Timothy Price was their first child on his second tour in Iraq. His family grew more worried the more violent the country became. Then came the news. "It was almost as if he had used up a lot of his good luck on the first tour of duty," his father said. The father was numb when he heard the news. "It didn't come totally as a surprise," but it is the worst feeling a father could have, he said.
At Woody's Funeral Home, where the people were really nice, the phone rang and it was an official from the government, calling for Michael Gray's widow, his grandmother said. The young woman wouldn't come to the phone, his grandmother said: "I will not tell you what she said, but it wasn't pretty." A commander took the call and explained that Mrs. Gray was in no condition to talk but said he would convey the condolences. Michael, his mother's only son and the father of four girls, was killed in Kuwait. One of the little girls talks to her dad even now. She crawls up on the sofa and goes to sleep with an angelic smile on her face. "Hi, Daddy. I've been good. Bye, Daddy." She has a whole conversation with him, his grandmother said. "All the kids, they want their dad."
Robert Arciola grieves for his son, Army Pfc. Michael Anthony Arciola of Elmsford, N.Y., who was killed in Iraq. Alexandra Kovach, the fiancee of Michael Arciola's brother, and Pfc. Oscar Olguin also attended the burial last week at Arlington National Cemetery.
(Lucian Perkins -- The Washington Post)
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Nicholas Mason had blond hair and blue eyes, and when his sister wrote about him, she said he was probably covered in dirt. She said he would do his duty without complaining. Being a soldier was all he ever wanted to do. His sister wrote: "He is a soldier and he is the reason that we live free."
James Blankenbecler didn't really know what he wanted to do after high school, so he joined the Army. It became his dream to be a command sergeant. He went to Iraq to replace someone who was retiring. A bomb and a rocket-propelled grenade hit his convoy.
When an orange taxi drove toward them, Humayun Khan ordered his soldiers to hit the dirt while he walked toward the car, motioning for it to stop. A bomb inside the car exploded. "Where did his strength come from to face such a danger instead of hiding behind a pole or a booth or something?" his father asked. "Normally, we would try to hide. Had he done that, there would be no problem at all. It may have not been fatal."
"Dear Mom," Donald May wrote. "Sorry, I haven't written sooner, but I obviously have been busy. I was sorry to hear about Grandma . . . speaking of grandmas, tell Grandma that I'm sorry for missing her birthday again. I have a good excuse this time. (Ha. Ha.) I hope everyone is doing well. If not, tell them to do better! Sorry, yelling at people to get what I want is an occupational hazard, a hard habit. . . . Tell Grandpa to quit watching the news for me." They don't film front-line guys, he said.
Sometimes what haunts survivors is the tragedy of how they died.
Bryan Spry had so many near misses. One sniper's bullet ripped off his name tag and knocked him sideways. Three days later, a roadside bomb exploded within 20 yards of his Humvee. The shrapnel cracked his helmet and his eardrum ruptured, he told his brother when he called home. Then his Humvee went off a bridge, or the bridge collapsed. The other soldiers escaped, but his helmet got caught in the turn signal. He was trapped as the Humvee filled with water.
John Teal, from Mechanicsville, was in a convoy in Baqubah when an improvised explosive device -- a roadside bomb -- exploded. "We call it an ambush," an Army spokesman said. "It's a deadly attack."
During clearing operations, an improvised explosive device detonated near Kristopher Shepherd. He was really into his family, a good father and husband. He was supposed to call home on a Friday. But his wife didn't hear from him. "That's when it all happened," she said.
Tavon Hubbard and another Marine died in a helicopter crash in Anbar province.
Michael Lalush was killed in the crash of a UH-1N helicopter. Last year, during a graduation ceremony at his high school, they played taps. The school was going to build a memorial to him near the flagpole.
Clarence Adams III was the kind of man who looked out for his little brother, didn't want him to go through the things he went through. He died from injuries he suffered on his 28th birthday when his vehicle hit a roadside bomb.
They delivered the note just before James Adamouski boarded the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter. They saw him read the e-mail from his wife, grin, fold the note, put it in his pocket. "God, it's great to hear from home," he said. The helicopter crashed in central Iraq.
The whole neighborhood came out, people who watched him grow up. That was why the funeral procession was so long. Mark Stubenhofer had been the paperboy, the second baseman, the vice president of student government at West Springfield High School. Received a Bronze Star for helping free five Iraqi cities. Told his wife he wanted to name their daughter Hope Riley. At the funeral, his wife held a rose in one hand and Hope in the other.
Brian Medina was a "sweet" break dancer, learned to dance while he was living in Italy. Started a break-dancing club at Gar-Field Senior High School, where some students were concerned he might break his neck. In Fallujah, he was inside a gated home searching for weapons when insurgents rallied with automatic gunfire. At his funeral, another Marine leaned over the silver coffin, put his head on his fist and cried. "Sorry, I did what I could. I am sorry. I could have saved you," he said.
Then some remember how close he was to coming home, the timing that doesn't make sense, the questions that come along with the only-ifs.
Jayton Patterson had survived Fallujah. In three weeks, he would be home. He'd already sent some of his things ahead of him. His wife had bought tickets to the Caribbean to celebrate their second anniversary. When she got back from running an errand, she saw the two Marines standing on the front porch. Her legs refused to hold her up. She collapsed on the lawn.
This article is based on interviews and staff and wire reports. Staff researchers Madonna Lebling, Magda Jean-Louis, Don Pohlman, Bob Lyford and Alice Crites contributed to this report.
