by K. Sue Roper
Physically, I was doing well, with the exception of experiencing some achy muscles and joint pain. Considering that I was forty-five years old, I did not think I was doing too badly. I had pretty much kept up with the younger troops as we had crawled in and out of the backs of all those seven-ton trucks. Still, the aches and pains I experienced reminded me of my “older age status” on a daily basis. On days when the intensity of these maladies increased, I would modify my physical activity to working out on the gym equipment or walking instead of running. Each day I could feel myself getting stronger.
Once our gear arrived from Iraq, the enlisted members of our company worked diligently to clean and repack it into ISO containers for shipment back to the United States. These young men and women, who refused to let the officers assist, would work at night in order to avoid the stifling heat of the day that averaged close to 120 degrees. We watched out for them, providing them with special treats, goodies, and refreshments, and ensuring that the process was conducted in a relaxed, nondemanding, and civil manner.
We knew our time for going home was drawing near when we were instructed to complete the post-deployment medical screening process. The process required the completion of several forms, including a variety of questions specific to our physical and mental health. After individually answering the questions and submitting these completed questionnaires to the screeners, we discovered that all of us had indicated “yes” to the question, “Was there ever a time you felt like you were going to be killed?” For many, the times we believed that we might be killed had occurred during the convoy rides we had taken from Camp Hasty to Camp Anderson and then farther north to Camp Chesty. Having had several days to relax and reflect on our time in Iraq, we were becoming more and more aware of just how much peril our lives had actually been in.
Some reservists assigned to Camp Okinawa had brought their own cell phones to Kuwait, and we were allowed to use them to call our families stateside. We would sign up on a list to reserve a time to use whoever’s phone was chosen and would pay $1.00 or more per minute to make the call. After we had been informed that we would be leaving and going back to our real homes in the States, I used one of these phones to call Jeryl. It was 26 May, Memorial Day, and I said to her, “The next time you hear from me, I will have my foot on American soil.” Having already contacted the navy’s Plans, Operations and Medical Intelligence (POMI) office, Jeryl seemed to know more about my homecoming than I did and was already making arrangements for herself, her husband, Jim, and my mom to meet me when I arrived at Portsmouth. I so much wanted to be with them, to hug them, and to express my love for them. I had missed them deeply while on this journey, and now that we had a definite date scheduled for our return, I found it hard to wait to get home and be with my family.
The three weeks spent at Camp Okinawa allowed me to regain a sense of normalcy physically, mentally, and emotionally. Being surrounded and comforted by very dear friends and buddies, I began to feel safe, secure, and confident. I learned to relax, to find fun and humor in the smallest things, and simply to enjoy life again. I was now much cleaner, healthier, stronger, and much better groomed than when I had first arrived.
I had also successfully discarded some very unattractive habits and traits that may have been useful in times of deprivation but would be viewed as rude and unrefined in civilized society. I had once jokingly written to my sister, “I apologize ahead when I come to visit you if I use the same paper towel to wipe my face, blow my nose, then head to your restroom taking the paper towel with me.” Because this had been something we would do so often while in Iraq, it had become a habit, and had I not had the opportunity at Camp Okinawa for this gradual reentry into a civil society, I might have actually done just that.
24
THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME
For several weeks we had been anticipating a departure date from Kuwait sometime between 1 and 7 June. Although we were more comfortable at Camp Okinawa than anywhere else we had been since leaving the States, we were nonetheless very excited and thoroughly delighted when informed we would be flying out and heading home on 30 May.
Our final days at Camp Okinawa were spent discarding items we definitely did not want to bring back into our homes in the States. We trashed filthy clothing, old shoes, worn-out dingy socks, Ziplock bags filled with old coffee packets or other items we had scrounged off the ground or out of dumpsters, leftover MRE foods, and worn plastic containers. Everything we saved and planned to take back to the States had to be carefully inspected for “war trophies.” War trophies were items that would be considered in poor taste, such as guns, knives, explosives, bullets, or other items that might have been taken from an EPW or from the ground in Iraq. Prior to the official inspection of our belongings, “amnesty barrels” had been placed at designated areas throughout the camp. Any individuals who might have these trophies in their possession could drop the items off in the barrels, and no questions would be asked.
The inspection process was thorough. All of us reported to a specified inspection area where we would dump the contents of our seabags and Alice packs onto a tarp. Then the inspectors would carefully examine every article of clothing, every bottle and container, and any other item we had. Bomb-sniffing dogs were also used to ensure that none of us had any explosive materials. Once the belongings were inspected and cleared, we repacked the bags, and then they were sealed with a special tamperproof lock before being securely stored in ISO containers for transport to the States. The only thing we would be allowed to carry on board our transport vehicles would be one small carry-on bag, the contents of which would also be thoroughly inspected before we boarded the plane.
