There I was Monday morning at a military hospital in the Intensive Care Unit waiting room, not really sure what I was there for. I only knew that I got a page from a dear friend that simply said- come now. As an interpreter, you get used to this.

We met as soul mates on Parris Island
We left as inmates from an asylum
And we were sharp, as sharp as knives
And we were so gung-ho to lay down our lives

Everyone knew why I was there except me- until a Lieutenant in his khaki uniform pulled me out of the family waiting room and said “I’m not sure if you know why you’re here, but Kevin Mowl passed away this morning.” I felt my heart sink, and I immediately dreaded the rest of my day. Somehow, over the course of the next week, I found myself drawing strength from this man.

We came in spastic like tameless horses
We left in plastic as numbered corpses
And we learned fast to travel light
Our arms were heavy but our bellies were tight

I remember vividly that an ICU isn’t supposed to house kids, yet here I was surrounded by teenagers. And I learned that legless men in wheelchairs know the stares that signing in public sometimes brings,because I caught myself staring. I wanted to thank him, but couldn’t muster the words… And young people I could see in rooms around me, they aren’t supposed to have high and tight haircuts or seem so strong- like they’d trained for this War for months or years, because the image certainly contrasted with the tubes and IVs that were keeping only some of them alive.

I took another deep breath, remembering I certainly didn’t wake up this morning prepared to spend a day next to a father making preparations to bury his child. But sometimes as an interpreter you don’t get to pick your job, you’re just there and you do it.

I remember the chief of surgery as he spoke with the family, a navy captain-hardened by years of service. I remember signing for him, and hearing his voice crack as he wiped away tears, confirming what we all knew- that another soldier was given the most amazing care and that all, including Kevin and his family had fought valiantly… just for him to live.

We had no home front, we had no soft soap
They sent us Playboy, they gave us Bob Hope
We dug in deep and shot on sight
And prayed to Jesus Christ with all our might

It was suddenly 3 days later and I was no longer in Maryland but in Rochester, New York, in an airport parking lot watching as they carried a flag draped coffin into a hearse. Later that night it seemed surreal- as I walked into a kitchen, unsure where to sit amongst Kevin’s friends and family, so I stood. I was the only interpreter there, and my mission slowly became clear. I was drawn into the conversation as someone signed to me- “These guys haven’t seen each other since the IED (that eventually took Kevin’s life) went off.”

I realized in these moments that deaf vs. hearing matters as much as soldier vs. civilian when you’re around a family’s dining room table. People who have seen nothing of war- other than in pictures and video games- and these thick necked soldiers became one big group of smiling, comforting people as the conversation continued, only now with me signing. I was reminded that I wasn’t there to interpret, but sometimes things come naturally- and I felt that Kevin’s family deserved to ask as many questions of Kevin’s squad members as they wanted, and I felt this was the best opportunity.

“Do you remember the box we sent him for his 21st birthday?” one aunt asked the group. “I had to go to 10 different stores and ask if they sold what was in there. And we all laughed as she turned a proud shade of embarrassed red when the soldier said- “No…That was you that sent those?!”

Gower, they told me as they pointed to my right, he’s been in Michigan at a rehab hospital. He’s only been walking with the help of a cane for a few months now. Guerra, he’s been in San Antonio trying to learn how to walk as well but without a cane, and with his new leg. And Guerra rolled up his pant leg, and Gower held tightly to his cane, if only to reemphasize the facts of war.

We had no cameras to shoot the landscape
We passed the hash pipe and played our Doors tapes
And it was dark, so dark at night
And we held on to each other
Like brother to brother
We promised our mothers we’d write

It didn’t take long to weave their way through stories, until they finally arrived at August 2nd, 2007. Sgt. Santos was the one who often forced Kevin to ‘turn off his voice’ and use only sign language to communicate with him, they said. I wondered aloud- he must want to try his signing with the family now… and it’s then that I’m told that he was one of the first fatalities in the blast. When I met her at the bar that night she was wiping away a tear.

Captain Schneider leaned over the table and began to tell another story… “We had just been walking the intersection, as we had many times before, and after a few minutes we returned to the vehicle. We got in and had barely pulled up a few feet when it seemed like the roof of the vehicle had collapsed on me. It took me a few minutes to realize that the floor had actually been pushed up by an explosion and was pressing me to the ceiling.”

And we would all go down together
We said we’d all go down together
Yes we would all go down together

“Gower, I gave you a direct order to scream- as loud as you could, as long as you could- so that I knew you were still alive while I worked on Guerra” Sgt. Hoffman said. Then I stopped being an interpreter, and for just a minute, I was now allowed to stare at the cane that Gower used to walk, and how his over sized shoes seemed to trip him up as much as they held him up, as he later shuffled to the bathroom.

