Going Home

In July, while waiting for a delayed flight in San Antonio, I met a guy. When I got to Los Angeles, I wrote a little about the meeting.

22 July 2005

I was holding up a wall at gate B17 at the San Antonio International Airport waiting for my flight – 1.5hrs delayed – to Los Angeles International. Sitting across from me was a guy in a chair. He had sunglasses on and was obviously burned on the left side of his face. His left arm and leg had pressure bandages on them. I noticed a floppy cammo hat tethered to his carry-on bag. I put two and two together and figured he had been recently released from Brook Army Medical Center’s burn unit.

No one was talking to this young man. When he got up to stroll down the concourse, a woman took the vacant seat. Eventually he came back to the gate and leaned up against the wall. I struck up a conversation. Knowing the answer would be either Afghanistan or Iraq I asked, “Where ya’ comin’ from?” “From the sand,” was his reply. “You just get out of BAMC?” “Yeah.” The two of us made small talk for a few minutes, during which I told him I was a retired CG Chief. He replied, “Roger that bro” and there was an instant, common bond.

During our conversation I told him how much I appreciated what he and his brothers and sisters were doing over there. At one point I looked him in the eye and said, “I think about you motherfuckers every day. Every time I hear about someone dying or getting injured over there I think about you guys and pray for you. Right or wrong politics aside, what you guys are doing and sacrificing over there is honorable. Thank you.”

He told me his story, unsolicited. He is Army; his MOS was construction-related (concrete). He was in a convoy when one of two fuel trucks, that were mistakenly positioned one behind the other, was hit by hostile fire. A security detail was set, with my new friend taking the back of the surviving fuel truck. When he turned to report “all secure” to his 1st LT, the suicide truck was just about on them. The last thing he remembers before the blast was someone screaming, “Get the fuck down!!” The truck hit the surviving tanker and the subsequent blast hurled him an unthinkable distance away in a ball of flames. This ended his second tour in Iraq.

He spent some time at Landstuhl Army Medical Center before being transferred to BAMC, where he spent a month and a half. Today he’s headed to Hawaii to stay with family while his wife gets their household goods ready to come home from Germany. He will eventually be stationed in San Antonio to be in close proximity to BAMC for extended treatment for his burns.

Before we boarded, I gave him my business card. I told him to call me when he got back into town if he needed help moving in or with anything in town or just wanted to come over for a BBQ and a few cold beers.

The flight to Los Angeles was uneventful, and we parted ways shortly after hitting the deck. I don’t think he made his connecting flight to Honolulu.

It’s easy to remain detached from the brutality of war when you’re not in it, and when representations of the horrors of combat are diluted by media and politicians alike. I no longer feel so detached.

The reasons our government got us into this “war” are questionable in my opinion. But...we’re in it now. I just wish that one of those idiots in Washington could figure out a way for us to get out.

Speaking to this young man was moving. I’m proud to have spoken to him, and hope he calls when gets back to town.