It's My Country Too

by Jerri Bell, Tracy Crow

  • • •

  By the time I joined the Air Force in 2006, deployments were predictable. So were homecomings. At Hurlburt Field, an Air Force Special Operations base on the Florida panhandle and one of the main suppliers of pilots and Special Forces to Iraq and Afghanistan, the cycle had clockwork regularity. Once a month, a contracted aircraft took hundreds of troops away. Once a month, an aircraft brought hundreds back. Because of the consistency, or perhaps in spite of it, the base turned each homecoming into a fanfare event.

  The public affairs office where I worked played a prominent role in the planning of “Operation Homecoming.” We invited local and regional media and always had takers. This was a military town, and everyone loved a feel-good story, especially when the date fell near a holiday. (Of course, for every planeload that came home in time for Christmas another left just before, but we focused on the positive.) Local civic leaders were invited, too. Mayors, school administrators, presidents of chambers of commerce, and business owners formed a receiving line with base leadership to shake hands with each returning hero.

  The events were always the same. The sun was up or down, or somewhere in between. We gathered in the east hangar or the west. Patriotic music played on a loop. A female reporter wore too much makeup, but drew approving looks from the men in the audience. There were American flags and yellow ribbons and a huge crowd of family and friends. Everyone looked anxious. Children held hand-painted signs: “WELCOME HOME DADDY!” “WE MISSED YOU MOMMY!” Some sat on cement barricades that flanked the walkway to the flightline. Others ran giggling through the throng. A few slept in parents’ arms.

  There were babies who’d never met their fathers, always a media hit. One of my public affairs colleagues or I would approach the new mother and ask her permission to be photographed, videotaped or interviewed. If she agreed, we gave her the security guidelines: keep locations and timelines general (Southwest Asia, six months); it’s okay to talk about deployments being difficult, but don’t dwell on the negative—we’re here to celebrate.

  Some wives and girlfriends dressed up. They wore short skirts, even in December, when temperatures dipped into the 20s and wind rattled through the gaping hangar. Once, a woman wore a trench coat which appeared to have nothing beneath. Others wore pajamas, no hairspray or makeup; they had done this many times before. Eventually, routine trumps excitement. But you never get used to the waiting.

  It was always too hot or too cold. After 24 hours of transit from the Middle East, layovers and customs proceedings, often a Gulf Coast storm, the flight was never on time. Inside the hangar, the patriotic loop started over. The pretty reporter’s lipstick smudged. A baby cried. A girlfriend chewed nervously on her fingernails. Her boyfriend would propose when he got off the plane—we would feature a photo on the front page of the base newspaper—but she didn’t know that yet. Flags twitched. Signs drooped under tired arms. Then an announcement: “The plane is five minutes out!” and the crowd was rejuvenated. Signs snapped to attention. City and base leaders took their places along the center aisle. The media angled their cameras at the empty runway. Parents woke sleeping children and joined the growing mob straining at the barricades.

  I liked to stand near the back. From there, I could see the media, make sure their cameras didn’t pan to the other end of the flightline where our covert Special Operations aircraft were parked. I could pick out familiar faces in the crowd of returning airmen and dart in for a quick, tired hug. I could watch clusters of families and friends point and squeal and jump up and down and cry, and kids run into a pair of open, camouflaged arms.

  I attended almost every homecoming at Hurlburt Field. Initially, I went because it was my job. Since the events were often outside normal duty hours, we rotated assigned personnel, but I quickly started volunteering to help on my days off. I genuinely enjoyed the ceremonies. In contrast to the stress and frustration of my daily job and the constant mass media flow of bad news from the war zone, these little happy endings were refreshing. For a few hours, no one had to worry about what happened yesterday or last week, or what could happen tomorrow or the next day. It didn’t matter if the sun was up or down, if it was hot or cold. The world zoomed in on the east hangar or the west, and that hangar was full of joy.

  Mostly I went because every homecoming reminded me of my mom.

  • • •

  I knew my turn would come eventually. Deployments were the reality of military service in the post-9/11 era. I wanted to go; I wouldn’t feel like I was fulfilling my duty otherwise. I didn’t think about the possibility of not coming home—the idea was too vague, too surreal, too terrifying—but I dreamed about my homecoming. I had been in the crowd and on the fringes, and someday I would be on the plane. I would hear people cheering as the front door creaked open and the Florida sunlight or moonlight spilled into the cabin. It would take forever to unload. My family would grow impatient, like thousands of families before: Where is she? Everyone looks the same! What if she’s not there? Then I would make my way out the door, down the stairs, and onto the tarmac to be funneled through the outstretched hands of the base commanders and city leadership. The scene would probably be overwhelming, a sea of arms like the legs in my memory. But it would be heartwarming to get such a reception. Commanders I’d worked with would pat me on the back, maybe even offer a hug or a high five. Welcome back, L-T, they’d say. We missed you! Working my way down the line, I would see my colleagues hovering by the media, and they would grin and wave. The reporters might recognize me from past media escorts and wave, too. Flags and posters would dance past as I reached the main crowd. The shouting, the colors and the patriotic music would build into a bubble of emotions. Then I would see my family at the same time they saw me. It would be just like all the homecomings I’d witnessed. It would be perfect.

