A necessary delay

December 11, 2004

NOTE: This blog was written on Dec. 11, but held for two days to ensure the family of a soldier who died gets proper notification about his death.

As I sit here tonight typing, I know something that a family in Connecticut does not.

I know their son, their friend, their loved one, is dead.

I heard the explosion that blew the doors off his humvee and tossed him onto the roadway. Even standing in a building about 2 kilometers away I was able to feel the concussion in my ribs.

And I felt the grief the moment I heard over the radio that someone was being flown away from the mess of burning metal in critical condition. My heart sank when I heard he was dead.

I’ve met Spc. Robert Hoyt. I’ve patrolled with him and laughed with him.

Arkansas Democrat-Gazette/STATON BREIDENTHAL Gunner Pfc. Robert Hoyt on patrol in April. More pictures

He was well liked and always well hydrated. His platoon buddies used to laugh at his small bladder. Anytime a patrol stopped, Hoyt had to go.

They called it “Pulling a Hoyt.”

I remember laughing at that the first time I heard it. It was the blazing heat of early summer and Hoyt was well hydrated, as usual.

He laughed along, as he always did, and even poked fun at himself.

As soldiers carried him to a helicopter at the bomb scene, he yelled at his buddies that he loved them.

He said it over and over.

It’s hard to imagine that he’s gone.

It’s even harder to know that Robert Hoyt is dead before his family does. Our lives are changed and theirs is about to, they just don’t know it yet.

Right now, a knock may be at their door, carrying the news.

Right now, their world may have changed.

There’s a lock on the Internet lab door.

The phones are off limits.

All this is in an effort to protect the family.

No one wants them to learn through a friend while standing in line at the grocery store.

No one wants them to have to deal with this alone.

Those who loved Hoyt here in Iraq — his fellow soldiers who for nine months have fought beside him — don’t deal with it alone. They fall on one another and briefly put down their rifles in grief. And then they pull each other back up onto their combat boots, pick up their rifles and march on.

Posted by Amy at December 11, 2004 03:24 PM