A Reality Day

I'm standing in front of my closet looking in. Uniforms hang in a line like tin soldiers on a firing line. The Polo style shirts to the front, the short sleeves in the middle, and the long sleeves bring up the rear. I thumb through the long sleeves finding the one in the best shape. Wishing I had put one aside way back when they were issued to me so I would have a new one for these special occasions.


I find my best pair of pants hanging to the front. The tie is hanging on the tie rack on the back wall and the shoes are on the floor still in the box. One squirt from the bottle of Windex and the chloroform shoes are shining and reflecting the room surrounding me.

The shirt is stretched tight across the ironing board, I pay meticulous attention to the creases, making them as sharp as possible. Its a special day for a brother officer and I want to look my best.

The shirt ironed, I turn the top of the hanger so it will catch the top of my closet door. The shirt now hangs flat against the door so I can dress it. I've shined all the chrome buttons and badge and begin to put the buttons in place. The name tag sits flush across the top of the right pocket. I hold the badge in my hand and ponder just a moment. Just about every day I place that badge on my chest. I don't really think about it anymore. I just do it; it's part of the ritual; just part of getting ready to go. I reflect for a minute on its meaning; why I wear it? Its representation for me and for the community I, and all police officer's, serve. Today, the badge feels heavy as I look down on it in the palm of my hand. Today, it is.

I hold it up in my left hand as my right slides the black band across the center. The band is the universal symbol of mourning for those who wear a badge. It seems we wear it much to often now.

One last check in the mirror. The gig-line is straight, all the creases are crisp and distinct, the metal on my chest shines as much as the shoes on my feet. I feel that if that fallen officer were standing behind me, looking over my shoulder into that mirror, he would approve; he would have done no less.

I walk out to my car. The night before was spent washing and polishing every surface. Knowing it was an extension of the image. It sits there like a great steed waiting for its rider, for the soldier that will guide it into battle.

I turn the key and the engine purrs. My mind drifts and I think. Human nature is a funny thing. Every officer knows he could be killed during that tour of duty. We all understnad it comes with the job. But we do it. People always ask me, why? Why would you do it if death was a possibility? I ask myself that now. Each officer probably has his own personal reason, but the answer based on human nature is a simple one ... we don't think it will happen to us. Its always going to be the other guy. Think about it. The reality is that every time any one of us gets behind the wheel of a car, we could be involved in an accident and lose our life. Thousands of people are killed every year in car accidents and I'd bet that not one of them left their house that day thinking, "You know what, today I think I'll wreck this car and call it a life." So we drive on. If you knew that day you would be killed in an accident, would you go? This mindset is the same for the officer. They tell us in the first day of training it could happen, it's part of the job, accept it, learn to live with it. And we all sit there and think, "Wow, gonna hate it for the person that happens to ... glad it won't be me."

I put it in gear and begin the drive. Officers from all over the country will show to pay their respects when a brother officer falls. The fact that the fallen officer was not known personally is not important. Its the understanding of what that officer stood for, what that officer was defending, and surrendered his life for. We believe we are there to represent that officer. The truth is we are there to honor that fallen officer, the reality is that fallen officer is representing us.

A church won't hold the amount of people that will honor this hero today. The city lends the Civic Center hoping it will suffice. I turn the corner and see traffic detail officers all ready giving directions. Restricting cars from gaining access to certain areas; allowing others forward. I am in a marked unit so I am eased into the line. As I slowly pull forward I see a rainbow of colors. Patrol cars of every color in the lane, some from as far as a couple states away.

Officers wearing every type of uniform imaginable. In our job we wear a multitude of uniform types. This officer had been a road deputy, so he wore the department uniform; he was on the SWAT team, so he often wore BDU's; and he was a narcotics officer, so he wore regular street clothes or a suit. I saw all that on different officers each knowing they represented a different place of that fallen officer's career.

At the door, I sign the book and walk into the auditorium. Soft music plays. Directly in front was the casket, which was open. I knew this officer, but not well. He worked an undercover operation for us during an investigation we had. He posed as a UPS driver and made a delivery. Nice guy. He was a black man but had those green eyes that demanded you notice him. The kind of eyes you don't forget. I walk forward to pay my respects. Death never allows us to look the way we are. It's sad that death is the last memory we put in our minds of people we know and love, isn't it? In our older people, we stand over them and think, "They had a good life, it was their time." Today all I can think was that this man was robbed and life is sometimes so unfair.

I take my seat. I hear someone ask a question of me from behind and I turn to answer. In that moment, an anguished cry disturbs the tranquility that a funeral brings. The hair on the back of my neck stands and my head whips around to find the commotion. A friend? A family member? has collapsed into the arms of another at the casket, a white towell brought up to cover his weeping and the finality of the event registers in his heart.

When the ceremony starts, the Civic Center was full. From outside somewhere on the street the distant sound of bagpipes start. The auditorium grows quiet and still as we listen. Some heads already begin to bow. The sound approaches and grows until you can feel the notes bouncing off the walls. A man in a plaid kilt and full Scottish attire enters through the door and pauses a moment. His cheeks are blown out and the beauty of the music touches me deep inside. All officers stand and face the aisle as the family enters.

There are hard parts in any funeral. Watching a young wife with two or three children, no matter what their ages, walking forward holding each other, trying to appear strong ... that's a hard part. The mind races and tries to take you to another place. Officers in the room can talk about dedication to duty. They can talk about sacrifices they are willing to make; or trials and tribulations they endure. Standing there watching that family slowly move forward another reality sets in. That man gave his all, but he's gone. But that woman walking with her arms around those kids, she's not. That woman who loved someone with all she had, she has to continue to move on in life. She has to get up tomorrow morning and she has to function. She'll have support from family and friends ... for a while. But life moves on and so will thiers and there she is left to do it alone. That is sacrifice because wives know it's going to be that way. They know in the end, it's them, and them alone, but they do it. That's dedication! She sits, her arms still around her children as they look around and take it in. They probably didn't realize until this very moment, looking around at the several hundred friends, co-workers, and peers, what a great man, her husband, their father, was.

