A very moving editorial; I suspect the writer refers to Trooper Diab but her words are relevant to all who've made this journey
'Stand Down, Soldier. Your Job is Done. You Can Go Home'
http://www.intelligencer.ca/PrintArticle.aspx?e=1473965
Updated 10 hours ago
Editorial: Patricia Calder
Belleville Intelligencer (Shared in Accordance with the
Fair Dealing Provision of the
Copyright Act)
There is a banner someone brings to the fence of Canadian Forces Base Trenton whenever there is a repatriation of a soldier killed in Afghanistan. It reads: "Stand down, soldier. Your job is done. You can go home."
People line up along the fence surrounding CFB Trenton waiting for the aircraft from Afghanistan to touch down, open its cargo door, and offer up its burden. Some of the onlookers are civilians, some are retired service men and women, some are on leave from active service and dress in uniform for the occasion. Some of them even bring young children.
There's a large contingent of bikers, the Blue Knights, wearing distinctive blue vests. One couple is visiting from Nova Scotia. Another man has just come home from Europe. The gathering spreads farther along the fence as each carload stakes out its waiting spot, like a parade crowd without the fun.
Soon the CC-150 Polaris transport plane comes into view. A hush falls over the people standing at the fence. The aircraft circles into position near the hanger where a family stands in the wind and cold to receive their loved one.
The silhouettes, especially the shoulders, speak of their exquisite pain. They might never again see the body in the casket, but in their mind's eye, they can picture that beloved form touched so often in the past.
Their eyes are transfixed on the wooden box that is now being hoisted onto strong shoulders and carried toward the hearse in measured steps.
How can this moment be happening? It is surreal with its grey skies, charcoal jet, grey terminal, and cement tarmac. The only colour is the Canadian flag draped in its sombre duty like a blanket over the fallen comrade. It seems to speak the words from the banner: "Stand down, soldier. Your job is done. You can go home."
After a 20-minute repatriation service the casket is loaded into a black hearse. The family members get in a limousine. Slowly the convoy exits the gates of 8 Wing-Canadian Forces Base Trenton.
Those bikers, a club of retired soldiers, have formed an honour guard and salute as their fallen comrade passes between them. The line of on-lookers has moved from the fence to the side of Highway 2 and they too salute, not in soldierly fashion, but with their hearts.
The black vehicles are escorted front and back by two police cars as they drive onto the celebrated Highway of Heroes. A signal is sent to a police car waiting on the ramp of the next overpass along the way to Toronto: "Cortege en route. ETA 15 minutes."
Each officer on duty on an overpass receives the message in turn as the cars process along the route. Then the police radio the message to the fire fighters and ambulance workers in kiss-and-go parking lots who have been anticipating the final good-bye.
The service vehicles start their engines and move into position. Each fire truck and ambulance rides to the top of its respective overpass.
The police car drives down the ramp to block traffic from entering Highway 401. The cortege will be permitted to drive solo all the way. The crowd on the overpass is watching for that space of several minutes when there is no traffic in the westbound lanes. Then a whisper is telegraphed from one person to another: "They're coming. They're coming." By this time not one space is left unoccupied along the railing.
I stand by the sign that welcomes drivers to Brighton. I want to be as near as possible to the cortege. My student will be passing by. His sister, also a former student at my school, will be sitting in the limo with her Mom and Dad behind the dark glass.
The last time I saw these siblings they were sitting innocently in a classroom.
On one side of me stands a young man with a camera ready to take pictures to show his little boy. On the other side is a member of the Legion, a retired Sergeant-major dressed in khaki. He is the first to sight the cortege and barks instinctively, "Heads up!" to everyone on the overpass.
I am frozen in place, steeling myself against an onslaught of emotion, tears burning behind my glasses. The Sergeantmajor snaps a salute and, even though he is a complete stranger, I feel supported by his experience and professionalism.
Behind me the people who have come to the overpass for just this moment wave their flags. The dark glass of the limo opens and a long arm in a black coat ending in a black glove answers in silent acknowledgment.
In less than a moment the cortege is gone. The Sergeant-major offers his arm to assist my climb up the embankment and we talk about the weather.
Only now do I notice how many young people have also been standing vigils at the overpass. They look to me like students skipping school.
Who are all these other people? Does each of them have a connection as I do to the fallen soldier? Some of them are relaying messages by cellphone to other overpasses down the line. Are all the on-lookers on all the overpasses along the Highway of Heroes connected, like a web that stretches from Trenton to Toronto cradling the casket of the fallen at its centre?
What a strange experience our presence creates. A unique made-in-Canada ad-hoc ritual that leaves participants feeling richer, and sadder, and more connected for having spent this one moment in the wind.
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