inside and sat in seat 1F, in the window seat in the first row of First Class, overlooking the cargo door on the right side of the plane.

The other passengers on the plane during this time, slowly becoming aware of what was happening with our special cargo, grew quiet and somber.  The normal chit-chat and ambient sounds during the boarding process fell silent.

It was a rare beautiful, clear day in Philadelphia - and even rarer still - we taxied out to the runway and took off without delay.  It was a brief 40 minute flight up to Hartford and I kept checking in with my Marine, asking if he was alright, and if there was anything I could do for him.  He was quite adamant - in a polite but firm way - that he wanted to be the first one out the door, and get down on the tarmac in Hartford just as soon as we blocked in at Bradley.  I assured him he would be the first one off.  He seemed more nervous as we started our descent.

We arrived at the gate at Hartford and the Marine was standing next to me at the forward door before it had even been opened, and, as promised, I let him out right away.  The gate agent led him down the jetway and back down to the tarmac.

The other passengers started to exit and we gave our normal "have a nice day's" and "thank you's" as they departed.  We had 30 minutes to wait until our return flight started to board, and the two other flight attendants and myself all took window seats in the first three rows on the right side of the plane.

An old, white, stretch Chevy Suburban pulled up with six uniformed Marines.  They came out of the Suburban and saluted the Marine who had escorted the coffin up to Hartford.  They met in a circle and discussed how this ceremony was going to play out.

The baggage handlers on the ramp in Hartford had pulled a baggage loader around to the front cargo bin, but hadn't yet opened the door.  The Marines, straight and stiff, stood at attention just off to the side of the plane.  And then a couple of vehicles, escorted by a police car and an official from the airport, pulled up along side the plane with the surviving family members of our deceased soldier.

There was a set of older couples that came out of each car.  We quickly assumed his parents had divorced and remarried, and it became quite easy by their emotions to discern who was our soldier's actual mother and father.

A black hearse pulled up as the family members continued to get out of the cars and comfort and reassure each other.  The hearse backed up to within a couple of feet of the baggage loader,  The driver of the hearse - expressionless and dressed in a dark suit - came around to the back of the hearse and opened its rear door.

As the family members clutched and held each other for strength and comfort off to the side of the baggage loader, a couple of baggage handlers scurried up the conveyor belt and inside the baggage bin.

My crew was whispering to each other about what was happening as the families first pulled up, but then we all fell quiet.  No one on the tarmac looked up or even seemed to notice that we were watching.

I saw our Marine position himself at attention and salute as the coffin started to slowly move down the conveyor belt, out of the plane and towards the hearse.  As the coffin reached the bottom of the belt, our Marine came around and directed the other Marines  into positions on each side of the casket, to act as pallbearers to move the coffin the last few feet from the bottom of the baggage loader and into the hearse.

The woman we had determined was the mother had remained stoic and motionless up to this point, but she started to lose her composure and broke down in tears as her son's remains were moved into the hearse.

Our Marine came back around to the mother and handed her a couple of envelopes and said something to her and she continued to cry.  The Marine hustled back to the hearse and got inside on the passenger side, carrying out his escort duty, and the family members made their way back into the vehicles sitting next to the plane and then drove off, following the hearse.

The Marine honor guard that had met the plane on the ground in Hartford returned to their vehicle and drove off.  The entire event was over within five minutes.  

All of us in the crew just sat there in silence for a moment, absorbing the emotional impact of the intimate scene we had just seen.  We were witness to a tragic ceremony that was being performed all throughout the country several times a day - and would be for years and years.  What do you say after witnessing an emotional moment like that?  What can you say?

I felt sorrow and empathy for the young soldier and his family.  Another one of thousands of young American men and women who died serving their country, and would never see their loved ones again.  Was it worth it?

I do know that President Bush - even though he initiated our country's two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan - never once went to Dover AFB - a mere 100 miles from the White House - to welcome home the remains of the thousands of young soldiers return from his wars.  A gesture that President Obama made within his first year of office.

We fight our wars now with live feeds and drones and precision weapons that make the killing seem so surgical and detached that I'm not sure we fully absorb the results of our actions.  As a Nation, we never collectively mourn the enormous loss of human life.  The U.S. media - until recently - was never allowed to cover the return of the bodies of the fallen at Dover.

It's important to remember war is not a video game and Americans continue to die every single day.  Is it worth it?  If you can witness the powerful scene I did of a mother breaking down over the body of her fallen son, and not reassess or question our government's actions overseas, well, then you are a better man than I.

Godspeed, young Connecticut soldier.  Godspeed.