The War Dead

On Sunday cameras were permitted to cover the arrival at Dover Air Force Base of a flag-draped coffin bearing the remains of Air Force Staff Sergeant Phillip Myers. It was the first time in 18 years that the media has been able to document the solemn arrival ceremony of the U.S. war dead, now that the ban first set by former President George H.W. Bush has been relaxed by the Obama administration.

I listened to a report detailing this ceremony on NPR today. It involves transferring the soldier's coffin from the cargo plane to a military mortuary van.

"We march up in a formation — the seven of us — two columns of three and one behind, calling the cadence — left, right, left, right," (one) soldier says. "There's no music … even the commands we call out — they're not loud."

Another soldier discussed how he couldn't permit himself to show too much emotion, because he didn't think that's what the fallen soldier would want. Several of the soldiers interviewed wondered about who it was inside the coffin- were they young or old, a man or a woman, a private or an officer?

There are people on both sides of the argument about media coverage. Some feel that it invades the privacy of grieving families, while others maintain that a lack of coverage hides the human cost of our wars.

I am all at once drawn to and repelled by such accounts of tragedy and sorrow. Modern culture is increasingly voyeuristic, and I do admit I click on all the worst news stories each morning when I start up my computer- sometimes regretting my choice. I read the articles' comments from posters, admonishing the media for only reporting the grim news stories. Yet we are all reading them.

My husband doesn't like my morbid curiosity and penchant for true crime stories, while I don't like the ultra-violent cable shows he enjoys, which, he points out, are just fiction. I'm not sure what that says about me. Am I a realist? A pragmatist?

I am certainly not as pragmatic as my father. He once told me the story about how he was on a flight from Vietnam to the Philippines during Vietnam war time. He was traveling in a cargo plane, and, overcome with tiredness, he lay down on one of the coffins there. "God, dad, didn't that bother you?" I questioned him, disturbed by the thought. He replied that it didn't at all, there was no other place to lay. He is a hard-boiled stoic, to a fault. And while I don't like to shelter myself from the truth, I do think that I possess a sensitivity that meets ignorant bliss halfway.