Mortuary Unit in Iraq Trying on Marines

A daily onslaught on one’s sense of humanity — a constant dosage of the aftermath of the brutality of war. And little or no relief when the day is done.

I would never want this necessary and unappreciated duty.

When U.S. servicemen and insurgents die in Fallujah, the bodies are brought back to camp and laid on a concrete floor under a tent hidden behind blast walls topped with concertina wire. The sign outside says: “Do Not Enter.”

Five men check the corpses and put them in refrigerators. Within 72 hours, the slain American will arrive at Delaware’s Dover Air Force Base in a flag-draped coffin, while the Iraqi will be buried in a plot outside Fallujah facing Mecca.

This is the work of Mortuary Affairs, the Marine unit that catalogues the remains of American servicemen who die in combat, referred to as angels, as well as the Iraqi guerrillas they fight and civilian victims. These Marines must cope with one of the most psychologically punishing but unavoidable tasks of war.

They are shunned by their peers because of a superstition that contact with them brings bad luck. Yet some don’t want to go home and leave their fellow Marines who are among the few who have witnessed the same horrors. They must try to stay sane even as they are confronted with the effects of gruesome killings by the shrapnel-filled roadside bombs set by insurgents and terrible U.S. firepower.

“Some of the guys, when it gets dark, don’t want to go out by themselves. Sometimes they feel like somebody’s watching them when they know there isn’t,” said Lance Cpl. Boyce Kerns, a 24-year-old from Greenville, S.C. “Some of the stuff we’ve seen you wouldn’t see in the worst horror movies and it leaves a little imprint.”

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Many in the Mortuary Affairs unit at Camp Fallujah are reservists, former cooks and supply clerks from a unit in Washington. On a recent day, their routine was perfectly normal. Several sat around a television watching “Saving Private Ryan,” others laughed and teased each other, while some were about to leave to play video games.

Some, like Kerns, volunteered for the work because they just wanted to join the Iraq fight no matter what. Others decided to do it so their colleagues wouldn’t have to, and some were assigned.

They were sent to a two-week training course that included a stop at the Baltimore morgue to get accustomed to the sight and smell of death. Many among them had never seen a human corpse before.

“As for seeing the insurgents dead, I know that these guys were out there killing Marines, they were given a choice whether to surrender or not, so seeing their corpses mangled up doesn’t bother you,” said Cpl. Jeffrey Keating, a 26-year-old from Queens, N.Y. “But seeing the Marines dead, that hurts a little bit more. But you just got to see it as a job.”

The 16 Marines who process the dead, working eight at a time in 24-hour shifts, follow the same routine.

When a body arrives, it is brought inside the tent and placed on a concrete floor. Two men are the “dirty hands” who inspect the body, catalogue wounds and check for unexploded weapons. One sorts through the slain person’s belongings. Two more are the “clean hands,” writing down what the others find.

The dead American’s name, social security numbers and place of death are written into a hardcover lime-green log book. The body is given an evacuation number and then placed in a body bag — a stack of unused bags labeled “pouch, human remains w/6 handles” sits to the side of the tent.

Iraqi dead go to a white refrigerator while American dead go to one of two camouflage refrigerators on the other side of the tent. The entire process usually takes about 15 minutes.

American bodies are then sent to a U.S. base in Doha, Qatar and on to Dover, while Iraqi bodies are buried in a plot outside Fallujah marked with coordinates from a global positioning system so relatives can identify the remains later.

“We take a picture, make sure there’s no unexploded ordnance or personal effects, and look for identification,” said Marine Cpl. John Belizario, 23, of Washington. “We bury them in a plot — four rows of 10, all facing Mecca as a sign of respect, basically.”

Everyone has to deal with the times when they’re alone, when the darkness is around them. Those in uniform often rely on the camaraderie of the fellow troops, a relief the members of Mortuary Affairs must carry on without.

When the work is finished, the Marines clean up and go to chow hall. Anyone who knows who they are stays away or barely acknowledges them because talking to them is considered bad luck.

“When the day is done, we’re by ourselves,” Kerns said. “We’ve tried to have interaction with the other units, but when they find out what we do, that’s about the end of that.”

These men may need and deserve our thanks and support more than any other upon their return.