Madam Speaker, I rise today to bring to the attention of the Members of the House of Representatives and the American public an article written by Chris Raymond for the The Director magazine. The article is a great description of what goes…
Madam Speaker, I rise today to bring to the attention of the Members of the House of Representatives and the American public an article written by Chris Raymond for the The Director magazine. The article is a great description of what goes on at The Port Mortuary at Delaware's Dover Air Force Base, the first stop on the final journey for those who have given their life in defense of this Nation.
[From The Director, July 2007]
Final Post
(By Chris Raymond)
The Port Mortuary at Delaware's Dover Air Force Base
exemplifies this nation's highest ideals and those underlying
the funeral service profession as it cares for the men and
women that sacrifice their lives in defense of our country--
Chris Raymond.
Show me the manner in which a nation cares for its dead,
and I will measure with mathematical exactness the tender
mercies of its people, their respect for the laws of the land
and their loyalty to high ideals--William Gladstone, British
Prime Minister.
On this night, the bodies wait quietly in the darkness,
their caskets in a long line, positioned with military
precision before a large steel garage door. A massive U.S.
flag, perhaps 30 by 20 feet, hangs silently above them. In
the morning, this flag will offer one final salute to each
fallen soldier as the staff of the Dover Air Force Base Port
Mortuary drapes each casket with a smaller American flag, a
stack of which hang ready on a rack near the exit for this
purpose, before carefully wheeling each outside onto a broad
cement landing. From there, vehicles will transport each of
these meticulously, lovingly prepared men and women to the
planes that will fly them home to their grieving families and
the military honors each has earned.
On March 23, 2007, U.S. Army Sergeant First Class Cedric
Thomas kneeled before the simple urn containing the cremated
remains of U.S. Army Specialist Ross McGinnis during his
funeral at Arlington National Cemetery. Resting his hand atop
the urn, Thomas, wearing his full uniform, hung his head for
a few moments, saying his silent goodbyes, lost in his
thoughts. Rising, Thomas offered one final salute to the 19-
year-old who sacrificed his life so he could live.
A few months earlier, on December 4, 2006, McGinnis manned
a machine gun atop a Humvee as he, Thomas and three other
soldiers patrolled the streets of Adhamiyah, Iraq. From a
rooftop, an enemy insurgent tossed a grenade at their truck.
Whizzing past McGinnis, the grenade fell through the Humvee's
hatch and lodged next to a radio. According to a later
account written by Rodney Sherman and published in The
Clarion News, Thomas recalls McGinnis shouting to his four
comrades: ``Grenade! It's in the truck!''
Thomas also told the newspaper, ``[McGinnis] had time to
jump out of the truck.''
McGinnis did not desert his comrades, however. Instead, he
jumped through the hatch and threw his body atop the grenade.
Upon detonation, McGinnis died instantly. While wounded, the
four other soldiers survived, thanks entirely to the heroic
action of a teenager from Knox, Pennsylvania.
U.S. Army Specialist Ross McGinnis has been posthumously
nominated for receipt of the Medal of Honor, the nation's
highest military award and an honor bestowed upon only
3,460 other members of the U.S. armed services since its
inception shortly before the Civil War. During his funeral
at Arlington, McGinnis received full military honors as
three of the four people he saved in the Humvee that day
paid their respects, after receiving special permission to
attend the funeral before returning to the war zone.
Undoubtedly, the staff of the Dover Port Mortuary prepared
the remains of U.S. Army Specialist Ross McGinnis during his
journey home and before his ultimate interment at Arlington
because Dover processes all of our deceased soldiers. Yet,
despite his heroism, not one of the roughly 1,200 other
military dead that Dover handles each year receive any less
care, respect and honor than McGinnis did--regardless of rank
and regardless of chosen method or location of interment.
That is simply how the Dover Port Mortuary operates, every
day.
A long bus ride from Washington, DC, to Dover, Delaware,
eventually delivers me at a security checkpoint just within
the fenced-in, razor-wired confines of Dover Air Force Base.
After spending more than two hours chatting with the entire
NFDA Executive Board, staff members Christine Pepper, John
Fitch and Lesley Witter, and former NFDA At-large Rep.
Charlie Hastings, who organized this private tour in his home
state, the onboard appearance of a military official
demanding we surrender our drivers licenses suddenly sobers
me.
``Oh yeah,'' I recall. ``Several months ago, I had to
provide my Social Security number so Dover could conduct
whatever background checks it requires.''
Suddenly, the serious nature of an entirely different way
of life floods my thoughts. This is no tour-bus lark to visit
the sights of Niagara Falls or the Grand Canyon, a feeling
reinforced when I see a massive steel barrier descend into
the ground so the bus can pass after receiving clearance.
