Touchdown on American soil was about 0545 yesterday morning, the sixth day after departure from the Embassy Compound in Baghdad, Iraq. It was a wonderful moment. We arrived in Atlanta in the pre-dawn darkness, so the visible cues were minimal. However, the first deep breath of sweet Georgia spring air made it clear – I was back in the land of promise.
We loaded onto buses for the 1.5 hour trip to Ft. Benning and headed south on I-85. No sooner were we clear of the sprawling outskirts of metropolitan Atlanta than the sun rose, large and brilliant through the early mists of the countryside. It seems Georgia has enjoyed a wet, though recently violent, spring and the whole visual verdant vitality was a welcome relief from the dust-colored monotony of Iraq and Kuwait.
Within five hours of arrival at Ft. Benning I was finally quit of my weapon and about 150 pounds of Army stuff that I had to lug halfway around the world knowing almost none of it would be used. Huge relief, though it might take a few days to get used to being in uniform without the now-familiar weight of a Berretta hanging from a shoulder holster. I’ll happily adjust. Because travel back to home station was still a day off, I had a little time to think about what is next.
I am between jobs, which is a pretty nice place to be when you’re still getting paid. The worries of the last job have a new owner, and the worries of the next job are not yet mine. So I have time to think about home.
My cousin Margie asked me if maybe, as Thomas Wolfe stated, it was impossible to go back home.
Said Wolfe: "You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood, back home to romantic love, back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame, back home to exile, to escape to Europe and some foreign land, back home to lyricism, to singing just for singing's sake, back home to aestheticism, to one's youthful idea of 'the artist' and the all-sufficiency of 'art' and 'beauty' and 'love,' back home to the ivory tower, back home to places in the country, to the cottage in Bermude, away from all the strife and conflict of the world, back home to the father you have lost and have been looking for, back home to someone who can help you, save you, ease the burden for you, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time--back home to the escapes of Time and Memory."
It’s a good question and one the military struggles with during these long wars we fight. Long and frequent deployments force changes in the men and women fighting them as well as in those they leave behind. Immense time and energy are devoted to counseling service members prior to redeployment, trying to make sure they understand that both they and their loved ones are affected by the prolonged absences. Still, it causes endless grief to many whose expectations grossly exceed the reality they often find waiting for them when they step off the plane.
However, it is by no means universal. I think Wolfe gives too little credit to his fellow man and shows too little perspective on precisely what home means. Certainly the experience of a military deployment to a war zone changes the person experiencing it, and equally certain it changes those left behind. But it is a hell of a stretch to suggest that the recombination of these changed personalities can no longer constitute a home.
Most folks in the military, as well as the tens of thousands of civilian government and contractor workers who volunteer to deploy, have a bit of wanderlust built into them. Those who married them often are bitten by the same bug. Change is welcome and actively sought, at least for some period of time. I can again quote Wolfe, who also wrote "...he was like a man who stands upon a hill above the town he had left, yet does not say 'The town is near,' but turns his eyes upon the distant soaring ranges."
This man changes homes, a much different concept than leaving them. I’ve changed mine plenty, yet still know in my heart it is a place to which I can go.
Which brings me to my last observation of this day before I head to the airport and go to my home. I have already been the recipient of a hero’s welcome, which is not entirely fitting given how I spent my last year in contrast to the real horrors experienced by those truly at the “tip of the spear.” In my case, the true heroes are the ones I left at home, particularly my wife. I was provided a comfortable place to sleep, an abundance of excellent food, and given a fairly narrow range of tasks that I was responsible for each day. There was little to worry about, occasional rocket attacks excepted.
My family, on the other hand, had a void to fill above and beyond the very busy lives they already built for themselves. I couldn’t work on the cars, take care of the yard, fix things around the house, lecture the kids, or do much of any fatherly things while away. My thoughtful and loving bride bore the brunt of this capabilities gap, and did so superbly. She also did so without burdening me with many of the frustrations I know she had to be feeling. Every phone call, every Skype session, she was never anything but smiling and upbeat. Everything was always fine and there was no need for me to worry myself.
I am pretty confident that everything was NOT always just fine, but love her all the more for the stoicism that accompanied the competence displayed at just getting things done. Susie, and untold thousands like her throughout the military, is representative of what holds families together and ensures the home will be there when soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines come home. I owe her more than I can articulate and only hope I can thank her enough for being the real hero in this ordeal.
