Ingle had two of his Marines lay out the fitted sheet. Then he surprised the onlooking camp when he slid his knife into the top of her gown. He cut the fabric upward and exposed her bloodied bosom to the afternoon air.
A lieutenant, standing outside of the command center, barked, “What is that Marine doing?” He was upset by the sight of the cleansing process and stepped out to intervene. However, General Gutzwiller was standing in the same place and within reach of the overzealous lieutenant. The general put out his arm and held the younger officer back. “But, General,” the lieutenant tried to argue against the senior’s silent command.
Gutzwiller glared at the young man and proclaimed, “If you go over there, I’ll shoot you myself.” The lieutenant withdrew his objections then walked back inside the command tent. He showed his contempt for the proceedings and wanted nothing to do with whatever was to come next.
Ingle carefully cut Rasa’s clothes from her body. She was dead, but he made sure not to inflict her with more wounds. Then he sliced a strip of fabric from her blouse. He doused the cloth with water from his canteen. He poured a considerable amount of water over Rasa’s body and washed away the dried blood covering her torso and legs. She was so bloody that Ingle wondered how much of Iman’s soul had mixed with hers on the flight back to base. Ingle tried not to cry as the dark-brown mess covering the woman lightened to a trickling red. He scrubbed until the blood was gone from her skin. He washed her until nothing remained other than a charred hole in her side where an enemy bullet seared its way through her lungs.
Rasa was finally cleansed. She was rinsed free from the filth of the world, so Ingle and Perez lifted her body. They moved her from the open clothing onto the sheet that Doc flattened next to her. Her olive skin contrasted with the white cloth brilliantly.
Sergeant Ingle held Rasa under her shoulders. Perez wrapped his arms around her legs. They carefully laid her in the middle of the sheet with her hands crossed over her heart and her legs straight together. Ingle wrapped the first side of the sheet over Rasa’s complete physical form. She was covered from her face to her feet. Ingle made sure that he tucked the bed sheet’s edge beneath her as tightly as he could, as tightly as he remembered the villagers do near Kabul. Then Perez repeated the motion from the opposite direction. Her body was once again shrouded from the world’s eyes. The impurities of her clothes would not follow her into the next life.
Ingle then turned to Iman’s body. The staff sergeant’s face was heavy and sad. The corners of Iman’s mouth turned downward as if he had used his last breath to sob for Rasa. His eyes were slightly open and showed the absent gray of death. Perez tried to look into Iman’s eyes. The feeling was eerie in death, to see the physical being evaded by the spirit, eyes empty and soulless.
The Marines peeled Iman’s body armor from his shoulders and chest. Then they unbuttoned and cut away his uniform in the same fashion Ingle had done with Rasa’s clothing. Their blades were sharp enough to allow gentle and reverent movements as dried blood failed to further adhere to Iman’s skin.
The cloth of Iman’s uniform rested open and shielded him from lying directly in the sand. Ingle had run out of water from rinsing Rasa, so the other team members used whatever they had remaining in their canteens to clean their fellow Marine. They pulled Doc Troy’s bandages from the dead man’s back and chest. Only then, the Marines realized how bad Iman’s wounds really were on the battlefield. There was no logical explanation for how the warrior could have survived as long as he did. His body was covered with crusted flakes and coagulating pools of blood. His flesh was pierced and torn apart by the bullet that splintered inside him. His chest was hollow in a way that could have only been created with the loss of a lung. Iman defied death to rescue Rasa and dared not fade away until his mission, his higher calling, was accomplished. Eyes closed and heart still, the staff sergeant remained a source of awe for the Marines who fought alongside him.
Iman, scrubbed free of blood and filth, was finally clean. No trails of death or dirt remained anywhere on his body. Ingle and Perez then moved Iman from his open clothes to the sheet Doc Troy previously stretched out next to the dead. They wrapped Iman as they had done Rasa. Ingle covered Iman and tucked the sheet’s edge under the resting head, torso, and legs. Perez answered with the other side of the white cloth and pushed the edges in tight beneath Iman.
