As The Sparks Fly Upward

Flashback: Saturday night, August 23, 2008. I am sitting on a bus, parked alongside about 10-15 others, in a dusty lot on the Kuwait International Airport. We have been allowed to get out and stretch our legs a bit if we’d like. Though I initially resist this, I eventually succumb, realizing that I will not have many “open air” opportunities for the next 24 hours. It is almost 10 PM, so the searing heat of this desert country is not an issue.

Outside of the bus, there are the typical fixtures of the middle-east-deployed soldier’s life: porta-potties and tubs full of lukewarm water bottles. I avail myself of both, and wander around just a bit. I note that we are only a couple hundred yards away from the air traffic control tower. Eventually we are shooed back into the bus, which sits there for another 45 minutes before a Sergeant Major boards our bus and asks us to “listen up.” Nearly all “listen-up” moments are bad news; it is just a matter of the degree of badness. This one isn’t too bad: we are delayed due to malfunction of a fuel truck. Should be leaving shortly.

15 minutes later, the bus is moving, and we drive only a minute or two, then stop and are unloaded again. Our bus is the last to get on the plane, so I expect the worst: a middle seat on the immense MD-11 plane. As I walk up the stairwell and onto the plane, I am pleasantly surprised: though I am among the last souls to board, there are entire rows which are still empty. Sweet! A bit of elbow room can greatly improve the enjoyability of a flight, especially a 19-hour ride like this one.

I scoot into a side row, with three seats, taking the aisle and strategically placing my bag on the middle seat, a not-so-subtle message to those people behind me. In reality, though, I knew that my erstwhile traveling companion, Dr. Daphne Sims, has yet to board, and I want her to have that window seat if she so desires. A few minutes later, she boards and immediately grabs the window seat in my aisle, and all is well. I have a good spot on the plane, an empty seat next to me, and a good friend to help pass the time.

And thus it went for the rest of my trip home. As bad as Kuwait was—with the terrible customs procedure, the scorching heat, the tents-on-slabs, and the waiting waiting waiting—the rest of my trip seemed to make up for it. We traveled via World Airlines, who took great care of us: good meals about every four hours, attentive stewards, and lots of pillows, blankets, etc.

First stop was in Leipzig, Germany, around 3 AM. We were allowed off the plane, but did not go far; just into the same area I had visited on the way over here, with some phones, a few little shops full of gummy bears, and a wi-fi service called “mycloud” which I could not, for the life of me, get my computer to recognize. Too bad, as I wanted to upload my latest blog entry, and find out who Barack picked as his running mate. Oh well.

After an hour, we were back on the plane. The next leg would be 10 hours, and I hoped to get some sleep, but despite trying all my best tricks and then taking an Ambien, I had little success—just a few nod-offs here and there. When we landed in New Jersey, it was about 7 AM (remember, we gained 7 hours on the trip, going from Baghdad time to EST), and as I walked out of the plan onto McGuire AFB, the air smelled sweet, clean, and wet. The surroundings were green and lovely, and the cracks in the asphalt had luddles of water in and around them, rather than dirt. I was back in the USA, and it felt good to be here.

The terminal at McGuire had lovely internet access, which enabled me to update all of my podcasts and upload my latest blog entry. Then, we were whisked back onto an even-less-filled plane, for the two-hour flight to Benning.

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When we finally pulled into Georgia, it was around 11:15 AM. No one lingered on that plane for long; the second they let us get off, we all scooted out with our bags, pillows, opened packages of gummy bears, dangling M9 pistols, and all of the other paraphernalia, and hit that tarmac as fast as we could. I had planned to kiss the ground, but when the moment came, I had too much stuff in my hands and did not want to spare the 30 seconds to do so. I walked into the big, beautiful terminal at Benning, and past the band playing a jaunty march, across the floor, thinking that Lorri might be there. After a moment, I decided that they must not have allowed family into the terminal, as I had seen no reunions, but just then I had a tap on my shoulder, and there she was. Short, dark hair, a black dress, looking as beautiful as the day we were married. We hugged for a good, long while, without many words, and then the band stopped playing. We were all asked to stand for the national anthem, and then a chaplain gave a nice opening prayer. There were a couple of brief, stirring speeches of thanks from the company commander and others, and then our fate was turned over to the CRC cadre, who explained a bit of what would happen from that point on.

The next few hours might have been more painful were we not all on a bit of a “back in the USA” high. They briefed us, and then we set about turning in all of our stuff: the Beretta M9, chemical protective gear, the “sleep system” (a.k.a. sleeping bag), body armor, and other “recoverable” items. I was sad that they took my polar fleece, and my camelbak, but I got to keep the extra camelbak that had fallen to me in Iraq. Daphne Sims went through this line with me, and we helped each other out, as we handed the stuff in. At the end, Lorri picked up both of us, gave us a ride to the CRC site, where I was able to sign out right away, and be done with Ft. Benning. Goodbye to CPT Sims, and Lorri and I were off to the hotel.

As I travelled on the long road out of the CRC compound, I was struck by how surreal it all seemed: how at varying moments it seemed like I had been gone for an eternity, and at other times it seemed like I had just been here with my bawling kids seeing me off. Having Lorri’s companionship again was so sweet and satisfying—she truly is my best friend, the one who laughs at all of my jokes, loves me even when I am stinky from a very very long foot-bus-and-plane trip, and cuts me slack when I am tired and irritable. I was not at 826 Sparkleberry Road quite yet (we’d make that drive tomorrow), but I was most definitely Home.