Stepping off the bus, I enter a modern, recently built
facility. As the group gathers within the lobby, I gaze at a
massive, curved display just inside, constructed of polished
gray stone and inscribed across the top with the words
``Dignity, Honor and Respect.'' The sound of falling water
fills my ears from somewhere nearby as I read the many panels
beneath these words, each listing an ``incident'' and the
number of dead the Dover Port Mortuary handled each time,
dating back to the 1960s. The astronauts of space shuttle
Challenger; the victims of the Jim Jones tragedy in Guyana in
the late 1970s, when I was a kid; many soldiers from Desert
Shield/Desert Storm; the remains of Lt. Michael Blassie, the
unidentified Air Force pilot representing the Vietnam War at
the Tomb of the Unknowns for 14 years until his
identification in 1998 and reinterment; the soldiers that
died during the failed attempt to rescue the hostages in Iran
during the Carter administration; and countless other members
of the U.S. armed services.
A guy my age, dressed in a brown polo and multi-pocket
khakis, begins addressing our group, welcoming us to Dover.
Although William Zwicharowski--``Zig'' as we would come to
address him--is a licensed funeral director, I can
immediately tell he is also military; he stands ramrod
straight even when he's being ``casual.'' Noting that the
tour we are about to receive is extremely rare given the
sensitive nature of Dover's operations, Zig proceeds to
explain that the present facility was built about three years
ago. While Dover's mortuary operations date back decades,
some authorities felt the former facility looked like a
``warehouse'' after the attention given by the nation to
victims of the 9/11 terrorist attack on the Pentagon. Even if
only one grieving family visits the Dover facility each year,
these powers realized that this family deserves to know that
their son or daughter received the highest level of care and
respect, something the ad hoc nature of the former facility
did not convey.
Subsequently, Congress authorized the appropriation of $30
million for design and construction of the present Dover Port
Mortuary installation. No other mortuary ``model'' to emulate
existing anywhere else on earth, Zig and his staff helped
shape the ultimate design and function of the current
facility--the Charles C. Carson Center for Mortuary Affairs.
As the tour progressed, I would grow to appreciate the
government's wisdom of listening to the practitioner's point
of view because every detail in the new facility--from the
choice of equipment to the layout of the building itself--
reflects the expertise and experience of people that know how
to care for the dead while also serving the living.
After fielding our many initial questions, Zig beckons the
group to walk around behind the incident display in the
lobby. While certainly not hidden in any way, I am amazed
to discover a large, comfortably appointed atrium just
beyond. A soaring glass canopy overarches many ornamental
trees and colorful flowers and plants surrounding a
central bubbling water pond. The effect is soothing, even
comforting, and again reflects the practitioner's insight:
serving the living. Along the perimeter of the atrium, I
notice numerous offices, some labeled ``Counseling,''
``Chaplain'' or ``Meditation.''
Zig leads us to the Escort Briefing room. Inside, set up
for the next morning, nine chairs at one end of the room hold
green folders and clear-plastic bags. On each folder, the
name of a deceased soldier. Within each bag, their personal
effects. Suddenly, the body count in Iraq I hear each morning
on my local news becomes personal. Those are more than just
numbers; each represents someone's child, spouse, sibling,
friend. And nine more of them or their representatives will
sit in these chairs tomorrow with the pain of loss numbing
their senses and try to follow the details about a far-away
incident that took their loved ones as they view information
projected from a laptop computer onto a screen at the front
of the room. Some will find comfort in such knowledge. Others
will caress perhaps the odd personal effect found in one of
the plastic bags. A comb. A calling card. A tattered photo.
Still others will hear or see nothing, numb from the
immediacy of forever-loss.
The roughly 12 people working full-time at Dover understand
this, however. For them, the true essence of what funeral
directing is all about reigns paramount, which has nothing to
do with ``efficiency'' or ``volume'' or getting one family
``out'' because another is scheduled to arrive in 15
minutes--the buzzwords too often filling The Director and
your other trade publications. No, the mantra of these
dedicated men and women is consistency; the belief that every
deceased armed services member passing through their facility
deserves complete, unwavering adherence to the words
inscribed atop the incident display in the foyer: Dignity,
Honor and Respect. Zig and his staff hold zero tolerance for
even one ``mishap.'' As he would later convey during the tour
about Dover's meticulous handling of every soldier's personal
effects: ``It is not okay for us to say we `only lost one
item last year.' You try telling that to a family.''
Thus, whatever transpires within the Escort Briefing room
the next morning, I know that these dedicated professionals
will do whatever is necessary to afford every survivor with
whatever comfort they require, for however long it takes.