Vanessa and I met for breakfast that morning, and saying good-bye to one another was painful and sad. She had been such a tremendous support for me by providing guidance, a sense of safety, a listening ear, and even a shoulder to cry on. I had hoped she would be leaving with us, and I would miss not seeing her on a daily basis. Still, despite her having to remain a few more days before coming home, I knew our sense of solidarity and unconditional friendship would always remain intact. Saying good-bye to her that day was the hardest moment I had experienced in weeks.
Once again we were formed into transport stix, and then we waited for buses to arrive to take us to the airport. Unlike the uncomfortable old school buses in which we were first transported into the Camp Coyote complex on 17 February, these buses were large commercial tour buses, and our ride to Kuwaiti International Airport was comfortable, enjoyable, and filled with a pervasive sense of excitement.
Arriving at the airport, we disembarked the buses and were escorted to one of several tents. On entering, we presented our identification cards and progressed to a closed-off area at the rear of the ID verification station. Several tables were stationed in this area, and we stopped here to present our carry-on bags for the inspection of contents. Even the contents of our uniform pockets were thoroughly searched and carefully scrutinized. Once officially cleared, we were guided into yet another tent, where we were instructed to remain until our plane was ready to board.
The plane that would fly us home was a large United Airlines carrier that proudly displayed the American flag on its side. As we made our way into the plane’s plush interior, I stopped at the top of the steps leading to the plane’s doorway, turned, and looked around, and it hit me deep within my heart—we were finally going home after having survived so much! It was such a powerful feeling, one too overwhelming and soul wrenching to be described in mere words.
Just like the plane that had carried us to Kuwait, this aircraft was decorated with American flags displayed everywhere. The flight attendants also proudly wore uniforms of red, white, and blue, and they eagerly welcomed us on board with genuine smiles and warm hospitality. We could hear in their voices, see in their faces, and observe in their gracious and kind actions toward us that they were proud of us and of what we had done while in the service of our country. If their actions and the word
s written in numerous letters we had received were true, we knew we were returning home to a nation proud of our military sailors, soldiers, marines, and air force and one that was most grateful for the many sacrifices we had made to help make our country a safer place to live.
On the flight to Germany we spent our time sleeping, talking, and eating. I had found that whenever I was offered food, I would eat it even when I was not really hungry. Remembering well those many days of subsisting on nothing more than MRE rations and not always sure when I would be able to eat again, when food was put in front of me, I ate it all.
Following a brief refueling stop in Germany, we were once again in the air heading home. With each passing hour that moved us closer to the United States, our excitement grew, and so did the volume of our conversations. We did not talk of the past, for our minds and hearts were now directed strictly toward the future. We talked about what we were going to do first when we stepped back on American soil, what we had missed the most, and how much we hoped and prayed our loved ones would be there to welcome us home. Our heightened emotions were almost palpable, and we could barely wait for the plane to land at Cherry Point, North Carolina.
Family and friends of those from Camp Lejeune and Portsmouth were discouraged from coming to the airstrip to meet us. Cherry Point was simply to serve as a place for us to disembark the plane, load ourselves with our belongings onto buses, and be transported expeditiously to Camp Lejeune. As soon as the plane’s landing gear touched the runway tarmac, we all cheered. The sound was deafening. We were all so thrilled to be home, back on American soil again, and we knew we would shortly be reunited with our loved ones.
During the bus ride to Camp Lejeune, I sat at the window and found myself in awe as I looked out at all the greenery, the flowers, the gas stations, the grocery stores, and so much more that I had once taken for granted. Most touching and appreciated of all were the general signs, such as “We love you troops” and “Welcome home troops,” and the individual personalized signs displaying greetings, support, and love for a special friend or family member serving in the armed forces. Signs, banners, and flags were displayed everywhere: in yards, hanging from trees, draped across doors, and hanging from windows. Whether the signs were made specifically for a friend or family member serving in Iraq or ones placed by everyday Americans unattached to the military, it mattered not. Those signs, the flags, that simple show of support, appreciation, respect, and gratitude were an incredible sight to see, and they moved me deeply.
Arriving at the armory at Camp Lejeune, we turned in our weapons. I was fortunate enough to be one of the first to move through this process; more than two hundred of us were trying to complete this same task. I then went in search of a phone. I had promised Jeryl that the next time she heard from me I would be on American soil, and now that I was, I could not wait to call her.
I found my way into some administrative offices located at the back of the armory where a lieutenant (junior grade) stood. He approached me respectfully and compassionately, and while placing his arm around me, he said, “Welcome home, Commander. What can I do for you today?” “I would really just like to call my family,” I responded. Pointing at the nearest phone, he said, “There’s the phone, Commander. Call anybody that you want.”
I called Jeryl’s number, and I was thrilled when she picked up on the other end. Hearing my voice, she immediately started crying and said, “You’re on American soil!” I told her that I was at Camp Lejeune and that we were expected to leave for Portsmouth, Virginia, around 5 PM. She told me that she, Jim, and my mother would be leaving Pennsylvania shortly and would be in Virginia around nine o’clock that evening.
