Final farewell turns strangers into friends
 
Community says goodbye to fallen Marine Slocum

By Jim Sheeler, Rocky Mountain News
April 11, 2003

The day before it all happened, the big Marine stood at the edge of the hole and removed his gloves, which were dusted with the dirt from Thomas J. Slocum's grave.

"We just heard he was coming here," David Turner said, gesturing to the plot inside Fort Logan National Cemetery. "He was a Marine, too."

The big Marine at the edge of the gravesite never met Lance Cpl. Thomas Slocum, but that doesn't matter, he said. Within the next 24 hours, thousands of people who didn't know Thomas Slocum would come together from across the Front Range to honor Colorado's first serviceman to die in the war with Iraq.

On the day the Thornton Marine was buried, strangers would line the streets and man the motorcade. Strangers would cushion and protect the dead man's family. Strangers would help lay him to rest.

In a way, Turner said, they aren't strangers at all.

"He was in the same division as me - 1st Marines," the big Marine said as he helped prepare the gravesite the day before the burial.

"He's part of the family."

Thursday morning, before the casket was brought into the church for Slocum's memorial service, friends set up posters of snapshots of Slocum as a boy - water-skiing, hunting, playing with his sister in a pool - photos of the mischievous kid with a drive he never seemed to get in gear.

In the middle of those photos was the portrait of Slocum as a man: the one in his dress blues, the flag of the Marines in the background.

"If he wasn't a Marine, he still would have become a man," his mother said earlier in the week. "He just wouldn't have been the same kind of man."

As the organ music started on Thursday, nearly 1,000 mourners filed into Immaculate Heart of Mary Catholic Church in Northglenn; for two weeks they had waited to say goodbye.

Military officials continue to investigate the circumstances surrounding the death of Slocum and at least nine other Marines who died March 23 near Nasiriyah, Iraq. The family may not know exactly what happened until the war ends.

On the day after Baghdad fell, friends regretted that Slocum would never see the scenes so many will never forget, the scenes they say he helped make possible.

"Yesterday morning I watched with most of you the hollow bronze statue that crashed to the ground in that square," said Rev. Rod Roberts, from The Good Shepherd Presbyterian Church. "Did you also see the youngsters climbing the tank to give the soldier on top a bunch of wildflowers? Tom should have been there, to receive the handshake, the hug, the proffered bouquet of fresh dandelions."

As the service continued, Gov. Bill Owens spoke, saying the only things that governors can say in that situation. Outside, the strangers on the street were equally eloquent.

"GOD BLESS YOUR SON," read a giant sign just outside the church - a sign unfurled by Robin and Fil Morales, who couldn't talk about it without crying.

"I have a son his age," Fil Morales finally managed to say. "Such a sacrifice."

Hundreds more signs, cheers and waving flags greeted the funeral procession as it made its way south. Limousine windows rolled down so the family could get a better look; many waved back as the wind streaked their faces with tears.

It was a sight that stunned even the the police who led the motorcade - many of whom are also military men and women.

As the procession turned into Fort Logan, one of the last flags they saw was 50 years old, its white stripes long since turned dull brown. The man holding the flag also held a photo of his son - another portrait of a young man in dress blues.

"(Slocum) was in my son's unit," he said. "My son is in a hospital in Germany now."

The man gave his son's name, then asked that it not be used. The man said he was given the flag by his father, a Korean War veteran who is buried a few hundred feet away in Fort Logan. As the hearse pulled by, he waved it even stronger.

"This is for all of them," he said.

Unlike most of the mourners, Terry Cooper didn't flinch as the first shots were fired during the 21-gun salute in honor of her 22-year-old son. With the first note of Taps, however, she took out a small, white handkerchief and pressed it to her lips, holding it tightly until the last note faded.

Two Marines removed the flag from her son's casket, folded it and handed her the padded triangle she never let go.

A few minutes earlier, 1st Sgt. John Kerper had formally read the certificate awarding Slocum the Purple Heart. Like the rest of the men in the Honor Guard from Buckley Air Force Base, he never knew Thomas Slocum, but also called him brother.

"You have to know who they are. It is personal," Kerper said. "It's what you do as a man. And you have to have a heart."

About an hour after it was all finished, the big Marine stood by the hole he had just helped fill with dirt, smoothing Thomas J. Slocum's grave with a shovel.

Turner has dug graves at Fort Logan for 28 years, longer than Thomas Slocum was alive.

"I call this place home - it's like a home away from home," he said. "This is where my family is. My mother and father are here. My sister is here. And a lot of my friends. You find peace out here."

Eventually, Turner said, he'll be out here, too.

As he waited for the next load of dirt to arrive, David Turner rested his hands on the shovel and looked over at the grave.

"Great job, Marine," he said, quietly.

"Semper Fi."