When Johnny Goes Leaving Home Again

On my flight to St. Louis, there were 10 soldiers on their way to Iraq. Dressed in desert fatigues, they were what one would expect from an American soldier and more. They were young and fit. They didn’t seem scared in the least. They were cut from strong cloth. They were friends, laughing about sports.

They were being sent back. They had already served in Iraq for 10 months and were being sent back for 2 more. “That’s the plan anyway.”, quipped Corporal Brown from seat 21D before me.

Not all of them appeared fearless. Private De Marco (as it said on his uniform) hung back from the others as they were about to board. I wondered if he was just the odd man out. Or if he was contemplating making a break for it. There were no MPs around. His troubled expression would have been reason enough to try. Whatever was on his head, though, he soon got back in line with the others.

What struck me as sad was not that these young men (and one woman) were being sent to fight one of the sloppiest offensives in American history? A war that should never have happened this way. It was how people around them paid them no mind. As if they were just other strangers on the same flight. Not soldiers being put in harm’s way. There was almost a gallows sense to how people stayed wide of them. Maybe it was because no one knew what to say anymore. It made me feel for these soldiers in a new way. I was relieved when the pilot announced their presence on the plane. This was met with a smattering of applause, weak but truthful in its support. I wish them the best. I thank them for serving this country for better or worse. I pray our flawed leaders bring them home in the promised 2 months. All of them.