Along with the tragic deaths of Canadian soldiers, there is always someone else dying over here; soldiers from Coalition countries, members of the Afghan National Security Forces or civilians who are the random targets of intimidation, bombings or the land mines that are debris of previous wars.

For those who live and work "beyond the wire" of the relative safety of the large bases, the reality of death through a "TIC" (troops in contact) or some form of an Improvised Explosive Device (IED) danger is high on their level of consciousness. For those who live and work in KAF (Kandahar Air Field) it is the ramp ceremony that tells the story of death.

I have participated in two Canadian ramp ceremonies in the four weeks I have been here. It is a larger process than the 30-second news clip seen on TV. Though ramp ceremonies are neither a funeral nor memorial service, it is our unique way of honoring a fallen comrade and saying goodbye.

When I receive the call that a Canadian soldier is dead my heart sinks and my mind rips into action. I silently ask God to be present as I execute my various duties. A communications lockdown is in effect. Through the mysterious ways of the "camp grapevine" and tell-tale sign of the lockdown, many Canadians in KAF know something bad has happened. We pray and hope such days will not come and simultaneously we await their inevitability with dread.

Trooper Michael Hayakaze died near the end of his tour and Bombardier Jeremie Ouellet shortly after he arrived. After retrieving the next of kin form, we travel to the Role 3 Hospital -- a multinational medical facility in which the uniforms of various military personnel resemble a quilt of different camouflaged patterns.

In the case of these two soldiers the designations were "VSA" - vital signs absent and we proceed to the morgue. There, with another Canadian chaplain and encircled by the staff, scriptures is read and prayers are said. I will always remember moments like the one where I read Psalm 139 for one of these soldiers:

"Where can I go from your spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even then your right hand will guide me your right hand will hold me fast."

The ERG (Emergency Response Group) meets to plan the ramp ceremony. The ceremony takes place quickly and efficiently as we are in a theatre of operations, but also because we know that a grieving family in Canada waits anxiously for their loved one to return home. Meanwhile, the deceased's comrades practise their bearer party drill.

"Padre," a soldier says later when I comment on the precision and professionalism of the bearer party, "We can't bring them back . . . we can only send them home with dignity."

Before the ceremony, the casket rests in a small building; backdropped by a Canadian flag and beside it a table holding their picture, beret and Afghan Campaign Star. To this tent come Task Force members to pay their personal respects. They stand at attention, touch gently the casket and say a few quiet words. The team of padres and mental health workers are present for support.

At the airfield, the Hercules airplane is ready with its rear ramp down. Military personnel from other coalition nations gather in formal configuration. As the sun comes up I walk onto the field and I hear the sound of birds chirping. These are the first birds I have heard in Afghanistan and they take my heart to a line in the poem In Flanders's Fields - ". . . and in the sky, the birds still sweetly singing fly, scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the dead."

The crunching march of soldiers falling into ranks, five deep to the drill commands of sergeant majors. Officers fall in, calling me back to the moment. The Canadian chaplains gather on the right side of the plane, backed by other coalition chaplains. Yet, even death and ramp ceremonies cannot slow war and the roar of planes and helicopters continue to land and take off.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the solitary LAV (light armored vehicle), a Canadian flag on the aerial, making the slow drive onto the airfield. One chaplain says a few words and the unit chaplain offers a prayer. At that point the casket is slow-marched up the ramp, tears falling from the eyes of some of the bearer party, as everyone salutes.

Standing at attention, my thoughts are with the waiting family and their unimaginable grief. The piper plays "Amazing Grace" accompanied by jet roars and chopper blades.

Then, as the plane prepares to take off and the parade has been dismissed, it's back to work. It's back to desk, computers, convoys and various other military duties. The conflict continues.