Veteran's Day 2006

About a week ago another soldier and I went into Sizzler for lunch. Before we were done looking at the menu board, a group of about 20 women told their waiter they'd like to buy us lunch. You've all heard these stories. So have I. But this was unexpected, and appreciated. I smiled over and waved, thanking them. We felt compelled to go and say something.    We didn't have to. Between placing our order and being seated, almost all of the women, mostly senior citizens, had come over to us. Every one of them thanked us graciously, and every one of them either cried or came close to crying. One nice woman said, "Well, we're sure proud of you boys and we're glad you're home. I'm going to go now because I'll cry." Then she quickly moved to the salad bar, ready to fill up the small cool plate she had in her trembling hand as she spoke to us with macaroni salad.   It makes you feel good to be appreciated. To be thanked for your work. Who doesn't appreciate that?

Today is my first Veteran's Day as a veteran. I must say it feels no different on the surface. But beneath the crust of consciousness there is the porous loaf of collective historical import. The nostalgia of generations gone to war, men and women who you will never meet but could have easily sat across from in a chow hall or mess tent in any number of eras or wars had you found yourself a soldier in such, rather than in the Iraqi war. There's no way around it- combat veterans are a special demographic. Some have in fact made the ultimate sacrifice, as cliché and over-used that term may be.    I am proud of us. We train for a job and then we do the job, but the work is a global adventure, an un-edited snake of travelogue documentary film clips rolled in upon each other, inextricably coiled, of battle scenes, of caring so attentively for a rifle, of small talk in countless chow halls and airports and busses. 

"Where you from, man?" 

"New Orleans."

"That's cool. I'm from Flagstaff. Is your family okay after the hurricanes?" 

"Yeah. Thanks. You coming or going?"

"Just comin' off R & R, you?"

"Heading out of country on Emergency Leave."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Hope everything works out for you."

"Yeah. How long you been in country?"

"8 months, man. I've got 4 to go. I'm up in Baghdad. Green Zone my ass."

"I hear you, but come on. I'm in Ramadi."

"Say no more. I feel you. Ramadi sucks. Hey, you ever flown on British Airways? It's cool you get gifts and the beer is free."

"I have. Yeah, I know. It's the shit."  

Such small circumstances, conversations with the herds of soldiers being conveyed back and forth across the Atlantic, are an aspect of the Iraq war experience that you may not realize unless you do it. Just imagine that feeling you've had of wanting to "get out of town" You know that one? Where you find yourself in a city in America, a little microcosm you move around in, and you actually visualize yourself driving on the interstate to another state. You want to get out, but it needs to feel official. You need to cross those invisible lines of demarcation, those metal signs in the grass off the highway that say "Welcome to Mississippi." They exude a sense of change, the prospect every traveler has of the ultimate unknown.  Now multiply this feeling by one thousand. In my own experience, I had so much going on back home, like most I wanted to see the kids badly, and the idea of de-compressing for a couple of weeks was a welcome one. So you talk to countless people along the way and these forgotten exchanges are writ unto history. These instances are often quite unique, the subtle parts of your biography that fill in the gaps, drape the windows, dovetail the overall thematic tapestry. But they're important too. They help get you where you're going.   

There's an excitement in the conversations many times that is akin to half time of a super bowl that lasts 4 years. You're discussing if you think it's worth it anymore. You're talking tactics. Trading tales. Embellishing maybe. It comes easy when you're sleep deprived and lying on the floor of a Marine air hangar that has been converted into a tactical airport terminal. In the dark of that desert, the base is nothing more than a massive parcel of land littered with multi-colored lights set out in geometric patterns, fields of airstrips, and the hangar is a boring waiting area in a dangerous region, where old VHS tapes sit in a dusty pile next to the dusty television that a couple hundred soldiers, Marines, civilian contractors, and reporters meet in front of for the night, curled up on the floor or sitting in a plastic chair reading a book and nodding off. We're from all over, but we're all far from our porches. The concrete sucks to sleep on, but if you don't have long to wait, it's worth it. The transient tents, where you can sign for a cot if you're stuck on this base for a while - dust storms grounded all the planes maybe? - are not very appealing as an alternative when you're pressed for time. 

You have to lug your bags, your weapon, helmet, body armor, and anything else you have about half a mile to the tents, and then back over here in just a few hours. It's not worth it, unless you really need a shower. Hell, you're not going to sleep anyway and you're about to skip 4 time zones, and the beer on British Airways is free, so what the hell? Take a shower, hit the chow hall and head back to the hangar. At 3 am in Iraq when you walk into one of the tents which are arranged in rows of 10 or so, you have courtesy enough not to turn on the overhead lights. You pull out a flashlight or throw on a head lamp and try to avoid the closed eyes and snoring mouths of anywhere from 20 to 50 people. If it's hot, the air conditioners don't work too well. Either you don't feel the cold air, or you're within its close proximity at freezes you out. If it's cold, the heaters over-heat. It's a sauna. Oh well, at least you've got your limbs. Eventually you find a cot, knock the sand off of it, and crash. Amidst the cacophony of snores and the orchestra of the tents flipping their sides as if proud, standing firm and slapping back against the wind, sleep finds you finally.  

Let's take this whole frame of reference and pan the lens - look through it into the past, say, Vietnam - a comfortable topic now, and frequently juxtaposed to the current conflicts. Soldiers there had similar experiences. We all have, and it's a good feeling to be safe now and moving towards personal goals rather than collective - it's good to see a country that honors its vets to this measure, who cherishes the accumulated sacrifice, who takes a moment to say a quiet thanks.   

Thank you veterans of ages, frightened or enraged in battle, enlivened and inspired by all that you love, for doing what you've done, and continue to do. However clear and necessary, or complex and misunderstood, may you fight strongly in every op, may you come home to a warm and inviting life, may you plan effectively, may you dream well and sleep fitfully and have ammo every time you need it for all of eternity amen.  

Take care of yourselves. Your families. Your dog. Buy the jet-ski. Add the sunroom. Just go ahead and do it. You're not in a war anymore, thank God. The sun will rise today upon your own bed.

And you're much appreciated. 

"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." -- Albert Einstein

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