The Canadian flag felt heavy as I carried a fellow soldier's coffin. I still feel it 17 years later
On the anniversary of the fall of Kabul, I’m reminded of all that we lost
This is a First Person column by Matthew Heneghan, who lives in Falkland, B.C. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
The military uniform is as uncomfortable as it is inspiring. It is far more than just threading, stitches, buttons and badges that gleam — it is earned over a crucible of trial and test. Sink or swim moments woven together over the span of weeks, months and, in some cases, years. It boasts with a unique humility the soldier's name, rank and all of the things they've accomplished. Deeds and qualifications rest with perfection on the chest and sleeves of the wearer, telling a story
One such profound moment of my life in service occurred on a hot August day some 17 years ago. I was assigned with the sobering task of transporting the remains of a fallen comrade. On Aug. 11, 2006, Cpl. Andrew James Eykelenboom was killed by a suicide bomber after volunteering for one last mission. He was a medic of 1 Field Ambulance — the same unit I was in — and was due to return home in two weeks. But that was a return he would never live to see. He was just 23.
I was also 23 at the time. I felt like I could barely be described as a man — more like a boy with a few pennies of experience. Yet this man, this soldier, Cpl. Eykelenboom, wilfully raised his hand to once more stand in the face of danger. The maturity and selflessness of that act is something I still find myself deliberating on all these years later. I'd come to learn that he was as dedicated a soldier as he was a skilled healer. I admired him, never having the chance to tell him so.
There were eight of us who had been selected for the sombre mission of transporting the remains of Cpl. Eykelenboom to what would become his final resting place in Comox, B.C. Apart from field exercises and my medical training, this would be my first real tasking as a soldier in the Armed Forces. This was not my first experience with death, but it was my first time carrying a fallen brother.
We had already taken part in a repatriation ceremony for our fallen medic a few days prior at CFB Trenton in Ontario. We carried the flag-draped casket from a military transport plane upon its return from Afghanistan. Later in Edmonton, and boarding another plane to B.C., I was seated next to a woman — a civilian. I chose to ignore her glances at my uniform and focused on an arbitrary patch of wall in front of me.
"Excuse me," she said.
"Yes, ma'am."
"I couldn't help but notice — I'm sorry — but there are a number of you military types on the plane today… are you off to somewhere special?" Her query was followed by a kind and sincere smile. I wasn't sure how to respond at first. Special to whom? I suppose a final resting place could be counted among places that hold a moniker of "special," but I felt that this was not likely what she had meant.
I informed her of what we were doing. Her kind features faltered and gave way to a noticeable sadness. For the first time all day, I related to a civilian.
When the plane landed and came to a standstill, the captain's voice crackled in through the speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we'd like to thank you for flying with us today — at this time we'd like to ask that you remain seated. There are several members of our Canadian Armed Forces travelling with us today. They are escorting the remains of a fallen soldier, Cpl. Andrew James Eykelenboom, back to his hometown of Comox. We ask that you allow for these men and women to dismount the plane before leaving today as they will be taken to the runway below and retrieve the casket of one of their own."
At the culmination of this announcement, I heard an audible volley of begrudging sighs from several of the passengers. My eyes shot daggers into each one of them. We disembarked from the plane and readied ourselves in position below the cargo hold. We retrieved the flag-draped casket and carried it to an awaiting hearse. It is a weight not easily described. Until that moment, I never understood that a flag could weigh so much. I have since never been able to look at our country's red and white flag the same. There is always a melancholy when I do.
Eykelenboom was buried a few days later on another sunny August day in 2006. Not a day goes by when I do not think of that time. The folding of the flag, the ceremonious firing of rifles, the metal clang of a nearby flagpole, the sound of a subtle wind playing on the grass and trees, and perhaps most notably of all, the bereavement of those who knew and loved him. Their anguish spilled from behind my shoulder as I stood at attention.
Along the road of life, we are granted defining moments that shape us. For some, it's weddings, the birth of a child, the loss of a loved one. These moments transcend time and space and linger with a potency that many can relate to. For me, this was one of them.
I remember that soldier.
I remember the weight of that flag.
I remember it every time Afghanistan is in the news.
On the anniversary of the fall of Kabul every August.
I always will.
Rest in eternal peace, Cpl. Andrew James Eykelenboom.
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