As the ceremony came to a close, the Honor Guard stepped forward. Marching back toward the casket with the sharpness and precision of a true miltary drill. In silence, the American Flag was raised from the draped position it had been in. It was so quiet now that you could hear the snap as the Honor Guard tri-folds Old Glory, first to the left, then back to the right. With four stars in the upward position, it was brought close to the heart and marched forward. The casket just behind.

I find my car in the line. I wait as the procession is formed. The cemetary is just a few miles away and I wonder if the head of the line will arrive before the tail can catch up. The traffic officer in front of me waves me forward. Just a few hundred yards up the road, I see a construction crew. They had stopped their work and were standing above the sidewalk on a knoll. Thier hardhats tucked under their arms, some with heads down, others staring apologetically as we pass. As I follow the parade of cars in front of me, I was filled with pride. It seemed that every business, every person who could, had left their place of employment or thier house and now stood solemnly along the route in tribute, no ... in appreciation for what this man stood for, for what he had taken that bullet for, for the understanding that he had given his life on that fateful night for them to have just a little safer community to live in.

The lump entered my throat as the miles passed slowly. The tears that fell were lost unashamedely. We all have our beliefs about the afterlife, and if it was possible that this officer could look down and see ... I know he would have been proud. Every officer knows if he falls in the line of duty, other officers will be there for him. It goes without saying because we get it, we've been there and understand it. But to have a community show that kind of love and suport, THAT is what makes the job worth doing.

The hearse sat alone on the gravel road and waited. After everyone had arrived, the uniformed officers formed two lines starting from the hearse and ending at the gravesite. Somewhere off behind us, the bagpipes started up again. This time there were no walls to reverberate off of. The sound was lonesome and traveled from us never to return. It seemed fitting.

The casket was carried through the thin blue line, as some call it. Each of us holding a salute as he is brought to his final resting place. The family followed slowly, shock still registering as the realization of the meaning of the next fifteen minutes loomed in their minds. Some of the family members looked at us as they passed and gave a slight nod in appreciation. What can you do, but acknowledge and hope they know they are in your prayers.

The Pastor spoke, though I couldn't tell you what was said. There were no microphones this time. His words were meant for, and had meaning for, only the family. The Honor Guard again performed their duty flawlessly as they folded the Stars and Stries for the last time. The flag was passed to the Sheriff who in turn walked to the widow, leaned down and spoke the words every spouse is proud to hear, yet regrets hearing them. He speaks softly, "This flag is a symbol of the service your husband performed valiantly. Please accept it on behalf of a grateful community and country for his loss was not in vain."

I stand erect, hands stiffly at my side, eyes straight ahead as my military background has taught me. Braced. I know what's coming next, yet when it comes, I still flinch. The first volley of rounds seems to catch everyone by surprise. There are sharp gasps from people. Some let out their emotions that they had fought hard not to release. Two more volleys are fired; three in total from seven guns making the twenty-one gun salute. Across from me, an officer with the New Jersey State Police stands in the same position I am in. His uniform looks like the old Canadian Mounties, only in blue. I had seen him earlier and thought if a poster child for law enforcment had to be picked, he would be the one. Well over six foot and built like a linebacker. His face shows no change, yet a single tear drop reflects off the sun and for the briefest moment can be seen before dropping to the ground below.

Once the final rounds have echoed and died, there is an unnatural stillness in the air. From the top of the hill, just over our shoulder, the lone figure appears. The trumpet raises to his lips and the saddest sound any soldier every hears begins to play. Taps is a short song, yet once heard, it's never forgotten. It brings the meaning of the day to the heart and leaves it there forever.

As with all fallen warriors, he is graced with one final salute from his brothers in arms. Officers begin the line. One step is taken and the right hand is raised in a crisp salute, then dropped just as crisply back to the side. It's over. There is nothing that can be done except to leave so the family can have thier last moments to say good-bye. As I walk up the hill, I think ... there is no difference in this officer and me, or any other officer who serves their community, except it was his time.

Every officers main goal every shift is to go home alive when the shift is over. When a fallen officer leaves us, each of them leave us with one gift. That gift is to remember the reality of the job so that we can be better officers. We keep them with us as we patrol, they whisper in our ears when things just aren't right, and the gift they leave us prevents so many others from the same fate. It's the ultimate gift.

When I began writing this, it wasn't important who the man was and how he died because officers are killed in many different ways and the funeral I descibed could be any of those officer's funeral. But, after proof reading the story, I knew questions as to how he died would be asked. I don't know all the details so I'll only say what I know, or was told.

It was late and a group of officers were serving a narcotics search warrant on a house. It was a house narcotics had been bought from during the investigation. A lot of officers/agencies like to serve these type of warrants in the middle of the night or early morning to give us the element of surprise and hopefully catch most folks in bed and not ready to react. The officers hit the front door and began sweeping the house announcing police officers serving a warrant. As they approached a closed bedroom door, two or three men inside the bedroom began shooting through the closed door. This officer was the first one at the door. As the rounds came through the door, he was hit in the face and went down. As the door was kicked open, the suspects threw their guns to the gound and surrendered. The police never fired a shot.

This story was dedicated to all who serve and to those who've paid the ultimate sacrifice. God Bless you and rest in peace ... job well done. 10-7 ...10-42