“Guerra, I pulled you out first- mostly because you were in the way,” Captain Schneider said with a chuckle. “And I remember Gower- screaming like a little baby, every time his mangled leg fell off the stretcher.”, which immediately drew a laugh from everyone around the table- even Gower. The friendly ribbing knocking away the some of the tension.

But some of us couldn’t laugh, we hadn’t earned that right. We were too in awe of the bravery that was playing out like a movie in front of us, something that these soldiers seemed too used to.

Remember Charlie, remember Baker
They left their childhood on every acre
And who was wrong? And who was right?
It didn’t matter in the thick of the fight

They talked of being stuck in a vehicle for 18 hours a day waiting to get blown up would wear on your nerves, and ways to lighten the burden of being stuck in a war. And, of course, they all told stories of home. It seemed that each person had met Kevin’s family in a care package or a picture somewhere.

And Kevin’s grandmother acknowledged to Gower- “I thought you looked familiar. I didn’t realize that was you without your feathered hat on!” referencing a picture that Kevin had sent home of some hats that Gower and Kevin wore on Thanksgiving day in Iraq.

We held the day in the palm of our hand
They ruled the night, and the night
Seemed to last as long as six weeks…
…On Parris Island
We held the coastline, they held the highlands
And they were sharp, as sharp as knives
They heard the hum of our motors
They counted the rotors
And waited for us to arrive

And they all spoke a little softer as they talked of finding Kevin in the crushed vehicle, and how they lost two other squad members, friends and brothers in the blast that day. Then I found myself among the group again, and I watched as family and soldiers together shook their heads in grief.

And we would all go down together
We said we’d all go down together
Yes we would all go down together

Only they didn’t all go down together. They were here a world away from Baghdad that next morning in a quiet church. I watched as they memorialized Kevin, his father on a big screen in a chapel speaking to a full house. Time seemed to fly by that hour, and it wasn’t long before I was listening to the bagpipers playing the familiar moan of Amazing Grace.

I felt out of place in this chapel as they sounded off for roll call:

Staff Sgt Guerra

Here Sergeant!

Sgt. Gower

Here Sergeant!

Sergeant Lis

Here Sergeant!

Corporal Mowl

-Silence fills the church…

Corporal Kevin Mowl

-We quietly stood in honor…

Corporal Kevin- Scott- Mowl!

A voice drifts in, I recognize it from last night as Sergeant Montanio’s…

“Sergeant, Corporal Mowl is no longer with us.”

I wiped away a tear or two as they carried the casket out of the church, reminding myself that the worst was still ahead.

We passed under an American flag hanging from fire trucks over the entrance to the cemetery. The firemen all stood in the blistering cold in full salute, saluting me, and I’d never even met Kevin.

Once at the cemetery, I found a chair when Gower’s feet were too sore to stand in the snow. Then I watched as they prepared to bury Kevin, folding the flag with military precision, in order to give it to his mother- and I finally realized the meaning to the phrase ‘labor of love’. The sounds of “Taps” played on a bugle. We all shook in the cold as we waited for the sounds of 7 guns firing 3 times for the 21 gun salute. Ready, Aim, Fire!

The reality was what Anthony had earlier mentioned- an hour with a beautiful woman seemed like a moment, a moment with your hand on a hot stove, seemed like an hour. And somewhere in the time between a moment and an hour, they had memorialized a 22 year old man, and the time spent there at the cemetery didn’t seem to be enough.

I’m not sure where I stopped being an interpreter- maybe it was on Wednesday when the family left the hospital for the airport. Or maybe when I started watching the grace and poise they showed while still there at the hospital. But there was a point that I stopped fighting it, and I began grieving for a CODA, a brother, a son and a friend. And even after Kevin’s death, I felt like I had made a friend, and lost one.

Throughout the course of last week, I found myself terribly at ease with wiping away my own tears, comfortable at sharing grief with people I had never before met. And Sunday as I readied for the airport and my return flight to Washington, DC, I stood in the Mowl family’s living room and hugged Kevin’s mother, father and sister saying good-bye for the last time, I looked back and wondered where I crossed the line- from professional interpreter to friend, knowing that I would never again be the same.

A big thanks to the men of Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 3rd Infantry Regiment, 3rd Stryker Brigade Combat Team who served during Operation Enduring Freedom. Hooligans, I salute you. Also, special thanks to the Mowl family, who along with thousands of families have made the sacrifice of a son or daughter, for allowing me the privilege and honor of being with them during this time, and for allowing me to write about it. -DS