Saying Goodbye
by Andrew Bragg
An essay written by Andrew Bragg back in 2013 during a college course. Andrew has since compiled his memories and those of his platoon in the upcoming book publication “The Devil’s Playground”. He was deployed with 2nd Platoon Charlie Company, 2/508 PIR 4BCT 82nd Airborne Division during the 2009-2010 time period. Charlie Company was located at COP Tynes while combat operations took place involving the ‘Kandahar Surge’ counteroffensive in 2010. You can purchase a copy of “The Devil’s Playground” here
His blood was all over my camouflaged pants and splattered randomly on my body armor and the rest of my gear. I had done everything I could for my fellow soldier, Neenan, to try and keep him alive. I had placed tourniquets on his stumps where his limbs should have been to help control the bleeding. I even breathed for him, squeezing air into his lungs with the bag valve mask apparatus, but I still felt his pulse weaken and fade. I knew he was dead.
The medic jumped from the helicopter that landed in the grassy field next to the grape orchard where we were taking cover from enemy fire. He ran over to our position and began to triage our wounded soldiers to determine what order and where they would be loaded onto the helicopter. He took one look at Neenan, who I had just spent the last half hour trying to keep alive. He placed his index and middle finger on Neenan’s neck to feel for a carotid pulse. He looked up at me and then shook his head.
I had kept my composure up to that point. Tears began to roll down my face as the other wounded soldiers were loaded into the medevac helicopter and then, finally, Neenan. I turned away as the medic took my soldier and loaded him onto the helicopter. Staff Sergeant Loredo was standing behind me. He had caught a glimpse of the carnage of what was left of Neenan. “He’s dead sergeant,” I told him, shaking my head in sorrow, “He’s dead.”
Loredo looked at me and saw the tears spilling over the dirt and blood on my face. He was our squad leader, a war-hardened man, and someone whom a soldier could look up as a leader. He grabbed me firmly by the collar and pulled me close to his face so that only I could hear what he was about to say over the roar of the helicopters taking our wounded men away. He leaned toward me and said softly, “Not now, not yet.” I knew what he meant. I was a team leader, a noncommissioned officer. I could not lose my composure and become mentally defeated. I had to stay strong, to maintain, and to be an example for the rest of the soldiers. If they saw that I was mentally defeated, then they too might become mentally defeated as well, and everything would fall apart. I wiped the tears from my face, picked up my rifle, and went back to my team and back into the fight. There would come a time to grieve, but not now, not yet.
Unfortunately, 17 days later, our platoon suffered another soldier killed in action. It was Staff Sergeant Loredo. We were on a patrol when an improvised explosive device went off. The blast ripped off his leg and sent shrapnel through his torso. We were able to tourniquet what was left of his leg, but as soon as we did the enemy ambushed us with machine gun fire and rocket propelled grenades. We fought them off and evacuated Loredo from the battlefield, but he died that night from internal bleeding caused by the shrapnel.
Like the other fallen soldiers of our platoon, we would have the Boots and Rifle ceremony at our little combat outpost a few days after his death. The other platoons from our company would march across the heavily vegetated terrain of the Arghendab river valley from their combat outposts to join us in saying goodbye to our fallen comrade. It was good to see their familiar faces. All were good friends with whom I had spent a lot of time training with back at Fort Bragg before deploying. We would catch up by telling stories of things that had happened on our patrols and stories of the firefights we had been in day in and day out. We would laugh at the funny moment, only to glance across the gravel clearing of the courtyard to see a helmet resting on a rifle standing straight up between two boots with a set of dog tags dangling from the rifle’s handle. It was a reminder of the somber reason we were all together.
Our company first sergeant had made his way and stood next to the podium which was next to the Boots and Rifle display. “Fall in!” he shouted, ordering the company to form a formation in front of him. We all got up off of the dirt on which we had been lounging on and ran to form up into different platoons. Each platoon made different ranks of men, each rank designated for a certain squad. Almost as soon as the first sergeant had barked the order, we had formed three boxes of men in front of him. We all stood strait as an arrow at attention in the dry heat of the breezeless Afghanistan summer sun. “At ease!” the first sergeant shouted, ordering us to change our position of stance. We went from attention, hands fisted straight at our sides and feet together, to at ease, a more relaxed position in which the hands are placed in the small of the back and the feet are moved shoulder width apart. We executed and snapped into this position.
The chaplain made his way to the podium and the first sergeant gave him a salute. He placed a framed picture of Loredo in his dress army uniform in between the boots and began to speak a few words. He read from the same scripture that he had read in the other ceremonies that our platoon had conducted for our other fallen brothers. I knew it was the same scripture only because, unfortunately, we had heard it time and time again. This was our fifth Boots and Rifle ceremony for our platoon alone, our fifth fallen brother.
I paid little attention to the words that the chaplain spoke. My eyes and mind were focused on the photo in front of the display. It hadn’t sunk in yet, the fact that Loredo was gone, not even at his funeral. I recalled all the things he had taught me. He taught me how to be a leader, a leader who led by example. He told me I should never make my men do anything that I wouldn’t, and I never did. I remember all the times he pushed us to our limits, making us push until we would almost brake, and then he made us push some more just to show us that we could always go further. He was one of the greatest man I knew, and a good friend.
The chaplain wrapped up his speech and the first sergeant came up and saluted him as he left the podium. The chaplain saluted back and walked toward the rear of our formation and joined the ranks of the other officers. The first sergeant snapped to attention, and then shouted, “Company, attention!” We all snapped to attention, and we all knew that the roll call was next.
“Sergeant Bragg!” the first sergeant shouted across the ranks of men.
“Here first sergeant!” I shouted back, acknowledging my presence in the formation.
“Private Vasquez!” the first sergeant shouted again.
“Here first sergeant,” a very tearful Vasquez replied.
“Specialist Young!” shouted the first sergeant.
“Here First Sergeant,” Young shouted his reply.
“Staff Sergeant Loredo!” the first sergeant shouted.
There was a pause, a silence amongst the ranks as we waited for a reply that would not come. “Staff Sergeant Loredo!” The first sergeant shouted once more, still to have no reply. “Staff Sergeant Edwardo Loredo!” the first sergeant shouted for a final time.
The silence amongst us was eerie, but was broken by a slight breeze that began to blow around us. The wind blew the dog tags dangling from the rifle on the display, and the dog tags pinged off the metal of the rifle like a wind chime. It was like Loredo was trying to tell us something, like he was trying to let us know that he was still there.
“Present, arms!” the first sergeant shouted, and we all slowly began to a salute. The 21-gun salute began, and the seven men with rifles fired three shots each into the air at the command of, “Ready, aim, fire!” Taps was then played. Throughout the volleys of gun shots and the sound of the bugle, the dog tags still pinged off of the rifle. As soon as the last note of taps was complete, the breeze died down, and the pinging of the dog tags slowly with it. The first sergeant rendered his salute and then ordered us to do the same, “Order, arms!”
The first sergeant then gave us the order to fall out, allowing us to break formation and visit the display. Many soldiers left things by the boots, tokens of things that reminded of them of Staff Sergeant Loredo. I took a knee by the display and grasped the dog tags in my hand. I knew that the breeze was Staff Sergeant Loredo saying goodbye, and at the same time he was letting us know that he had not really left. He would always be with us, watching over us. I let go of the dog tags, and turned and walked away through the group of grieving soldiers. I didn’t shed a single tear that day, though my heart was broken much like every other soldier there. I went back to my gear and picked up my rifle.
I knew there would come a time to grieve, but not now, not yet.
