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Saturday, December 25, 2004
COLUMN: Bill Nemitz
A day of mourning, and song
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MOSUL, Iraq - Friday, even in the 24/7 existence of the Maine Army National Guard's 133rd Engineer Battalion, was the longest of days. It began not long after sunrise, when soldiers rose, dressed themselves in their cleanest desert camouflage uniforms, and set off for the Community Activities Center at Forward Operating Base Marez to honor Sgt. Lynn R. Poulin Sr., 47, of Freedom and Spc. Thomas J. Dostie, 20, of Somerville. The two men were among the 22 people killed Tuesday when a terrorist bomb exploded inside the base's dining facility during the crowded lunch hour. It ended, many hours later, with smiles and laughter, handshakes and embraces, and the sound of Christmas carols loud enough, it seemed, for all of Mosul to hear. The memorial service almost mirrored one held last April for Spc. Christopher Gelineau, 23, of Portland - the only other member of the 133rd killed in action since the battalion arrived here 10 months ago. But there was one difference. Last April, the soldiers approached Gelineau's meticulously arranged memorial - combat boots, M-16 rifle, dog tags, helmet balanced on the rifle stock, pressed and folded shirt bearing medals and the soldier's name, three framed photographs - and saluted one at a time. This time, with two memorials awaiting them, they approached in pairs. But the emotions, raw and deep, were the same. So were the tributes from the battalion leaders who strode to the podium to console their men and women on a day that, even without this week's catastrophe, would have been one of the hardest of their 12-month deployment. Lt. Col. John Jansen, the 133rd's commander, recalled standing in this same place eight months ago, "and unfortunately with heavy hearts we meet again today to pay tribute to two of our finest." Maj. Dwayne Drummond, the executive officer, read a letter to the soldiers from Poulin's wife, Jeannie, noting, "It's incredible that she has the strength to show her concern about us at this time." That she did. She recalled how his fellow soldiers would "call Lynn a lovesick puppy for standing in line every day to talk to me," and asked them all now to honor him by following his example and calling home each day. "He really cared about all of you," Mrs. Poulin wrote. "He spoke of all of you often. He would mention how he was teaching a young soldier how to weld and how good he was doing." She concluded, "The rest of you need to come home safe and soon." Chaplain David Sivret, who emerged from Tuesday's explosion with a punctured right eardrum, illustrated just how small a community Maine really is. He recalled officiating at Lynn and Jeannie Poulin's wedding. He also remembered one day here at Marez when Dostie told him on the way to chow, "I know what you were like in high school." "I'm some 20 years older than he is, so how would he know?" Sivret said, with a chuckle. "Well, it turns out I went to school with his father and his mother." With blank stares and, at times, muffled sobs, the 133rd painstakingly worked its way through the carefully choreographed program. The soldiers listened to Capt. Michael Steinbuchel of Headquarters Support Company eulogize Dostie, while Capt. Dean Preston of Alpha Company did the same for Poulin. The men and women leaned hard on one another through two last roll calls, choking on their tears as they heard "Dostie . . . Dostie . . . Dostie . . ." and "Poulin . . . Poulin . . . Poulin . . . both go unanswered. The music became their emotional catalyst. First came taps. Then Assistant Chaplain Greg Raychard of Buxton picked up his guitar and, along with Staff Sgt. Mark Chadwick of Knox and Sgt. 1st Class Scott Rodrigue of Auburn, mesmerized the audience with a harmonized rendition of "Amazing Grace." Finally, as the soldiers took almost two hours paying their individual respects, the songs selected by Lt. Michael Flynn of Bangor played over and over: "The World I Know," "Yesterday," "Imagine," "Superman," "Sounds of Silence" and "American Soldier." Spc. Ron Cyr of Auburn, who grew up three doors down from Dostie in Somerville, could barely see through his tears as he took off a crucifix necklace and placed it on his fallen friend's memorial. Sgt. Michael Posner of the New York-based 204th Engineer Battalion, hit by seven pieces of shrapnel Tuesday, hobbled forward on his crutches alongside Sgt. Kameel Farag of Damariscotta. Posner leaned over and touched Dostie's helmet, shuffled the best he could to the right, and leaned hard on his crutch to touch Poulin's helmet. Sobbing hard while Farag watched his back, Posner then took the agonizing walk down the side aisle and out into the daylight. The three-hour service mercifully behind them, the soldiers returned quietly to their barracks, the sun already beginning its rapid descent toward Christmas Eve. Some of the battalion's senior officers had worried that it was too much, too soon. Others had argued that the sooner the soldiers bade their comrades farewell and took on the holiday in this dusty place so far from Maine, the better off everyone would be. Sivret, the chaplain, returned to the chapel in his up-armored Humvee, walked into his office, took off his camouflage cap and put on a red-and-green Santa hat. "It's time," Sivret said. The printed sheets of Christmas carols were already sorted and stapled for the pre-midnight sing-along. But the soldiers, their tears dried at least for now, could not wait. As darkness fell and the full moon rose between the thickening clouds, a makeshift platoon converged on the chapel. They took the chaplain, his guitar-playing assistant, and the bundle of lyrics into their custody and headed for the first row of "connex" container barracks. This