“There were a small number of men that when they spoke, silence fell when they issued an order, the response was immediate and when they were looked upon, it was with reverence. “Upon joining the unit, I began observing the Marines who they watched, how they looked at their leaders, and what they said,” Armstrong told the mourners. Major Christopher Armstrong, who has served 27 years, eight of them in the same unit as Slutman. Slutman’s wife and three daughters sat in the front pew to the left. Inside, the USMC honor guard placed the coffin before the altar. Christopher Slutman immediately stood out as a leader who was respected and admired.” The steps were lined by firefighters on the left, Marines on the right. The white gloves rose again and the band struck up the Marine Corps hymn as the coffin was carried up into the church. “Detail, hand salute!” the voice called out again, A USMC honor guard just as gently raised it. The white gloves lowered as the FDNY honor guard gently set the coffin on a red wooden stand at the base of the stone steps. She had told people that she and her husband had discussed that a day such as this could come. Her left hand raised seemingly to wipe away tears, but instead tucked back her hair. Shannon Slutman closed her eyes and tilted her head back for an instant before she composed herself. The face of a Marine sergeant standing across the street clenched as he fought back tears. A lone piper began to play “Amazing Grace.” The other pipers then joined in, filling the air with what felt at the center of the chest like the swelling of overwhelming grief. Thousands of white gloves rose to dress uniform cap brims as an FDNY honor guard carried the coffin from the caisson. “Detail, hand salute!” a voice called out. The father is an Army vet and was a volunteer firefighter, as was Slutman’s mother. The third is a firefighter in Washington, D.C. One brother is in the Marines, another in the Army. Her eyes were on the flag-draped coffin atop the caisson.Īlso present were Slutman’s parents and three bothers. Their mother, Shannon Slutman, stood in the street with her husband’s longtime best friend, Army Sgt. McKenna is 10, Kenley is 8, and Wesleynn is just 4. The drums ceased and the whole avenue was hushed as an attentive group of firefighters, Marines, and family led Slutman’s three daughters inside. The ceremonial caisson bearing the remains of the fourth such loss now pulled up to the church and stopped. That included rites for three other firefighters who had died while serving with the military during our longest war. Behind the rig came the FDNY Pipes and Drums playing a mournful “Dawning of the Day.” The pipes went silent and the drums began the same slow march they had played at hundreds of funerals and memorials after 9/11 and too many since then.
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