Coming HomeBy JOHN CRAWFORD
Tallahassee, Fla.
IT was raining when I stepped off the plane and into a chilly Georgia morning. The line of soldiers, heads down, struggled underneath the weight of their gear across the tarmac and into a long, low building full of Red Cross coffee and doughnuts. Along the way a general stood shaking hands and exchanging salutes with the returning soldiers. Next to him, a young lieutenant shivered as he held an umbrella out at arm's length over the general. Neither had combat patches on their uniforms, and I splashed by without saluting or shaking hands. It gave little satisfaction.
It had been just over a year since I had last been at that airport; that first time there had been banners and flags, family members waving fervently at the departing plane. This time the weather, I guess, had kept them home and the gray sky was the only real witness to our return. Clouds or no, the "freedom bird" had landed and our war was over, we were home.
I left for Iraq on Feb. 12, 2003. The war hadn't started yet. The Florida National Guard in which I was serving as a specialist was partly made up of former active-service infantrymen from the Rangers, the 82nd Airborne, the 10th Mountain and (in my case) the 101st Airborne. The rest were "straight Guard," as we called them: college students, small-business owners, police officers, contractors, painters or unemployed. They had signed up for the fabled "one weekend a month, two weeks a year" and gotten very much more than they bargained for.
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War stories end when the battle is over or when the soldier comes home. That's one way to tell it's a story. In real life, there are no moments amid smoldering hilltops for tranquil introspection. When the war is over, you pick up your gear, walk down the hill and back into the world, where people smile, congratulate you, and secretly hope you won't be a burden on society now that you've done the dirty work they shun.
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