The butterflies were back, but they felt different this time. I felt calmer than yesterday. I headed to an Army buddy’s house, Stacy. Picked up some McDonald’s on the way (Egg McMuffin, hash brown and OJ -- a pathetic final breakfast). I left my car at Stacy’s. She would bring my car to my vehicle storage place the next day, since the place was closed on Sundays.
I also gave her a black plastic footlocker filled with last-minute items that I needed mailed to myself over there. After leaving her some final instructions for the car and the footlocker, we jumped into her pickup truck, and she drove me to post.
We were early. Weapons draw was 1115 hours, and it was only 1045. I hopped out of the truck. It was bitterly cold. The clouds seemed to be racing each other across the dull grey sky. There were a few cars in the parking lot, but not many. A couple of soldiers walking around with their wives and children, holding hands and holding back tears.
I hugged Stacy and J (another mutual friend of ours) good-bye, and watched them drive off in Stacy’s huge green pickup truck. I swung my assault pack over my shoulder, and headed into the battery, expecting to find only a few people. I figured everyone would be waiting until the last minute to arrive -- savoring final moments with the people they love.
The door swung open, and I was shocked to see nearly half of the battery already assembled inside. The second floor of our building has all of the offices and conference rooms, while the first floor is mostly empty space. A couple of caged off spots serve as our supply areas. An arms room, protected by a huge, vault-like metal door that’s at least five inches thick. And wall lockers arrayed along one side.
Soldiers were laying about, listening to iPods, reading books, talking to wives, holding babies. I walked over to a sergeant from our intelligence team. “What the hell is going on?” I asked. “You guys are early!”
He looked up at me, pulling one white iPod earphone out. “Detox, sir.”
It instantly clicked in my head as I looked around. Our standing orders were no alcohol for the eight hours prior to formation. Undoubtedly, these guys threw a hell of a party last night at the barracks, probably drinking themselves to the brink of death right up to that eight-hour mark. They then probably helped each other pull uniforms on, and crashed on the floor of the battery. It’s a simple plan: guarantees that no one faces UCMJ for missing movement. Responsibly irresponsible.
The line for weapons draw was long, so I decided to wait until the end, rather than stand in line for an hour. It was a good opportunity to finish making good-bye phone calls. I didn’t realize how difficult the task would be until I found myself hiding around a corner of the building, crying while talking on the phone, and struggling to maintain my composure while the freezing wind bit into my hands and face.
I don’t know what brought it on. The voice on the other end. The conversation itself. The thoughts of saying good-bye to others. The sight of other soldiers saying good-bye to their families and loved ones. The absence of having someone to say good-bye to in person -- to physically hug and kiss and hold onto until the last possible moment.
Maybe it was a combination of everything, but all I know is that despite all of the training, and the attempts to put up the hard, concrete façade in front of the soldiers, I could not hold back my tears today. It’s never easy. It’s like saying good-bye to your mother the morning after Christmas, and watching her hold herself in the cold. She tries not to cry in front of you, because she wants to be strong -- so that you can be strong. But she’s your mother -- and you can see right through her. And it kills you to have to drive away, having told her that you’ll be all right, even if it might be a lie.
Pre-manifest was at 1330. Sat in an auditorium for a short while, then loaded up on buses to the airfield on post. A couple of the wives and girlfriends had stuck around, waiting for us to get out of the theater, and waved and blew kisses as we boarded the buses.
At the airfield, we waited some more in a holding area. As we walked in, our ID cards were scanned into a computer -- probably the last time they would be scanned on American soil. Standing guard at the door to the waiting lounge was an old lady -- had to be in her seventies -- passing out little prayer pamphlets and, of all things, hugs. The sight of this old, wrinkled, smiling lady, giving a hug to every single G.I. that filed through would have melted even the coldest, toughest of hearts.
Walking across the tarmac to the plane felt like a movie. It was still cold, and the sun was setting, turning the clouds into a bunch of pink, purple and red streaks. A huge, dark grey Air Force cargo plane sat in the background, nose open; pallets of some kind of equipment were being loaded into it.
Our commercial plane was in front of the cargo plane, and there was a grey line of ACU-clad soldiers snaking towards the stairway leading up to the hatch on the left side of the plane. There was no time to stop and look around -- no time to take it in, or savor the last breaths of Texan air. I can vaguely remember shaking hands with the brigade sergeant major, brigade commander, the division sergeant major, and division commanding general. Good luck, son. Make us proud.
I wasn't impressed. I'd rather that they didn't show up at all -- their appearance now seemed all too choreographed and empty. I'm pretty sure the brigade commander would never recognize me at a function, or remember my name -- not unless I earned him a positive bullet on his evaluation report in the form of some kind of spectacularly courageous feat, or a place in newspaper headlines as a tragic statistic.
Suddenly I was in my seat, buckled in, feeling the vibrations of the plane around me as it taxied its way to the runway. A sudden increase in the shriek of the engines, a quick rumble, and we were gone.
Days without beer: 1
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The hug lady
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