The new Port Mortuary at Dover Air Force Base was designed
for both war- and peacetime. Given the U.S. military presence
in Iraq, the facility obviously now operates on a wartime
status, and Zig and roughly a dozen others work at the
mortuary full-time. When the volume of deceased military
personnel threatens to grow greater than this crew can
handle--which they can generally anticipate courtesy of CNN
within 48 hours--Dover activates other professionals from
within the military, as well as civilians, to assist.
The process of caring for a fallen soldier is extremely
complex, but the Port Mortuary has an amazing system in place
and continually strives to handle each case more effectively.
Medical examiners want each body returned from the field of
battle almost exactly as each man or woman fell, without any
live ammunition or grenades, in order to determine if gear
improvements are possible to save future lives. This possibly
overlooked attention to detail recently resulted in an
advancement in each soldier's body armor when Dover's
personnel noticed a growing number of deaths due to neck
wounds. Insurgent snipers had identified a vulnerability in
American military armor--the exposed neck--and consciously
aimed their rifles at this spot. Because the staff at Dover
recognized this, however, American forces now wear a neck
collar, saving an untold number of lives.
The grim fact remains, however, that the Port Mortuary at
Dover exists primarily to process those that die defending
our country. This begins with the transportation of each body
from overseas to another large cement area at the rear of the
facility. Transported within aluminum transfer cases, the
remains arrive encased in ice and in great condition, usually
within 48 hours of death. Again, I feel impressed and oddly
proud when Zig relates the solemnity with which Dover's staff
receives each case. These are no mere factory workers
handling anonymous, insignificant packages along some
conveyor belt, I think.
Moreover, despite helping to design and build a state-of-
the-art facility, Zig acknowledges that there is always room
for improvement in the care he and his staff provides. Thus,
their practitioner-practical suggestions have also resulted
in several innovations--most of them little things with
profound impact. The aluminum transfer cases, for instance,
once bore only two handles along each long side, forcing
several pallbearers to ``pretend'' to carry each case and,
frankly, forcing others to handle by themselves a heavy
load. Because Zig suggested adding a few more handles to
each case, these reused transfer cases (once sterilized)
now sport the necessary number of handles. Dover's staff
also suggested adding insulation to the inside of each
transfer case to improve the cooling power of the ice
preserving the remains during their journey to Dover.
Once received, the staff at Dover initiates a comprehensive
system to track every aspect of a body's progress through the
facility. Nearly 200 computers, utilizing a proprietary
software program, gather and communicate with each other
every detail concerning each particular deceased soldier.
Each transfer case is logged in electronically using handheld
bar-coding units. (The reason for this will become clear
later in this article.)
At this point, each body is scanned in the ``EOD Room,''
which checks for the presence of live explosive ordnance.
Again, I begin to appreciate the serious nature of the work
these people perform as I glance at the construction of these
twin chambers. The doors
and walls consist of one-foot-thick, steel-reinforced
concrete, which Zig tells me can withstand the blast of one
pound of C-4 explosive. Later, I ask him why bodies aren't
scanned for dangerous ordnance before transfer to Dover.
He smiles and says, ``I wish I had a dollar for every time
I hear that question... I don't know.''
Next, each body enters the ``Photography/Bar-coding'' area.
Here every aspect of the deceased soldier whether consisting
of a full body or merely a body part--is digitally recorded,
assigned a unique bar code and tracked electronically. When/
if a body's viscera are removed, Dover even tracks them to
ensure their eventual return to the proper body. Such is the
dedication Dover provides to ensure that our country's
military dead receive the mathematically exacting tender
mercies and loyalty to high ideals each has earned.
Fingerprinting of the deceased occurs next, performed
entirely digitally in less than 10 minutes and again intended
to ensure that no mistakes occur while each deceased soldier
remains entrusted to the care of Dover's staff. Offering
another practitioner-practical suggestion, Zig notes that he
also recommends digital ``foot printing'' of each body. While
yet uncommon, he explains that the skin patterns on the
bottom of our feet are as unique as the pads on our
fingertips, and while the latter is too often subject to
damage, the boots issued to military personnel afford
excellent tissue preservation, even in cases involving fire,
which can later provide positive identification.
The sophistication of the equipment is impressive, as is
the networking that enables an operator to access pertinent
information at any time. In fact, this system even helped Zig
identify from a small body part one of the terrorists that
hijacked the plane that hit the Pentagon on 9/11.
Someone in the group asks what happened to the terrorist's
body part. Was it returned? Was it discarded?
