Their faces, smiling or solemn, are all too familiar in our newspapers and on television. Their names sound a somber roll call – Smith, Falaniko, Ramos, Lee – a roster that seems to grow daily.
American military deaths in the Iraq campaign reached 1,000 early today.
The troops lost are sons and daughters from city streets and rural hamlets. They are teens who went from senior proms to boot camp and battle, and middle-aged family men who put aside retirement and grandchildren for the dangers of a war zone.
What they share is they will not see home again.
What does the number mean? On D-Day alone, more Americans lost their lives. At the peak of Vietnam, hundreds of U.S. troops were dying each week.
Still, 1,000 is a grim milestone.
The conflict in Iraq has claimed almost three times the number of Americans lost in the entire Persian Gulf War. And this time, the vast majority of U.S. deaths – all but 138 – came after major combat operations were declared over. “Mission Accomplished,” read a banner on the USS Abraham Lincoln off the coast of Southern California, where President Bush spoke on May 1, 2003.
Sixteen months later, the fighting goes on. So do the funerals.
The lengthening casualty roster reflects a front line that shifted from sandy deserts to shadowy streets, a stubborn insurgency, a conflict far bloodier than many expected.
Back home, there is another growing count: Towns that lost future firefighters and policemen, churches left without Sunday school teachers, families where infants will never meet their dads.
“It’s almost like losing a community,” says Luis Pizzini, an educator in San Diego, Texas. Two of his former students died in Iraq.
Ruben Valdez, 21, and Jose Amancio Perez, 22, grew up on the same block.
Now, the two young men lie buried a few feet apart.
An American mosaic
The youngest was just 18. The oldest, 59. More than half had not seen their 30th birthday, according to an Associated Press analysis of Department of Defense statistics for those who died since the war started on March 19, 2003.
The number of troops who have died reached 1,000 early today; three civilians working for the Pentagon also have been killed in the war for a total of 1,003. The tally was compiled by the Associated Press based on Pentagon records, reporting from Iraq, and reports from soldiers’ families.
Of those who have died, 97 percent were men; about two dozen were women. More than 600 were white; others were black, Hispanic, Asian and American Indian.
There were kids who had never fired a shot at an enemy, and veterans of Desert Storm, Bosnia, Kosovo – even Vietnam.
They hailed from the urban bustle of Chicago, New York and Houston, as well as the cornfields of Silvana, Wash., and the coal mine country of Varney, W.Va. – and from every state but Alaska.
They represented U.S. territories, and more than three dozen were born in foreign countries, including Thailand, India and Poland. While many had been naturalized, at least 10 died reaching for their vision of the American dream: to become U.S. citizens.
Army Pfc. Diego Rincon, a native of Colombia, was among them. After he was killed in a suicide bombing, his father, Jorge, lobbied Congress, which passed legislation giving posthumous citizenship to his 19-year-old son and other foreign-born soldiers killed in battle.
Jose Gutierrez grew up an orphan in Guatemala, crossed the border illegally, obtained a visa, graduated from high school, and eventually became a Marine. At age 28, the lance corporal was buried in his native land, an American flag covering his casket.
Although most – more than 700 – were in the Army, Americans who have died in the Iraq war wore the uniforms of every branch of service. Among them was the first Coast Guardsman to die in combat since Vietnam.
About 80 percent were in the active-duty military, the remainder in Guard and Reserve units.
About 70 percent were killed in action, and there were more than 160 accidental deaths, many involving vehicles.
More than numbers
Those who died were as different as they were the same: There were homecoming kings and class presidents, Scout leaders and Little League coaches. A young man from the projects who put a hip-hop beat to “Amazing Grace” on the bus to church camp. A lawyer fascinated with tanks. An Army specialist nicknamed “Ketchup” who would sneak food to Iraqi children.
There was Trevor Spink, a 36-year-old staff sergeant in his third tour in Iraq. His steady, confident gaze was once the face on Marine recruitment posters. Now, his mother has decided, that portrait will adorn his tombstone.
There was Army pilot Aaron Weaver, 32, who had survived cancer and a rocket attack in the 1993 battle of Mogadishu, Somalia, recounted in “Black Hawk Down.” The Bronze Star recipient and father of a baby girl was so determined to go to Iraq, he secured special medical clearance so he could fly.
Marine Lance Cpl. Aaron Austin, 21, proposed to fiance Tiffany Frank by telephone from Iraq. They set a wedding date, Dec. 11.
“We had the church reserved, the pastor reserved, the reception hall reserved,” Tiffany says. “Now I can only dream about what we would have had.”
Roger Rowe already had everything he wanted: a 34-year marriage to his childhood friend, four children and seven grandchildren who called him “Papa.” Still, at 54, the Vietnam veteran had no hesitation about serving in Iraq as part of the Tennessee National Guard.
“He said, ‘What a lifetime experience this will be to be able to help that country,’” remembers his widow, Shirley. “He was always an optimist.”
Army Pfc. Jesse Buryj had his own plans – to become a Canton, Ohio, police officer. He enlisted because he was too young to join the force.
The 21-year-old newlywed died a hero, credited with saving fellow soldiers when he fired more than 400 rounds at a dump truck attempting to crash a checkpoint.
“I know he went out in a blaze of glory,” says his mother, Peggy. “They say he showed no fear and gave no ground.”
Those left behind
Others expressed bitterness over the loss of loved ones in a war they considered unjustified.
“It just rubbed salt in the wound to hear them talk about, well maybe they didn’t have all the information, maybe the intelligence was faulty,” says Oliva Smith, whose 41-year-old husband, Bruce, was killed when a missile downed his helicopter.
There is another void almost too great to fathom: More than 500 sons and daughters have been left without a father, and at least five boys and girls lost their mothers.
About two dozen soldiers had wives who were pregnant, men such as 23-year-old Micheal Dooley – who had picked a name, Shea, from afar for his first child. His widow, Christine, now takes Shea to the mausoleum where Dooley rests, presses her daughter’s hand to her own lips and then to the wall of the crypt, telling her: “That’s the way we kiss Daddy.”
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