From the armory, the reloaded buses moved toward the staging field where families and friends waited. Even from a distance we could see that a massive crowd had gathered. Some carried signs, and others had balloons, flowers, or some other meaningful token of love and welcome. Those with family members waiting in the crowd quickly scrambled off the buses, and the air was filled with excited and joyful exclamations as hugs and kisses were exchanged between husbands, wives, children, and friends. It was a beautiful, touching, and very moving sight to behold. Those of us who did not have family waiting at Camp Lejeune busied ourselves with unloading the seabags and gear from the buses.
Around five o’clock in the afternoon, those needing transportation to Portsmouth climbed aboard a Bluebird school bus for the final four-hour trip north. Despite the smallness of the bus seats, this bus was not as crowded as when we first traveled to Camp Lejeune because several families and friends of our Portsmouth comrades had met them at Camp Lejeune and were transporting them home in their own vehicles. Each of us riding in the bus had an entire seat to ourselves, and the trip was comfortable because we were not wedged in like sardines, as had been the case before.
Arriving at the NMC Portsmouth compound, we were off-loaded from the bus at the base gym. More families were eagerly waiting to be reunited with their loved ones, and the deeply moving scene of warm hugs and joyful kisses being exchanged repeated itself once more. Unfortunately, my family was not there, so after catching a ride to the hospital, I called my friend Cdr. Tam Martin. Tam had continually stayed in close contact with Jeryl, and having been notified I was expected to arrive sometime that afternoon, she was somewhere in the hospital waiting for me. On receiving my call, she immediately came to meet me at the hospital’s information desk. Our reunion was a very emotional one. Tam had been there to bid me farewell when I deployed 29 January and was now there for me again, welcoming me back home after 122 days spent on a journey unlike any I had ever experienced before.
Tam and I exchanged hugs and shed tears of joy, and then we quickly threw my seabags into the car and left the base. On the way to my house we made a quick stop at a local grocery store and bought some ice-cold Corona beers. It was dark when we arrived at my house, but I could see it was completely intact and awaiting my return. Walking into the gate of my own backyard was an incredibly surreal experience. Was I really home? Was this a dream?
As I went up onto the deck in my backyard, I immediately removed my boots, boots that I had worn throughout my journey and that I swore I would never wear again or even bring into my house. Tam graciously handed me an open beer, and I began walking barefoot around my yard. I stopped and looked at every single flower, touching them, smelling them, and loving and cherishing each of them. Yes, I was really home; no dream could possibly be this good.
Because it was 9:30 at night, I am sure that if anyone had observed Tam and I laughing and hugging and looking at and touching all the flowers while we wandered around the yard barefoot with beer in hand, they would have immediately thought we were both crazy or very much under the influence. Personally, I did feel under the influence, the influence of absolute joy, true happiness, and pure delight at finally being home.
While we were still out wandering around the yard, I heard the sound of car doors closing. My back gate, through which we had entered, was still open. I turned around, and walking through the gate were my mom, Jim, and Jeryl. My heart exploded with joy. I grabbed my mom and squeezed her tight. She was crying, I was crying, we all were crying. I remember little of what we said on seeing one another, but I will never forget how loved I felt being hugged by my sister and my mother, and having the arms of Jim encircle me in a big bear hug, welcoming me home.
Jeryl was disappointed that I had arrived at my house before they did. She had bought numerous small American flags and had wanted desperately to have them placed all throughout the yard and garden so that I would see them on my arrival. I am not sure when she actually did place those flags, but maybe it was sometime in the middle of the night. What I do know is that when I awoke the next morning, my yard and garden were filled with flowers and flags. It was an incredible sight and such a heartfelt symbol of how proud she was and how much she loved me.
I found it hard to believe I was really home and surrounded by my family. At times, I felt as thou
gh I had entered into an alternate reality as I wandered around looking at everything, talking, laughing, and simply cherishing the sense of safety and security that can only be achieved in one’s own home. I had spent so many months adjusting to various living conditions, making sandpits as homey as possible, holding ropes and pounding stakes to prevent the wind from destroying our tent houses, and never feeling quite safe. Being home, in my own real home, made me realize there really is no place like home—it was safe and it was secure, and as a result of our small contribution toward the war on terror, I hoped it would remain so for many years to come.
EPILOGUE
Although I arrived home sixty days prior to my official retirement date, I would never again enter the operating theater of a military facility as an active-duty anesthesia provider. Having enough days to start terminal leave prior to retiring, I chose instead to end my career by providing anesthesia in a tent in Iraq to a seriously wounded soldier. I could ask for no higher honor bestowed on me than this, my tribute to the navy and to my country.
I chose not to have a formal retirement ceremony. Instead, I celebrated the end of my twenty-five years of naval service with a gathering at my home, surrounded by my family, friends, and flowers, all of which I had longed to see for months.
The past year has been one of transition: retiring from an organization after twenty-five years of service, returning from a war, and adjusting to a civilian lifestyle. I am reminded on a daily basis of the war that continues and the young lives that will be either horribly changed or lost as a result of it. At times, I cannot help but relive the painful experiences I witnessed in the final months of my military career, but I have also been able to pull from those memories positive lessons learned.