A shadow passes across Zig's face and his gaze grows
distant. ``We decided we are better than them,'' he says
quietly. ``We returned the body part in a casket to his
homeland.''
He leads us toward the next station within the mortuary,
which focuses on dental records. As we walk down a hallway, I
noticed a framed document on a wall: ``Nerve Agent Symptoms
and Antidote.''
``Truly a different way of life,'' I think again, not for
the last time, before noticing 16 tan-plastic gurneys lined
neatly along a wall. I recall Zig mentioning earlier that at
the start of the Iraq War, Dover utilized almost everyone of
its 75 gurneys.
Within the Dental Station, another impressive device takes
digital X-rays of each body. Again, because of the
sophisticated computer network at the Port Mortuary,
personnel can quickly match these post-mortem scans with
existing anti-mortem X-rays, making positive identification
possible if not already verified in some other way. It was
this device that helped the staff at Dover identify one of
the 9/11 victims from only three teeth and a piece of the
victim's jawbone.
Another method that Dover uses to identify the remains in
its care involves a full-body X-ray. If a decedent remains
unidentified at this point, this X-ray enables medical
examiners to identify unique qualities within the body, such
as healed broken bones. By asking a family if `` `Johnny'
once broke his arm as a teenager,'' Dover staff have another
tool that helps them make positive identification.
It is important to remember, however, that too often, the
body is not intact. In such cases, a full-body X-ray allows
medical examiners to reassociate a severed limb with a torso
by matching the ends of bones, joints, etc.
Finally, Zig shows us one more high-tech gizmo in this area
of the mortuary: a GE ``virtual autopsy'' machine. Similar in
appearance (to my untrained eye) to a CAT-scan device, this
unit records digital information about the decedent's
physiology in case it is needed.
We enter the ``Autopsy Suite'' next, a room even larger
than the lobby we first visited. Late in the evening at this
point, the work finished, the dozen or so autopsy stations
along the perimeter sit clean, spotless, ready for whoever
will need one next.
Gazing about the room, I feel my hair tussled as I step
into a breeze from overhead. Numerous vents pockmark the
ceiling, their louvers rattling, creating a state of constant
white noise. Zig smiles, explaining the importance of proper
ventilation in this room and that the goal is ``windy,'' that
the air is circulated numerous times each hour and that it is
``obviously not returned [to the room].''
The ``Embalming Suite'' is nearly identical to the previous
room in terms of setup. Each of the dozen or so stations sits
neatly ready for use. Three Portiboy Mark V machines sit near
each embalming table, as does a large spool of wire, used to
rewire skull fractures. Along one wall, shelves hold the
requisite practitioner equipment: body bags, coveralls,
pants, caps, personal protection equipment, all in a range of
sizes. Above Embalming Station #4, a large American flag
hangs on the wall. In a cupboard rests a broad selection of
embalming chemicals in a variety of strengths from numerous
manufacturers. The choice of fluid type is up to each
embalmer, but Dover generally uses a weaker solution in the
head and a strong mix in the body because, as Zig says, ``You
never know where a body is going.''
This comment might sound odd given all that the staff at
Dover does to positively identify each body and/or body part,
but it stems from the electronic bar coding noted earlier,
revealing a second important reason for its use. Not only
does this method accurately track every item associated with
a deceased soldier, but it also reinforces the staffs
commitment to treating each case as if it is the single most-
important one that each of these professionals will ever
handle. Stripped of name and rank, digital bar coding ensures
that every set of remains receives the highest level of
dignity, honor and respect.
Before leaving this room, Zig further clarifies the Port
Mortuary's dedication to caring for the dead while serving
the living by noting that every bright-red medical-waste box
is X-rayed just in case some personal effect, such as a ring,
is overlooked. Each box is then properly stored for 60 days,
another precaution. This is also why each individual's
initial aluminum transfer case is bar coded upon receipt--in
case the need arises to locate a missing personal effect,
which might have gone overlooked.
We visit the ``Personal Effects'' area next. In one room,
more than a dozen floor-to-ceiling wire shelving units, each
bearing five shelves, hold the electronically tracked
personal effects of each person while he or she is prepared.
Dover routinely cleans all personal effects before returning
them to families.
As the group quietly files out of the room and toward the
dressing area, two shelves at the back of the room catch my
eye. Labeled ``Disassociated P.E.,'' I stand for a while,
alone, gazing at the small number of personal effects that
arrived at Dover at some point in the past that could not be
reassociated with someone in their care despite the
exhaustive efforts of its staff. A dime. Several long-
distance calling cards. Two different photos of the same
infant girl wearing a bright yellow dress. The combination to
a Master Lock. Small stuff indeed, yet I sadly realize how
significant the slightest of these might prove to a grieving
family. Shaking myself from my reverie, I again feel proud of
the lengths these people go to in order to serve the living
before setting off to find the group.
