A Solider's Last Goodbyes

(CBS)  A video of Capt. James A. Funkhouser's departure for duty depicts an almost unceremonious farewell: a kiss to each of his daughters, one for his wife behind the camera, and then he was off.

CBS News correspondent Lee Cowan reports the next time Jennifer Funkhouser heard from the military, it was at her front door. "I opened the door and I looked directly into the Major's eyes and they were red," she recalls. "And he said, 'I'm sorry to inform you…'"

The 35-year-old soldier died along with two CBS News journalists in the middle of a square in Baghdad.

And once again, a mother had to tell her children their father wasn't coming home. Jennifer Funkhouser says, "Allison is only 2 and I sat her down and I told her, 'Daddy died,' and she doesn't understand."

Assigned as an armor officer with the 1st Battalion, 12th Infantry Regiment, 4th Brigade, 4th Infantry Division at Fort Hood since April 2005, Capt. Funkhouser had been in Iraq since December. But he'd made fast friends with his Iraqi translator, nicknamed "Sam." Sam also died in the attack, the aftermath of which has appeared on TV screens the world over.

"My daughters have turned on the TV this morning, and have seen daddy's picture on TV, they asked, 'do they know Daddy too?'," says Jennifer Funkhouser. "And we just say, 'everyone knows Daddy.'"

Capt. Funkhouser was no stranger to the media. Since arriving in Baghdad, he'd been escorting camera crews from all over the world. His wife says he thought his assignments shepherding news crews around Iraq was fun. "He wanted to be the one to point them in the right direction, to show them the right images to capture, not just show them the bad things, but show them the good things that they're doing over there," she explains.

He'd talk to his father, retired Army Col. James A. Funkhouser Sr., about such things. Funkhouser Sr. commissioned his son -- a bittersweet honor, now that he's become the 2,461st military casualty in Iraq.

His father says, "There's a lot of things that you think about things that you should have or could have or would say to him, that you can't anymore."

Funkhouser's last phone call to his wife was the night before the attack. "We always ended every conversation the same. We'd say, 'I love you and I'll talk to you soon'," she recalls.