Heroes Return
It was a sunny, warm July day in central North Carolina, low humidity and a cloudless sky. A Boeing 737 crawled toward its parking space on the tarmac. When it stopped, a moving stair was put in position at its port side passenger door. A few people climbed the stair and entered the plane. Those of us watching could not make out who they were. Nothing happened for what seemed a long time. Probably five or ten minutes. Then, one my one, the passengers emerged. When they reach the tarmac, they straggled, then formed into a square block. They were D Company, 51st Signal Battalion (Airborne), just arrived at Pope Air Force Base from Kuwait. One hundred American heroes, home from deployment with the 2nd Armored Cavalry Regiment in Iraq.
They were several hundred yards to the front of the crowd of family and friends waiting to greet them on the Green Ramp, a small hanger reserved for this purpose. They were too far away to recognize individual soldiers. They were still dressed in their sand-colored, desert BDUs and they still carried M16 rifles slung over their shoulders, these weapons they had just carried in a hostile, deadly place. They brought home the smells and sand of the faraway desert.
On their way home they had stopped at Keflavik, Iceland. During their layover there, Navy wives provided cookies and drinks for them. Another refueling stop in Bangor, ME, their first step on U.S. soil. At Bangor local citizens met them and provided cell phones to call home.
When they were formed up, an order from the company commander began their slow march to the hangar – and reunion. Their guidon banner carried in the lead, one hundred voices chanting a cadence ritual, a block of American heroes home from the war. Free men and women – volunteers all - who had just continued an American tradition begun by the Minutemen at Concord and Lexington. That may sound trite, but it’s real and accurate. Our son Jeff was among them. He’d been deployed for fifteen anxious months.
Years earlier these same soldiers marched, in different companies, into their barracks areas at training posts around the country looking straight ahead. Not a glance aside. Not a smile to be seen. Serious, intent, disciplined, their first sergeants watching to make sure.
These soldiers, this living block, slowly approaching waiting arms and tears and shouts of pride and joy and thanksgiving. From them not a glance aside, not a smile to be seen. Serious, intent, disciplined, their first sergeant with them, because they are battle trained soldiers. Serious, intent, discipline kept them alive to sing their way into the Green Ramp this glorious day.
Another command from the Captain and they stop. The block now still. No smiles, no searches for family, no smiles. Serious, intent, disciplined. Professionals now. The first sergeant need not watch – he knows. Old Glory is raised. The soldiers and airmen in the welcoming crowd come to attention and a recording of the National Anthem begins slowly. Civilians attend with hands over hearts, hats removed. Everyone sings along. The small hangar resounds with proud, grateful voices – the hymn of our national religion. The music ends. Shouts from the soldiers, nearing release, and the crowd. The Brigade Commander takes a microphone and gives a brief “welcome home”. Words from the Company Commander to the heroes. We can’t hear. But we don’t need to. When he finishes we hear, loud and clear “Dismissed!”
Bedlam. Glorious, happy, tear-filled bedlam. The block crumbles. The battle hardened professionals are now sons and daughters, moms and dads, brothers and sisters, and buddies. Toddlers running to daddies, girlfriends and young wives lifted in a long awaited embrace. Old men, like me, and our women crying with relief and pride.
Jeff finds us in the tumult. He’s taller than I remembered. He’s skinny. One MRE a day for a month took its toll. But he’s happy. Sure, confident, battle tried – and glad to be home.
We all find our way across the road to Ft. Bragg. We were here fifteen months ago to see these airborne warriors off. We wondered, then, who’d not return. They’ve all come back – Killian, Sgt Fritz, Chris, Roger – and Jeff. Save one. God bless Sgt. Crocker.
Hate this war. Despise the men who sent them off. Wonder if we will ever learn that war is pointless. That does not demean these soldiers. They are the best of young America. They are the men and women who answered the most difficult of all calls of their Country – the call to surrender their lives, maybe lose them. We exalt in them.
We openly wept with pride as they slowly marched across the tarmac before the Green Ramp. Their singing cadence, growing as they approached, raised goose bumps. I thought of their fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers who have acted this ritual. In spirit I was one of them – in the midst of them – proud, confident, hopeful. This living block of young men and women are this Country at its best – free, responsive, unselfish and hopeful.
Shorebird
Eastern Shore Writer's Assoc.