Silence is golden: Ranger’s grieving mother finds solace not in sympathy,
but in respect.
Ruth Voshell Stonesifer
Kris volunteered three times to be halfway around the world. First to join the Army, then
to become a Ranger and finally to go on a rescue mission Oct. 19, 2001, while all the time
I thought he was sleeping safely in his barracks.
Spc. Kristofor T. Stonesifer, my son, was one of the first combat-related fatalities of
Operation Enduring Freedom. He and Spc. Jonn J. Edmunds, 20, of Cheyenne, Wyo., died when
their Black Hawk helicopter crashed on a dusty Pakistani airstrip during Operation Rhino.
Later, his platoon leader told me he chose the best men to go that night.
Kris must have been proud to be one of the few to climb aboard that Black Hawk.
After Kris’ death, I suspected the news media would be interested to find out
everything they could about my son. After all, the helicopter crash near the Afghan border
occurred during America’s first installment of payback for Sept. 11.
I knew instinctively that chaos would descend on my family if I opened the door and
appeared in front of television cameras looking bewildered for the morning talk shows. I
saw all interviews as a diversion from our family’s need to remain strong and focused
in preparing for Kris’ memorial service. We assumed there would be more casualties.
We felt our loss should not get more attention than the other deaths that inevitably would
follow just because you could attach a first to it.
My 28-year-old son was quiet and shy. He had been a philosophy major in college. He never
would have wanted us to do the “family-in-shock-on-the-sofa” interview.
After politely declining the crews who showed up at our doorstep, we were still astounded
as they filmed our front door, mailbox and garage door. All appeared on the evening news.
The only time we would not have control over the cameras was in the very public setting of
the Philadelphia airport, when my son’s flag-draped casket would be presented to us
Oct. 24.
If the world had to witness anything publicly about our family, it would be our pride in
him and his service as an Army Ranger.
In my mind, I developed a clear picture, the one that might appear somewhere in print. My
family and I would be lined up quietly witnessing an event I never wanted to contemplate
— the casket of my son carried to a hearse by his fellow Army Rangers.
Americans would see the dignity and honor afforded an American hero returning home after
giving his life for his country.
The mourners would include a family steeped in military tradition: his dad, Frederic, a
retired Navy captain; my eldest son, Ric, an Army warrant officer; my brother John, who
flew an A-7 in Vietnam and retired as a Navy commander; and, of course, the Rangers from
Savannah, all there to salute my son.
After a wearisome wait, we walked to the open cargo door of the enormous commercial
jetliner. We turned to face the lone video camera the 75th Ranger Regiment was using to
document the ceremony and send back to Kris’ battalion overseas.
Even though the public affairs office had notified the media, to my surprise, no national
or local reporters or photographers showed up.
I thought that after all this worry, Kris would be laughing up his sleeve at his mother.
There I stood as the swirling wind tossed my hair around. My thoughts were in equal
turmoil. Was my son’s death old news? Was this payback for declining the interviews?
After Kris’ casket was secured in the hearse and I could focus elsewhere, I looked
around at a very busy construction site next to us. All activity had stopped.
Every construction worker, every security guard, every person within sight of this small
simple ceremony had come to a complete and utter standstill, paying respect to this fallen
soldier. Many were saluting.
They may not have known his name, but they knew this was a soldier who died in defense of
his country and was coming home to his family.
I was grateful that I could see through my tears and witness this poignant tribute. That
total strangers stopped what they were doing for three minutes on a runway Oct. 24, 2001,
was far more meaningful to me than the media attention.
Two years have gone by since Kris died. More than 400 families have been told their sons
or daughters have died while serving their country in the Middle East and Central Asia.
Just as with most of the families who have lost a loved one in America’s war on
terror, we have found ways to cope with the aftermath and the media attention; some things
work and some do not.
The only time I ever regretted my decision to decline interviews was a month after my
son’s death when I turned on the radio and heard a talk show host proclaim that there
had been no casualties so far.
As I angrily turned the radio off, I thought maybe I should have sat on that sofa so the
lasting image of a grieving mother would have tempered his remarks.
But I knew we’d made the right decision after Kris’ Ranger buddies came back
from their overseas tour. When I went down to Georgia to meet them, they told me they
admired the way our family did not go on the morning talk shows displaying our private
grief.
Meeting and becoming friends with these brave men gave me much-needed perspective.
I now realize that the respect of just one Ranger means more to me than the sympathy a
poignant picture could have generated.