Together, the team helped move Iman and Rasa into the large hole, pallbearers without a casket. They edged along in a memorial parade with as much dignity as possible. Their respect commanded their arms and legs. Their reverence demanded their every motion to be steady and calm. The team was silent as they pulled the horizontal but separate lovers from the desert floor.
Marines outside of the hole lowered the bodies down to their teammates inside the hole. The living laid Iman into the deep grave first. Then they laid Rasa at his side. The lovers’ shoulders and hips pressed together with a sense of permanence. They lay in narrow form despite the width of the grave, eternally connected, each belonging to the other until the white sheets appeared as one.
Once the dead were rested in a point of finality, the surviving occupants were hoisted out of the hole. The grave was clear of the living. The Marines could finally say goodbye.
Ingle grabbed the nearest field shovel and started pitching loose chunks of earth onto the tightly wrapped sheets lying at the bottom of the grave. The rest of the team followed his lead. They worked in unison until nothing remained other than a freshly turned dirt pile. The team’s unified efforts carried on until nothing was left of Iman and Rasa—nothing more than a memory forever etched into the minds of every man they touched.
Out of breath and exhausted, Ingle choked down the dry lump in his throat. Then he spoke loud enough to be heard by the entire team as if to give a final sermon at a hometown funeral. “I don’t know if we did that right…but it seems right,” Ingle said, coaxing assurance from his thoughts. He looked around at his Marines. He stood up straight and rolled his shoulders back. His chest beamed outward with pride. It was not a boastful pride but a newfound affinity for his brother-in-arms. He had a new respect for the men around him and a deeply cut love for the man they just buried, the man without record.
“I’m not Muslim,” Ingle said to the sweating and panting group of Marines as they tossed their field shovels aside. The sergeant knew that the remainder of base camp was watching, but he spoke only loud enough to share his thoughts with his team. He continued, “Before coming here, I really didn’t know much about the culture, the people, or the religion. I just thought they were all strapped with bombs and didn’t care about anyone or anything…” Ingle paused to look at each of his Marines. “I cannot begin to tell you how wrong I was.”
Ingle pointed at the ground. “That man carried out one of the greatest feats of humanity I have ever seen. I will never forget the day the staff sergeant carried the woman he loved…in life and in death. I will never forget the day that we were all spared by a miracle. I will never forget the day that we did the right thing. They,” he said, still pointing to the loose soil of the fresh grave, “might be without record, but they will never be without each other again.” His eyes filled with tears.
“I’m going to say a prayer, so bow your heads if you want,” Ingle said. Each of the men bowed their heads and listened. No one objected to the gesture of open faith.
“Dear Lord, we come to you today thankful that you spared us. I’m sorry that we couldn’t all make it home, God…but we are subject to your plan…we all know that. Please God, accept our fallen brothers into your kingdom…and I know that we might come to you a little differently, but I ask you to accept this man and this woman into your kingdom as well, Lord. I might not be the smartest man in the world, God…but I have no doubts it is your plan for them to spend eternity in Paradise together. This man carried out the most decent thing I’ve ever seen, Lord.” Ingle’s words echoed into the hearts of every man around him. “And if we aren’t here to do the decent
thing, Lord…then why are we here at all?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jonathan Ball grew up in Dallas, Texas, before graduating high school early to join the United States Marine Corps. He served his time proudly as a sergeant with the 1st Marine Division at Camp Pendleton, California. His time in service as a Marine, experiences in the Middle East and Southeast Asia, and love for his brothers-in-arms are the driving forces behind his war-fiction genre writing style.
Jonathan Ball is a devoted father with a great passion for the protections of individual liberties and national sovereignty, all of which inspired the novel Operation: Jericho.
Operation Jericho Page 21