was more than just a Christmas Eve out on the town, or the closest thing the 133rd has to a town. This was a mission. Standing in a line as the first doors began to open, with Raychard again strumming flawlessly on his tiny guitar, they aimed their flashlights at the lyrics and sang "Away in a Manger" as loudly as they could. Applause erupted from the connexes as the last verse faded into the chilly night air. "Battalion TOC (tactical operations center)!" ordered Pfc. Tracy Jipson of Gorham, leading the way. "Battalion TOC!" The herd crunched across the stone gravel, breaking into "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer . . . had a very shiny nose! LIKE A LIGHT BULB!" Along the way, Spc. Christien Bolduc of Acton jumped in the air and clicked his heels once, twice, three times. Sgt. 1st Class Rodrigue wore a red scarf wrapped around and around the top of his head, the tail trailing down his back. Arriving at the Battalion TOC, the carolers formed a semicircle around a door in the corner - the home away from home of Capt. Joshua Docenski of Temple. "Joy to the World" echoed off the thick, concrete walls as Docenski opened his metal door, poked his head out and smiled. The carolers beckoned with their own smiles and by the second stanza, Docenski was looking over Sivret's shoulder, grinning broadly as he sang along. And so it went. Past the medical aid station, which on this night was blissfully empty. Maj. John "Doc" Nelson of Lincoln, still walking gingerly from the shrapnel wounds he suffered in Tuesday's attack, looked at all the young soldiers straining to read the lyrics. "Didn't any of you people ever learn these songs when you were growing up?" Nelson, his eyes twinkling, chortled in his native West Virginia drawl. "We had to learn all the Christmas carols! The only one I had trouble with was 'Oh, Holy Night!' " Down they marched to the Headquarters Support Company's maintenance section barracks, where young soldiers in brown T-shirts opened the door to their recreation room and looked out, dumbfounded, as "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" flooded the room. Their applause earned an encore of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer." Into a tunnel between two more barracks. Another round of "Joy to the World" for 1st Sgt. Tom Conroy. "You guys are all right!" said Conroy. The carolers, two dozen strong and counting, couldn't have agreed more. "We wish you a merry Christmas! We wish you a merry Christmas . . ." they belted back at the first sergeant. Conroy stepped back, punched a few buttons on his hand-held radio, and raised an outlying guard tower where Jansen and Drummond, the battalion's top two officers, were voluntarily serving as Christmas Eve sentries. "Go ahead!," he shouted. "They can hear you." "The first Noel, the angels did say . . ." the soldiers sang, all facing the open microphone. As he sang, Spc. Adam Scafran of Portland held a small candle in one hand and draped his left arm around Spc. Cyr's shoulder. Cyr, safely removed from the pain of the morning memorial, looked at Scafran and smiled. When they finished, Conroy listened to his radio for a moment and hollered, "The XO (Executive Officer Drummond) said the commander (Jansen) was tearing up. He also said he could hardly wait for the album." It lasted for well over an hour. They walked over sand bags, around razor wire, under camouflage netting - all the time in search of someone, anyone, who might be sitting alone in his or her barracks. They sang for the mechanics, the cooks, the medics. They sang "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas," for young Pfc. Franz Oberlerchner of Kennebunk, who returned the favor by showering them with a bag full of foam imitation snowflakes. Snow is rare in this part of Iraq. And the winter rains have been late. But as the caroling wound down and the soldiers, some of them hoarse, drifted off into the night, the heavens finally opened. Nobody cared. Walking back toward his chapel, his Santa hat slightly askew, Sivret couldn't stop smiling. "It's working," he said. Two hours later, many of the same faces, and a few dozen new ones, filtered into the chapel for an ecumenical midnight Christmas service. They shed their Kevlar helmets, their outer tactical vests and carefully laid their M-16s on the floor. Spc. Sean Lawrence of Augusta, one of Spc. Tommy Dostie's roommates and closest friends, stood nervously in the lobby before taking a deep breath and going inside. It had been a while since he entered a church, he confessed, "but I told Tommy I'd go to midnight Mass with him, so here I am." Sivret, an Episcopal priest from St. Anne's in Calais, and four other military chaplains - a Methodist and three Southern Baptists - led the soldiers through the liturgy and, of course, more carols. As Assistant Chaplain Raychard strummed the chords to "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear," they sang, "So hush the noise and cease your strife . . . and hear the angels sing." Then they listened to the readings. They embraced and wished one another peace. They prayed for their dead and wounded. And after they had shared communion and Chief Warrant Officer Christopher Bean of Freeport turned off the overhead fluorescent lights, they each lit a small candle and sang one more time in the semi-darkness: "Silent night, holy night, All is calm, all is bright. Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child. Holy infant so tender and mild, Sleep in heavenly peace, Sleep in heavenly peace." When they finished and, one by one, blew out their candles, the chaplain stood and looked out over his congregation. His comrades. "This is Christmas," Sivret proclaimed. "And nobody can stop that from coming." Staff Writer Bill Nemitz can be contacted at:
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