I’ll end now, for it’s time to go home.
We loaded onto buses for the 1.5 hour trip to Ft. Benning and headed south on I-85. No sooner were we clear of the sprawling outskirts of metropolitan Atlanta than the sun rose, large and brilliant through the early mists of the countryside. It seems Georgia has enjoyed a wet, though recently violent, spring and the whole visual verdant vitality was a welcome relief from the dust-colored monotony of Iraq and Kuwait.
Within five hours of arrival at Ft. Benning I was finally quit of my weapon and about 150 pounds of Army stuff that I had to lug halfway around the world knowing almost none of it would be used. Huge relief, though it might take a few days to get used to being in uniform without the now-familiar weight of a Berretta hanging from a shoulder holster. I’ll happily adjust. Because travel back to home station was still a day off, I had a little time to think about what is next.
I am between jobs, which is a pretty nice place to be when you’re still getting paid. The worries of the last job have a new owner, and the worries of the next job are not yet mine. So I have time to think about home.
My cousin Margie asked me if maybe, as Thomas Wolfe stated, it was impossible to go back home.
Said Wolfe: "You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood, back home to romantic love, back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame, back home to exile, to escape to Europe and some foreign land, back home to lyricism, to singing just for singing's sake, back home to aestheticism, to one's youthful idea of 'the artist' and the all-sufficiency of 'art' and 'beauty' and 'love,' back home to the ivory tower, back home to places in the country, to the cottage in Bermude, away from all the strife and conflict of the world, back home to the father you have lost and have been looking for, back home to someone who can help you, save you, ease the burden for you, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time--back home to the escapes of Time and Memory."
It’s a good question and one the military struggles with during these long wars we fight. Long and frequent deployments force changes in the men and women fighting them as well as in those they leave behind. Immense time and energy are devoted to counseling service members prior to redeployment, trying to make sure they understand that both they and their loved ones are affected by the prolonged absences. Still, it causes endless grief to many whose expectations grossly exceed the reality they often find waiting for them when they step off the plane.
However, it is by no means universal. I think Wolfe gives too little credit to his fellow man and shows too little perspective on precisely what home means. Certainly the experience of a military deployment to a war zone changes the person experiencing it, and equally certain it changes those left behind. But it is a hell of a stretch to suggest that the recombination of these changed personalities can no longer constitute a home.
Most folks in the military, as well as the tens of thousands of civilian government and contractor workers who volunteer to deploy, have a bit of wanderlust built into them. Those who married them often are bitten by the same bug. Change is welcome and actively sought, at least for some period of time. I can again quote Wolfe, who also wrote "...he was like a man who stands upon a hill above the town he had left, yet does not say 'The town is near,' but turns his eyes upon the distant soaring ranges."
This man changes homes, a much different concept than leaving them. I’ve changed mine plenty, yet still know in my heart it is a place to which I can go.
Which brings me to my last observation of this day before I head to the airport and go to my home. I have already been the recipient of a hero’s welcome, which is not entirely fitting given how I spent my last year in contrast to the real horrors experienced by those truly at the “tip of the spear.” In my case, the true heroes are the ones I left at home, particularly my wife. I was provided a comfortable place to sleep, an abundance of excellent food, and given a fairly narrow range of tasks that I was responsible for each day. There was little to worry about, occasional rocket attacks excepted.
My family, on the other hand, had a void to fill above and beyond the very busy lives they already built for themselves. I couldn’t work on the cars, take care of the yard, fix things around the house, lecture the kids, or do much of any fatherly things while away. My thoughtful and loving bride bore the brunt of this capabilities gap, and did so superbly. She also did so without burdening me with many of the frustrations I know she had to be feeling. Every phone call, every Skype session, she was never anything but smiling and upbeat. Everything was always fine and there was no need for me to worry myself.
I am pretty confident that everything was NOT always just fine, but love her all the more for the stoicism that accompanied the competence displayed at just getting things done. Susie, and untold thousands like her throughout the military, is representative of what holds families together and ensures the home will be there when soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines come home. I owe her more than I can articulate and only hope I can thank her enough for being the real hero in this ordeal.
I’ll end now, for it’s time to go home.
