balloons. Most of the doors have an American flag displayed. I visit her often in the days before my departure, hoping to hear about relatives who went off to war and the stories of their returns, but instead the conversation is awkward. My grandmother is part of a small group of residents at Kirkland Village, mostly women, who quietly question the war in Iraq. They clip articles from the New York Times and the Washington Post, then distribute them at their weekly bridge gatherings. My father and I call them the Kirkland Insurgents.
My grandmother hands me the articles one by one and says I should read them. She means it. So I sit in the century-old rocking chair and read articles about the war in Iraq while she sits and watches over me. I respond as well as I can, talking about the need to remove a terrible leader and protect the people who are suffering, but sheâs not impressed. She says, âWell, Eric, I just donât understand.â When my grandmother says she doesnât understand, sheâs telling you that youâre doing something wrong. She asks about seminary and says she doesnât understand why I keep finding reasons not to go.
As I prepare to leave for Iraq, Karin and I continue to talk about things like direct deposit and digital cameras. My parents talk about retirement. My sister talks about the best way to navigate new security measures at the airports. My friends talk about the Philadelphia Eagles and their nine-game winning streak.
Iâm scheduled to leave for Iraq in late December. Saddam Hussein is captured on December 13. There is talk about the conflict coming to an end. Wars donât last long anymore.
Â
5
My father drives me to the airport in Philadelphia. He says something about Vietnam and how he remembers visiting the recruiter, and he tells me that story I used to love about how the Army was going to send him to flight school and the helicopters being shot down with tennis balls. He talks about Jerry Zerfass, one of his students at Liberty High School, who was killed in Vietnam. Iâve heard this story before, too.
Normally, I ask my dad to tell me more about Jerry Zerfass, but not this time. Iâm silent, and itâs awkward, so my father talks about his newly installed EZPass. Despite heavy traffic on 476, we breeze through the tollbooths at Plymouth Meeting. He talks about how much time he saves with the EZPass. He says I should get one when I come back. We argue about what time zone Baghdad is in.
My father drops me off at the departure terminal. He offers to park and come inside, but I tell him itâs best he doesnât do this. We stand on the curb and say good-bye. I say to my father, âIâm tempted to just call this off.â He says, âThatâs probably a good idea.â Then he opens the car door and says, âLetâs go home.â I say, âIâll call you when I get there.â
From Philadelphia, I fly to El Paso. I have paperwork from CACI instructing me to report to Fort Bliss, where CACI personnel will assist in my predeployment processing. At the airport there are signs directing Department of Defense civilians to check in at the Fort Bliss in-processing desk. The desk has a series of clocks that display current times in a variety of cities around the world. It is six p.m. in Baghdad. My father was right. I stand in line with other civilians and wait for an Army sergeant to tell me what to do. The Army sergeant says they canât keep track of everyone whoâs coming and going, so itâs best to just get on the bus and hope for the best at Fort Bliss. I canât find the CACI representative and I donât want to leave for Fort Bliss before checking in, so I let the bus go without me. By the time the next bus is available, four hours later, there is still no CACI representative at the airport.
Like most soldiers, I hated the Army during my time in service but eventually came to respect it
My grandmother hands me the articles one by one and says I should read them. She means it. So I sit in the century-old rocking chair and read articles about the war in Iraq while she sits and watches over me. I respond as well as I can, talking about the need to remove a terrible leader and protect the people who are suffering, but sheâs not impressed. She says, âWell, Eric, I just donât understand.â When my grandmother says she doesnât understand, sheâs telling you that youâre doing something wrong. She asks about seminary and says she doesnât understand why I keep finding reasons not to go.
As I prepare to leave for Iraq, Karin and I continue to talk about things like direct deposit and digital cameras. My parents talk about retirement. My sister talks about the best way to navigate new security measures at the airports. My friends talk about the Philadelphia Eagles and their nine-game winning streak.
Iâm scheduled to leave for Iraq in late December. Saddam Hussein is captured on December 13. There is talk about the conflict coming to an end. Wars donât last long anymore.
Â
5
My father drives me to the airport in Philadelphia. He says something about Vietnam and how he remembers visiting the recruiter, and he tells me that story I used to love about how the Army was going to send him to flight school and the helicopters being shot down with tennis balls. He talks about Jerry Zerfass, one of his students at Liberty High School, who was killed in Vietnam. Iâve heard this story before, too.
Normally, I ask my dad to tell me more about Jerry Zerfass, but not this time. Iâm silent, and itâs awkward, so my father talks about his newly installed EZPass. Despite heavy traffic on 476, we breeze through the tollbooths at Plymouth Meeting. He talks about how much time he saves with the EZPass. He says I should get one when I come back. We argue about what time zone Baghdad is in.
My father drops me off at the departure terminal. He offers to park and come inside, but I tell him itâs best he doesnât do this. We stand on the curb and say good-bye. I say to my father, âIâm tempted to just call this off.â He says, âThatâs probably a good idea.â Then he opens the car door and says, âLetâs go home.â I say, âIâll call you when I get there.â
From Philadelphia, I fly to El Paso. I have paperwork from CACI instructing me to report to Fort Bliss, where CACI personnel will assist in my predeployment processing. At the airport there are signs directing Department of Defense civilians to check in at the Fort Bliss in-processing desk. The desk has a series of clocks that display current times in a variety of cities around the world. It is six p.m. in Baghdad. My father was right. I stand in line with other civilians and wait for an Army sergeant to tell me what to do. The Army sergeant says they canât keep track of everyone whoâs coming and going, so itâs best to just get on the bus and hope for the best at Fort Bliss. I canât find the CACI representative and I donât want to leave for Fort Bliss before checking in, so I let the bus go without me. By the time the next bus is available, four hours later, there is still no CACI representative at the airport.
Like most soldiers, I hated the Army during my time in service but eventually came to respect it
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