Special set of soldiers are the keepers of the fallen

FORT EUSTIS

Sgt. Anthony Worsley is intimately familiar with the wounds of war: Shattered limbs. Shrapnel. Bullet wounds that carry a sniper's signature. Worsley sees the worst - comrades killed by bombs and bullets, self-inflicted wounds, traffic deaths, even the bodies of Iraqi women and children who happened into the wrong place at the wrong time.

Worsley, 30, is one of about 600 mortuary affairs specialists on active duty in the Army. He has done two tours in Iraq - 27 months in all. And though his job takes its toll, there's nothing he'd rather do.

"It's fulfilling because you get to provide a service to your comrades and their families," Worsley said. "It's sad to see all your fallen comrades. But I wouldn't choose any other job."

Worsley's second Iraq tour, with Fort Eustis' 7th Sustainment Brigade, ended in December. He spent 15 months at Forward Operating Base Adder, in Tallil, handling casualties from southeastern Iraq.

He worked on a team whose job was to gather the remains of fallen soldiers and prepare them for transport back to the United States.

At Dover Air Force Base in Delaware, mortuary affairs specialists ready bodies for private viewing, dress them and prepare for loved ones to see them.

Those stationed overseas, like Worsley, have a more clinical job.

Military medical examiners treat every death in a combat zone as a forensic case, which requires a formal determination of death.

Places of death are treated as crime scenes, lending the job echoes of the "CSI " television shows about crime scene investigators. Mortuary affairs specialists take copious notes about the positions and conditions of bodies. They ensure there are no bullets or unexploded ordnance present. At the morgue, they draft death certificates. Regulations forbid them from removing a soldier's uniform, removing shrapnel or even cleaning dried blood off a soldier's skin.

Within 24 hours, typically, remains are placed in an air-tight metal "transfer case," which is loaded onto a plane after a brief ramp ceremony.

An honor guard lines up on either side of the transfer case; pallbearers carry it up the ramp. The rite gives a unit its last chance to pay respects to a fallen comrade.

"I've seen some of the most battle-hardened soldiers shed tears," Worsley said.

The job requires the right kind of person, said Tom Bourlier, director of training at the Joint Mortuary Affairs Center at Fort Lee.

To soldiers, they're known as "92 Mikes" - after 92M, the Army code for the specialty.

Every 92 Mike is trained at Fort Lee, in Petersburg.

"We're looking for someone who has the capability of being sensitive, and the capability to handle strong things they see," Bourlier said.

Worsley wanted to be a combat medic but picked his specialty after learning that he'd have to wait a year for medic training. He said he feels he's cut out for the work.

"My psyche is a little bit different than other people's," Worsley said. "I can block everything out, detach myself."

The remains he dealt with in training were far different than the shattered bodies he encountered in combat zones. The hardest cases - three of them - involved soldiers he knew by name and saw regularly around base.

He sometimes found himself wondering whether if he had done something different - talked to them a few seconds longer, say - it would have altered the outcome.

As a noncommissioned officer, Worsley also had to ensure his soldiers were faring well. Sometimes the unit would handle a few bodies a month; other times, they'd get five in a single day.

Worsley said he tried to teach the soldiers who worked for him that even though it's a tough job, they would have to find a way to do it without it destroying their psyches.

Sometimes soldiers would dwell on a case. Weeks later, if they could still remember personal details about it, Worsley would recommend they talk to a chaplain or a combat stress counselor.

"You definitely have to talk to people, let them know how you feel, make sure you're mentally fit enough to do the next mission," he said.

Worsley took a spiritual view of the bodies he handled.

"I realize that's a hollow shell," he said. "Once the spirit leaves the body, all you're left with is a hollow shell."

When Worsley returned home after his first tour in Iraq, he found himself doing something unusual.

"I went home and planted a garden in my backyard, just so I could bring something to life," he said. He'd grown up a city kid, in Richmond, and had no experience with plants.

He grew tomatoes, cabbage and cucumbers in his garden on base at Fort Eustis. It went well, he said, until he made the mistake of many well-meaning gardeners: overwatering.

Home after his second tour, Worsley found himself craving time with his wife and two teenage daughters.

"I wanted to spend as much time with them as I could," he said. The activity didn't matter - eating dinner, watching movies on the couch, going out for ice cream.

His time in a combat zone, he said, made him "a little bit more humble, a little bit more patient, and a little bit more understanding about a lot of stuff."

He doesn't like coffee, but his wife does. Nowadays, he said, "I will sit down and drink coffee with her if that's what she wants to do."

Bourlier knows how working with fallen soldiers in a war zone can change a person.

Before coming to Fort Lee in 1974, he served in Vietnam as a junior officer in charge of a collection point for soldiers' remains.

"I can still see their faces, a lot of them," Bourlier said.

The work is always an honor, he said, even if it usually goes unnoticed.

"We work for the families, families we'll probably never meet, but as long as we can, through our work, ensure that no one comes home unidentified - we get a great deal of satisfaction out of that," Bourlier said.

Kate Wiltrout, (757) 446-2629, kate.wiltrout@pilotonline.com