It’s a busy time at Arlington Cemetery, not because of deaths in
Iraq and Afghanistan but primarily those of WWII vets. Thus while
first funerals are normally at 9 am, Maj. Megan McClung’s was at 8:30. This was
actually quite fitting, because she was a triathlete and to go
running in Iraq in summer you have to get up early even for a
Marine. At least 200 mourners were present, mostly Marines and Navy
but with a large number of civilians as well.
When McClung died she was the head of public affairs for Al
Anbar Province, a vicious place that accounts for almost half of
U.S. casualties. She had moved her headquarters from Camp Fallujah
to Camp Ramadi, probably because even in al Anbar that’s where the
action is. “Ramadi is the most dangerous city in Iraq and you’re
going to get your men out there to cover it!” I heard her bark at a
non-com PAO in October. Two of my three embeds in al Anbar had been
under her, and I found her highly intelligent and absolutely
dedicated. This may displease some Marines who like the emphasize
the warrior aspect of the Corps, but I found her almost motherly in
her concern for getting reporters to where they needed to go —
including if they didn’t know at the time where they needed to
go.
Maj. McClung’s demise at age 34 came Dec. 6 while accompanying
Oliver North and his Fox News camera crew as well as journalists
from Newsweek into downtown Ramadi. Riding alongside her
was 32-year-old Army Capt. Travis Patriquin who won a bronze star while
fighting in one of the fiercest battles of the Afghanistan war,
Operation Anaconda. He was also directly
responsible for improving conditions in Ramadi by opening talks
with local sheiks and getting them to stop straddling the fence and
throw in their lot — and the young men below them — with the
Coalition forces. He provided me and other journalists with an
extremely informative inbriefing that I quoted from at length in the Weekly Standard
and has a clever (PDF) PowerPoint presentation now bouncing around the
blogosphere about how to win in al Anbar. Army Spec. Vincent
Pomante, age 22, accompanied them as turret gunner.
The journalists remained safe but a massive improvised explosive
device (IED) ripped apart McClung’s Humvee, killing the three
occupants instantly. Sadly, neither North nor Newsweek
have yet acknowledged that they were killed while trying to assist
them. North did mention McClung’s death, but
Newsweek has made no mention of the incident whatsoever.
You might think the newsweekly would feel obligated to write about
her if for no other reason than that she was the highest-ranking
female officer to die in the war.
Unfortunately while I got a shot of the wreath next to her
grave, the family requested no funeral photos. But you don’t need
photos to picture the procession of white horses drawing the open
wagon carrying the flag-covered casket; the removal of the casket
and placement next to the grave, the moment of silence; taps; then
the three-gun salute. Then came the expert withdrawal and folding
of the flag that is then handed to the parents. The parents
appeared quite shaken, as you would expect. Obviously they knew
their child might die in the most violent province of Iraq, but
it’s something for which no parent can truly be prepared. I cannot
pretend to know how they felt. But they bravely kept their
composure, even as many a handkerchief dotted the crowd. They also
showed their courage in what Mrs. McClung told an L.A. Times
reporter. “Please don’t portray this as a tragedy,” she said. “It
is for us, but Megan died doing what she believed in, and that’s a
great gift….She believed in the mission there — that the Iraqi
people should have freedom.”
It was strange to be greeted by two officers in my hometown whom
I met in al Anbar, one on my first trip and the other — who worked
with Maj. McClung — on my second. Strange for me to see them in
Dress Blues; strange for them to see me in civilian clothes. After
the ceremony I approached the casket, laid my hand on it and
thanked Megan McClung for all she’d done to help me. Then I stood
back and saluted.
They don’t come any more Irish-looking than she was, and I had
kidded her about the inherent conflict between her Celtic skin and
the Iraqi sun. So I find it fitting to conclude with an Irish
funeral prayer. Semper fidelis, Megan.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on the snow.
I am the sunlight that ripened grain;
I am the gentle autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush,
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star that shines at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there; I did not die.
Michael Fumento is a Washington, D.C.-based
journalist and former paratrooper.
