This story literary brought tears to my eyes. God rest his soul. My thoughts and prayers are with her and her family! Post a Comment. Sunday, August 21, Marine 2nd Lt. James J. Remember Our Heroes Marine 2nd Lt. Cathey, 24, of Reno, Nevada. Cathey died of injuries caused by an improvised explosive device while conducting combat operations near Al Karmah, Iraq.
More than people, including Rep. Jim Gibbons, R-Nev. James Cathey, 24, during an emotional funeral Mass at St. Thomas Aquinas Cathedral in Reno. The Reno native was killed by an explosive device Aug. Czech Republic, General Patton Scholarship. News Recent News. Where are they now? The Journey Continues. Scholarships of Honor About.
Online Application. Donate Contribute. Ways you can support. She had never heard her mother cry like that. Katherine ran to the back of the living room and collapsed on the floor, holding her stomach, thinking of the man who would never see their baby.
As Beck and the chaplain remained on their feet, she glared at them. She ran to the back of the house and drew a hot bath. For the next hour, she sat in the tub, dissolving.
As she prepared to leave for the hardware store, the family dog started to howl — a howl like she had never heard before. She put the dog in the house and drove off. When the silver SUV pulled up, the Marines inside assumed someone was home. A lawn mower sat outside and it looked as if someone was doing yardwork. A neighbor drove up, looked at them and pulled into an adjacent driveway.
The Marines started to get nervous. The neighbor looked out a window at them. Their orders were to remain parked at the house until the parents returned. Winston Tierney said. She got out of her vehicle and I told my guys, 'Time to go. She looked at me and it looked like she was going to collapse.
I supported her and tried to give her a hug. Can we go inside and sit down? There are some things we need to confirm. The Marines stayed with the Catheys for the next 10 hours. He asked her if she understood. She answered with tears. When it was all over, the Marines climbed back into the silver SUV. A staff sergeant looked at Tierney. From the moment his body departed Iraq, the sturdy, heavyweight cotton flag remained nearby, following him from the desert to Dover Air Force Base, Del.
Members of his unit later told family members that Cathey was leading the search of an abandoned building when a booby-trapped door exploded. The explosion was so fierce it blew off an arm and leg of the Marine directly behind Cathey.
That man, now in recovery, credits his lieutenant with saving his life. When possible, military morticians prepare a body for viewing by the family. Specialists at Dover wrapped his body in a white shroud and covered it with a satin body-length pillow and his dress blue uniform before closing the casket lid and securing the flag nearby.
When the plane landed in Reno, the same flag was draped over the casket, which was loaded into the hearse to continue its journey to the funeral home. After all the noise at the airport — the screaming, the crying, the whining of jet engines — inside the funeral home each footstep echoed. Beck posted himself at the head of the casket, his face frozen in the Marine stare. They squeezed each other for a long time. Other family members sat on couches and some sat on the floor — hugging, holding hands, their eyes locked on the casket, for nearly half an hour.
Beck motioned to the pallbearers and began the instructions that would hold for the next three days. He then explained how to guard the casket. They all had posted watch before. They had stood at attention for hours as part of basic training, but nothing like this. They were to take shifts of about an hour at a time, Beck instructed, standing watch 24 hours a day.
For Beck, that salute embodies more than the movement itself. Earlier in the day, someone had asked him about the arrival of "the body.
They may want to hug you or kiss you. Hug them. If someone wants to shake your hand, shake their hand. But then go back to position.
As the other Marines filed into the hallway, closing the door behind them, Beck walked back to the casket. For the first time, he and Jim Cathey were alone. Beck walked up to the casket and lifted the flag back, tucking it into neat pleats and leaving just enough room to open the heavy wooden lid.
He walked around the flag several times, making sure each stripe lined up straight, smoothing the thick stitching with his soft white gloves. When he looked inside, they were no longer strangers. For the next 10 minutes, Beck leaned over the open casket, checking the empty uniform that lay atop the tightly-shrouded body, making sure every ribbon and medal was in place.
Occasionally, he pulled off a piece of lint or a stray thread and flicked it away. The casualty assistance officer is often the one to make last-minute recommendations, since by then he knows the family and — after the final inspection — knows exactly what the family will see. Whether or not the family decides on a viewing, Beck said, the procedure is no less meticulous. But Katherine wanted a few minutes alone with the open casket, to give her husband a few of the things they had shared — and one he never got to see.
