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Note #7514 from PCUSA NEWS to PRESBYNEWS:

Having a prayer
02441

Having a prayer

A first-person account from a battlefield in Afghanistan

by the Rev. Trent Hancock,
U.S. Army Chaplain

KANDAHAR, Afghanistan -  It was the best part of the day, the part when the
boots came off, marking the end of one more day of MBWA - Ministry By Walking
Around - and one step closer to going home.  

I had just sat down on my cot when a soldier came running in, breathless, and
gasped: "Sir, an Apache (helicopter) went down, they need you at the TOC
(Tactical Operations Center) right away."  
As I got dressed, I thought: Was it a crash? Were they shot down? Are the
pilots OK? 
Arriving at the TOC, I went to the battle captain for an update. He told me
that an Apache was down and that the pilots were alive but very seriously
wounded. MEDEVAC was on the way, as was a platoon of infantry and two more
Apaches, to secure the area for recovery. A surgical team was already
standing by. 

We all crowded around the radio and listened. Someone went to a map and
marked the location of the downed plane; it was about 30 minutes away. Other
pilots arrived, concerned, anxious, perplexed.	
	
The wounded men were experienced pilots, members of Alpha Company, heroes of
Operation Anaconda. They were expected at our Charlie Med (the field hospital
at Kandahar) in about 45 minutes.
	
So many soldiers had gathered by now that some of the medical staff was
working crowd-control. I slipped through and approached the surgical team.
Introductions were made. They showed me where I could stand, explained some
procedures, discussed their plan. I felt out of place, but they insisted that
I stay. We waited.
	
Finally we heard the helicopter approach. Minutes later, the ambulance
arrived in front of the tent. The Apache's doors opened, and my battalion
commander stumbled out. He was in shock, dehydrated and disoriented. He had
been the first on the scene, the one who pulled the pilots out of the heavily
armed, fuel-soaked helicopter.	
The commander was taken to another tent to be checked out. The two injured
pilots were brought inside, writhing in pain. The surgeons began their
frantic work. I shouted encouragement from the corner. A major told me,
sharply, "Stand over there, and put these on," tossing me a pair of gloves.
As I struggled to get them on, a nurse brushed by. I was in the way.  

Slipping out of the brightly lit tent into the night, I was blinded for a
moment. When my eyes adjusted, I saw that several soldiers from our unit were
gathered outside, eager for news. Even the toughest were clearly shaken. We
stood and waited together. Hours seemed to pass as the surgeons worked to
stabilize the pilots for evacuation to Germany. Someone suggested that we
pray. And we did.
	
In the following days, it became clear that the crash had had a powerful
effect on many of the soldiers in our battalion: the fueler who had topped
off their tank an hour before the crash; the team of crack mechanics that
went out to the site to recover what they could and try to figure out what
had caused the crash; the battalion commander who wondered whether he'd
compounded the pilots' injuries by pulling them out of the aircraft he'd
feared might explode.  
	
As an Army chaplain, I had been trained in Critical Incident Stress
Management (CISM), a process designed to help survivors of tragic events sort
out their feelings. But after the crash, it was clear that there wasn't much
interest in the formal CISM process. My commander was ready to move on, learn
from the accident, evaluate our response. He was an Apache pilot himself, a
warrior. He wasn't interested in dwelling on the past.	
	
But beneath his tough exterior, I saw a man deeply shaken. He needed to tell
his story, and needed a nudge from his chaplain to do so.
	
"Sir," I said, "we need to have a debriefing. Here are the names of the
people who need to be there." I gave him the list. His name was at the top.
He asked a few questions, sighed, and said: "All right, Chaplain, tomorrow at
0900. I'll be there."

Chaplain (Capt.) Trent A. Hancock, a Presbyterian minister, serves as
chaplain with  3-101st Aviation Regiment, 101st Airborne Division (Air
Assault). He recently returned from a six-month deployment to Afghanistan in
support of Operation Enduring Freedom. On Sept. 20, 2002, the pilots who
survived the crash he wrote about were on hand for a battalion award ceremony
at Fort Campbell, KY, and were presented the Air Medal for service in
Afghanistan.  

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