  • • •

  When I flew back from Afghanistan in March 2010—almost exactly nineteen years after my mom came home—I was the only military passenger on my commercial airliner. I had traveled by helicopter from a small Forward Operating Base near the Pakistan border, then left some of my deployed unit at Bagram Air Base, the military’s main hub in Afghanistan, where their home units required additional paperwork prior to departure. Others had flown with me to Baltimore-Washington International Airport, where we were herded through a small crowd of USO volunteers whose cheers and unfamiliar faces were as genuine as they were jarring; then through customs, then to separate terminals for separate flights back to wherever home—or home base—might be, barely registering that after nearly a year of living, eating and working together, depending on each other for survival, those jetlagged, bewildered moments might be the last we ever shared.

  Most of us made the final leg of the journey alone. When mine ended at the Tampa International Airport, there was no celebration waiting for me. No screaming spectators or clicking flashbulbs, no important hands to shake. The air wasn’t filled with patriotic music or glitter blowing off homemade signs. I didn’t need to elbow through throngs of camouflage to find who I was looking for.

  In the last year, I had seen my family for four days—a brief foray to my hometown outside Seattle after three months at an isolated training base and before my nine-month deployment. We emailed frequently and talked by phone when my work schedule, the twelve-and-a-half-hour time difference, and third world technology allowed. I’d shielded them from much. I didn’t talk about the creeping fear that even fifty pounds of body armor couldn’t keep away; the local attacks that sent ripples of paranoia through our tiny, vulnerable compound. I didn’t mention the frustration and hopelessness that clouded daily operations, each small victory overshadowed by corruption, violence, or bureaucratic red tape. I didn’t admit my isolation—even on a base crowded with soldiers, contractors and local Afghan workers. Once, in a phone call, Mom told me it was harder for her having me deployed than when she’d been gone herself. It was the closest I got to crying to my parents.

  Six months later I emerged at the
Tampa airport. I had been in transit for eight days, including nearly twenty-four hours of straight flight time from Afghanistan to Turkey to Germany to Baltimore, where I had sleepwalked through a few hours’ layover. My internal clock was stuck halfway around the world. My head was straining through a thick fog to make sense of the sleek terminal and bright windows, people in civilian clothes, neon restaurant signs, the discordant symphony of music and newscasts and flight updates, the missing weight against my thigh where my pistol should be holstered. I felt like I was on another planet.

  Then I saw my family. My six-foot-two brother was easy to spot at the end of the terminal ramp. Next to him was his girlfriend, holding a small American flag, and my parents, straining against the security rope. All my senses zeroed in on them. My mom yelled, “There she is! There’s Lauren!” Then I was seven years old and running into her arms, crying into her hair.

  And for a moment, the world was perfect.

  Tiffany Wilson

  (1985–)

  U.S. Marine Corps

  Tiffany Wilson of Adrian, Michigan, joined the Marine Corps Reserve in 2004. During her time in the Reserve, she earned a bachelor’s degree in secondary education from Eastern Michigan University. Upon graduation she volunteered for a deployment to Afghanistan as team leader of a Female Engagement Team (FET). After her discharge from the Marine Corps in May 2012, she earned a master’s degree in professional counseling from Liberty University. Below are excerpts of letters she shared with a blog hosted by the Women Marines Association.

  From “Life as a FET 2,” posted October 28, 2011

  We have had some interesting experiences since I last wrote. We had to go console the family of a village elder that was killed hours prior. It was extremely sad.

  I was really nervous. This was the same house [in which] I made bread, so we had been there before and started to establish a relationship with them. We knew the boys really well because we have been to the school many times. But I was afraid they blamed us for his death. It’s hard enough to comfort someone after a loss when you’re close to them, so trying to say the right thing to someone who is of a different culture, different language, and you only barely know. . . . I thought it was going to be tough. The 11-year-old daughter was the only witness and as soon as she saw us she started spilling the story. It’s like she needed to tell it.

  • • •

  In Afghanistan, this area anyway, they don’t have funeral homes, so they have to bury the body right away. And they don’t bury them under the ground. We have walked through one of their graveyards and there are people-shaped mounds of rocks and dirt everywhere. They decorate the graves with long sticks with different color pieces of cloth. I know it’s hard to picture. The women do not get to go to the burial. So when we arrived at the house to console the family it was just the women there. We went in the house and there were 20 women all dressed in black gathered together sitting on the floor. I have never seen so many women here in the same place. We sat down in front of them and they all crowded around and we did our best to offer condolences. I told them I was sorry for their loss and if there was anything they needed to let us know. My linguist said a prayer from the Koran. The eldest daughter who is in her 20s had tears rolling down her face. I barely knew the guy but seeing the women in so much pain, I had trouble trying not to cry, too. I know, very un-Marine of me. They asked if we would come back, though, so I took that as a good sign.