Katherine draped her body over the smooth wood, pressing her pregnant belly to the casket, as close to a hug as she could get. The air conditioner clicked on, filling the room with a low hum. Ten minutes passed. It clicked off, leaving the room to her soft moans. She moved only to adjust her feet, continuing to rub her belly against the wood.
She closed her eyes and whispered something. He gave her a few seconds, then took her hand and brought it to the middle of the empty uniform. He held her hand there and pressed down. She held her hand on the spot, pressing the uniform into the shrouded body beneath.
She dragged her hand the length of all that was there. She placed the picture at the top of the casket, above the neck of the uniform. She bent down and pressed her lips to it. She took several other photos of their lives together and placed them around the uniform. She gently added a bottle of her perfume, then picked up the dried, fragile flowers of her wedding bouquet.
Before Jim Cathey had left for officer training, they were married by a justice of the peace in Denver, planning a big wedding on his return from Iraq. Her wedding dress still hangs in her closet at home, unworn.
He had a feeling it was a boy, he had told her. If it was, she suggested they name the child after him. She stood cradling the ultrasound, then moved forward and placed it on the pillow at the head of the casket. She stood there, watching for several minutes, then removed it.
She walked the length of the casket, then stepped back, still holding the only image of James J. Cathey Jr. In the house where Jim Cathey grew up, a tattered stuffed animal still peers from a heavy wooden chest.
She held the stuffed animal to her face. Later, in the kitchen, she paused at a note that has hung on the refrigerator since the day Jim left home. You know I love you and will be thinking about you every minute of every day. I miss you. Write as much as you can. I will look forward to the letters. With all my love, J. From the moment he saw the Marines at the door, he was thinking of his own. Jeff, who suffers from clinical depression, spiraled deeper the day the Marines came to the house, to the point where his family worried more about him than their own grief.
His wife hid all of his guns. Ending it," Jeff said, breaking into tears. I want to be with him. She said she would sleep on a pew if she had to. The Marines found her an air mattress instead and promised to be ready. Arriving exhausted, she almost immediately crawled onto the bed they had made for her. Her stepfather helped tuck her in. After one of the Marines dimmed the lights, Katherine opened a laptop computer on the floor. In the blue glow of the screen, she listened to the songs they would have played at the wedding they never held.
As drowsiness set in, she picked up an old T-shirt — the last shirt Jim Cathey wore before changing into his cammies to leave for Iraq. It still smelled like him. Just past midnight, Staff Sgt. Andrew Price walked to the back of the room and, like a watchful parent, dimmed the lights further. For the next hour he stood, barely illuminated by the light behind the altar, until another Marine approached from the shadows, paused before the makeshift bed and raised his hand in slow salute.
As each man was relieved, he walked into a spare room next to the chapel. In the darkness, one by one they spoke:. The lanky Marine had stood watch at dozens of funerals at Arlington National Cemetery, but none prepared him for this.
Even if she wanted us to go, I would have stayed there for her. I would have walked around in the shadows. They train us as warriors. Then at the airport. I thought, 'My wife would be doing the same thing. Inside the room, he realized there were only eight days left. I used to always tell him that. He was just a big oaf. I keep seeing that face, that big cheesy face. The last thing he said was, 'Mark time, dude. Mark time. But I also want people to know what I am doing. I suppose that makes it a little easier, but.
I called my 4-year-old son on the phone, and he said, 'Daddy, my friend Cat got killed. As the sun rose in Reno, the casinos continued to chime. Diners began to fill. In the newspapers that hit the porches, Iraq had been pushed to the back pages again. At a windswept cemetery near 2nd Lt. In the distance, seven members of the rifle guard from Reno readied their weapons.
He was killed in Iraq. I'm taking him home to his family. The realization of what he had been asked to do hit me like a punch to the gut. It was an honor for him. He told me that, although he didn't know the soldier, he had delivered the news of his passing to the soldier's family and felt as if he knew them after many conversations in so few days.
I turned back to him, extended my hand, and said "Thank you Thank you for doing what you do so my family and I can do what we do". Upon landing in Chicago the pilot stopped short of the gate and made the following announcement over the intercom: "Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to note that we have had the honor of having Sergeant Steeley of the United States Marine Corps join us on this flight.
He is escorting a fallen comrade back home to his family.
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