Last month, I prompted the conversation with the first soldier, who was somewhere in his early 40’s, methodically circumspect, on his way home to see his wife and teenage kids after his latest tour in Iraq.
Last night, the second soldier both started and dominated the conversation.
He was in his mid-20’s, winging his way home from DC to Wichita via Chicago to see his parents. While he was in Iraq, a bomb had detonated, flipped over his Humvee, catching him underneath, cracking a rib and puncturing a lung. Later, as he was recovering in Germany, fluid built up in the injured lung and an infection set in, causing him to drop the weight on his six-foot-three frame from 175 to 125 pounds in a week’s time. He had added 30 of those pounds back, he said, by the time we sat next to each other in the airport restaurant – where I munched on fish and chips, worrying about the effect on my 42-year-old-heart, while the soldier scarfed down fried mozzarella sticks with blue cheese dressing, explaining that he was on a high-fat diet to replace the still-missing weight.
Despite his injury and ensuing struggle, he was convinced he and his fellow soldiers needed to be in Iraq, and he was intent on returning as soon as he was healed. He talked about the importance of breaking the pattern of the last several years, where they would secure one city only to see the sectarian terrorists move to the next city, in a never-ending circle of fight, secure, follow; fight, secure, follow – until they were back doing the same thing in the first city they had secured.
As with the other soldier, I told him my family, friends, and I appreciated everything they were doing for us, that I knew others felt the same way, and that despite the doubts and controversy surrounding the war, the general attitude toward soldiers returning from Iraq was much different, much kinder and gentler than the way in which many Vietnam vets were treated.
He said, “Yes, but it’s starting to change.�
(Continued at Central Sanity.)