  • • •

  Besides that we have been doing a lot of the same. Going out on patrols, going into the homes of the locals, and trying to talk to the women. No matter how much I try to reason with myself it still gets to me that the women, usually the older women more so, don’t think their opinion has any value. We asked them if they want to send their daughters to school and they said, “I’m just a woman, it doesn’t matter what I think, you should ask my husband.” I try to tell them that I care what they think and that it does matter. Just to maybe plant a tiny seed of change in their minds. I’m not expecting to change their culture and really we’re not here to do that. We’re here to give them a voice, learn their concerns, and do what we can to improve their lives. But it still gets to me.

  Today we went back to the home of the man who was killed. I think we had the best conversation we have had so far. It was more real and honest than the women normally get. You see, although they talk to us, you can tell they’re always holding back. Today there was no holding back. They said one of their sons was told, “If you go to school we will cut your head off” after we were at the school that very day handing out supplies. How brave is that kid to still go to school! But hearing things like this affects me so much. I can’t help it. Is there such a thing as caring too much? The women also said today, “Do you think I want to marry off my 10-year-old daughter, no I do not, but we know we cannot provide for her and feel we have no other choice.”

  There were fun moments, too. They wanted to know if in America the men have to pay money to the bride’s family like they do here to get married. So we tried to explain that in America you meet someone and you fall in love, and then you eventually get married. They were amused at this. They asked if it is the man or woman who falls in love. When we told them both, it was a surprise to them. They asked if I had met someone who I loved yet. I said not yet, hopefully someday. The one woman said, “Don’t get married, men are a hassle.” They had a lot of questions for us today, which makes it interesting. They asked if it would offend us if they call us “Americans.” We told them no, but I’m still trying to figure out why they would think it would be offensive. One of the women tried to give me her baby. No joke. She said Take him, he will make you happy.

  From “Hello from Afghanistan,” posted November 26, 2011

  We went out to the front gate of the base and started blowing up balloons and blowing bubbles. And soon enough the kids started coming. At first it was three or four, and then they just started trickling over and we ended up with about twenty. They loved the balloons. We had those really long balloons, so we made them hats. Again, it strikes me that these simple little toys that American kids take for [granted are] something they have never seen before. Kids here aren’t really kids in some instances. They work hard, and help take care of the younger kids.

  We went yesterday . . . finally . . . and did a VCP (Vehicle Check Point). Which is basically where the Marines and the ANA (Afghan National Army) and the ANP (Afghan National Police) search all the vehicles/donkeys/bicycles/people walking that come through. You’re probably thinking, Donkeys? But it is very common here to have kids riding around on donkeys. They also use them to carry crops they are harvesting. Sometimes the donkey will be carrying so much stuff you can’t even see the donkey, and then there will be a kid sitting on top of it. They don’t have horses here that I have seen. Motorbikes are also a HUGE thing here. Most of them don’t own a car but they usually have a motorbike. You would be amazed how many people they fit on those things, too. A family of four, three men. . . . It’s not unusual.

  [At] the checkpoint, the ANP and the ANA do most of the searching, except for the women . . . that’s why the FET are there. The ANA and ANP do not have women, or at least it’s extremely rare. Out of the seventy-five people that came. . . . There were eight women. Sometimes the insurgents will put things on the women because more times than not there is no woman to search the women. A lot of times if they see a woman in the car or on the bike [the guards] won’t even search the men. So you can imagine how useful this can be to insurgents.

  The women if they are out are always escorted by a male relative. And they are usually wearing a burqa or some other sheet-like cloth that covers their entire body. It’s not like this in all of Afghanistan. In the cities women walk around by themselves and don’t cover everything up. But Helmand Province is the most conservative . . . it has a lot to do with their tribes. Afghan is a tribal society. The Pashtuns that are mostly in Helmand are more conservative. . . .

  Yesterday,
when the women realized that we’re women they lifted up the burqa (they wear clothes under[neath]) and let us see their face and search them. The older women usually don’t wear a burqa; they just cover up with a huge scarf that wraps around the entire body, and hide their faces. Many of the women as soon as they realized we were women started talking to us, telling us their medical problems. How do I know, you ask? They say the word doctor a bunch of times. One woman even took my hand and put it on the places on her body that hurt; her head, her chest, and her knee. We didn’t have our linguist so there wasn’t much we could do. We couldn’t tell them anything. I gave one woman my water because she said she had a headache. They don’t drink water so a lot of times that is the cause of headaches. I don’t know why they assume that we are doctors or can help them medically. They always do, though.

  During the VCPs I always try to give the kids something, candy or snacks when they come through. I want to make it seem less intimidating. It has to feel that way, I imagine. Just think if it were you and you were stopped by a bunch of people in uniform with big guns [who said that] you and your belongings have to be searched. It’s for their own safety and our safety and they are probably used to it by now, but there’s no reason not to make it a little bit better of an experience.