Entering the dressing area, I hear Zig explain the four
stages of viewing that Dover assigns to each case: a head
wrap, a full wrap, viewable for ID, and viewable. Deaths
involving mutilation of the entire body and deemed unviewable
receive a dignified full wrap, and Zig demonstrated this
process for the group (without the presence of remains).
First, Dover staff cocoon the body or body part(s) in
absorbent layers of cotton gauze before wrapping it in
plastic sheeting. Then a crisp white cotton sheet shrouds the
body before a green Army blanket is wrapped around that.
Finally, in such cases, the soldier's uniform is placed on
top of the fully wrapped body within a casket.
As I watch this demonstration, I sense that death from a
bullet must prove easier to prepare, comparatively speaking,
versus death caused by a roadside bomb or some other form of
insurgent explosive device. I can neither imagine the horrors
these people must witness nor fathom how they can handle
such, but the respect I hold for their professionalism is
undeniable at this point.
``Uniform Prep'' is the next area we visit. Here, high
Plexiglas shelving units, like you might see in your local
department store, contain hundreds of uniform components--
pants, shirts, ties, etc.--each in dozens of sizes and
representing every conceivable military branch, as well as
numerous American flags. On racks located along one wall,
freshly pressed uniform jackets hang.
Two walls of this area display every conceivable military
medal, insignia, patch, stripe, bar and decoration you can
name in plastic packages. John Fitch, a veteran of Vietnam,
tells me that each military branch, each division, each unit,
has its own special--often unique--insignias, explaining the
vast array before us. The Dover Port Mortuary strives in
every case to prepare meticulously, lovingly the remains of a
fallen soldier as completely and as accurately as possible
for the many grieving his or her death. While these walls
hold a tremendous number of items to help them ``get it
right,'' Zig later states that Dover continually adds such
items because it is nearly impossible to have all of them in
stock, just in case.
Briefly, I find myself examining, fascinated, the many rows
of shiny decorations on these walls as if I'm some dopey
tourist in a souvenir shop debating which trinket to purchase
for the kids. Then the realization of where I am and the
horrible, sad purpose of these items breaks through my fog of
denial and I feel ashamed.
Finally, we visit the areas where the staff prepares
caskets and urns and gets each case ready for transportation
back to his or her family. The Dover Port Mortuary is almost
entirely self-sufficient, further testament to its commitment
to caring for the dead. Zig explains that Dover even engraves
the name plates needed for urns, and will cremate a body at
its own facility if a family so desires, before summarizing
that Dover handles everything but ``sewing the stripes onto
uniforms.'' (I later discover that he isn't kidding. Sewing
duties required to meticulously prepare a burial uniform
remain the only duty that Dover still outsources.)
A large area at the rear of the facility holds the numerous
caskets, urns and temporary containers Dover will need. The
mortuary stocks only one type of wood and one type of metal
casket, purchased from several manufacturers, as well as
Jewish caskets and even oversized caskets, testament again to
its dedication to meeting the needs of each unique case with
the dignity, honor and respect that each fallen soldier has
earned.
The average age of the 1,200 cases Dover's Port Mortuary
staff handles each year is 25. Despite the horrors of war,
and thanks to the dedication, commitment and expertise of
this remarkable facility's full- and part-time employees,
Dover returns these young loved ones to their grieving
families in a state suitable for viewing 85 percent of the
time. (Again, it is crucial to understand that
``viewability'' has a different meaning here versus that used
in a typical funeral home. Sadly, in some cases, only the
decedent's head is viewable but not the body, or vice versa.)
As I take my seat aboard our chartered bus and settle in
for the two-hour return journey to Washington, D.C., I gaze
at the now-illuminated landscape of Delaware through my
window as the miles pass unnoticed, lost in thought, sensing
the night chill through my shirt. I do not feel like idly
chatting right now.
I wish every funeral service professional, every citizen,
had the opportunity to experience firsthand the tour I still
struggle to assimilate. Learning how each set of remains that
arrives at the Charles C. Carson Center for Mortuary Affairs
is steadfastly treated as unique--as was each individual--and
receives from a small group of amazing people the requisite
time, attention and care their due moves me profoundly. Each
is special. Each is one of a kind. Each--as well as everyone
that grieves their death--is worthy of the mathematically
exacting tender mercies and loyalty to high ideals each
fallen soldier earned. Thanks to this facility and its staff,
we--as a nation--bestow such on friend or foe alike.
I will never think of them as numbers again.