KIA
I never knew Spc. Marcos Cintron, but he seemed like a decent guy. The sort that you’d want on your side. He was married, had a few kids, and by all accounts continually went out of his way to help others, even when he really didn’t have to. He made sure everybody was taken care of and if assistance was needed he was there, and often was a source of inspiration for many he knew. So say those that knew him. He was also one of the last U.S. servicemembers to be killed in Iraq. A distinction, I’m sure, he did not want.
It was a rocket attack. Forward Operating Base Loyalty, located in central Baghdad, on a mid-summer evening as the temperatures were sliding down from blistering to simply really hot. He was one of seven killed in the attack.
His death—as well as the others—was felt throughout the unit. Memorial services were held for each, with Cintron’s being held later on as he held strong for a week or so before succumbing to his wounds. At Cintron’s ceremony, Soldiers shared stories and jokes about him. They reveled in and remembered who he was. The good times. The times he made them all laugh or those other times where he helped them through some unwieldy task.The ceremony was similar to some 4000 other ceremonies held since 2003, which provided one way for those that knew him in the unit to both celebrate who he was and share in their collective grief.
Photographing said ceremonies nearly always feels a little off. A little intrusive. A tourist in all the wrong ways. But you figure out a way to work around that. Look for the little moments. Stay unobtrusive. And woe is the jerk that blasts away with the flash.
I’ve photographed a few of these over the years and each time and it gets me every time when, at the conclusion of the ceremony, the unit first sergeant calls out the names on the unit roster with each Soldier responding “Here , First Sergeant.” In this case, all, except for one. The name is called again and then a third time. At which point somebody replies that person is now longer there.
And then Taps is played, mournful and solemn, with those in attendance each filing past the boots, rifle and helmet memorial representing the fallen. Many reach out and grasp the dog tags that hang there, caught up in their own thoughts trying to connect through a physical reminder of the person.
I never knew Spc. Marcos Cintron. But, at the end, I felt like I did.
