Coming Home: A Soldier Returns from Iraq

By Zoltan Krompecher

                                            I

I'm wearing my military Class A uniform, waiting on flight number 4505

The plane will pick me up in New York and deposit me in Philadelphia, where

I will meet an old Army friend; together we'll travel to a special ceremony

                                   II

I see him loading his truck after graduation

He planned on traveling the Blue Highways from Fort Bragg to Seattle (Kerouac-style).

Before we parted ways, he hugged me and said, "When you get married, I’ll be there."

I walk through the terminal and people stare at me

Eyes survey the rack of ribbons and decorations on my jacket

the awards read like a roadmap of my military career.

Each variegated ribbon an "achievement":

overseas assignments; graduation from leadership schools;

Good Conduct, Achievement, and Commendation Medals. 

Fifteen of them; each tells a story --

The Airborne wings identify me as a paratrooper.

My Special Forces Tab signifies me as a Green Beret.

The patch on my right shoulder tells people I served in combat.

Combat. It means so much to soldiers and so little to those who use it so frivolously --

politicians, protestors, the ones with the "Support Our Troops" stickers on their SUVs

It seems they all utter words to further an agenda.

But "Combat" holds considerable meaning for soldiers. 

We understand the significance because we are faced with all that the word brings --

think hard, fill in the blanks, tell me if it's right for others to use our sacrifices for ulterior motives.

We're a cheap date: give you what you want, albeit sometimes unwillingly,

And, once used, you forget us until you need another prop

                                    III

My polyester uniform does not breathe well; I begin to offend those around me

The tie chokes me: like a man noosed for execution

My luggage strap tears at my ribbons, scattering them on the dirty floor

I am choking

Passengers, airline stewardesses and shop workers stare as

I scramble on the ground to gather that which represents twenty years of service.

They point, commiserate in hushed voices, some smile and nod at me, a few glare.

I pass a businessman too involved in preening his ego

I overhear him brokering a power-deal on his cell phone while rushing to First Class

He’s too engrossed to acknowledge a soldier walking by.

I don’t factor into that day’s "bottom line."

Others ignore me, too

Teenagers nod their head in rhythm to the song on their I-Pod

Mothers work frantically to corral their children into line

Workers empty the day’s trash

                                    IV

As I make my way to Gate 28, a vet from The Greatest Generation walks up to me

He and his wife would like to buy me lunch

I thank the man for serving our country and add that it is I who should buy him lunch

Then remember:  I am waiting for Dave to arrive from Iraq

He nods understandingly, we look into each other’s eyes, shake hands, and

I disappear to be alone

                                     V

While I sit in the empty gate (I am early) CNN reports that a suicide bomb went off in Tal-Afar

Tal-Afar is near Mosul, where Dave was stationed.

I think, "These are the times to say 'I’m sorry' to those who matter most."

I wait for Dave in silence

My only companions are a tired stewardess and CNN -- broadcasting to no one.

                                     VI

Eight years after we became Green Berets Dave showed up unannounced at my wedding

I still see him holding the smoked salmon he brought as a wedding gift

He smiled as he said, "I told you I would be here."

He stayed an extra day so we could hit the Cleveland bars, smoked salmon in tow

                                     VII

The gate slowly fills; the gazes multiply

A man in a suit casually reads the sports section of a newspaper.

Tossing asides the front page: "Suicide Bomber Kills Four in Mosul"

I don’t need to read the story because I know the picture too well

I also know that the press probably mailed in the story from the comfort of a hotel suite

They ignored the details

                                     VIII

A woman in a two-piece suit comes up to me

Am I Major Krompecher?

Reflexively I reply: "Yes, Ma'am"

She informs me that Dave is waiting for me in the cargo area.

I can't stop it.

A flood I have sought to suppress washes down my face.

The stares crowd closer … I can barely see them, yet I feel them

They suffocate me

I feel the urge to walk up to the man reading the sports page and scream at him

I want to shove that front page far up his ass so he gets "the whole story."

The press so conveniently failed to mention the other vehicle involved in the explosion

There was a second car occupied by four Americans

They rammed the suicide car bomber before he could inflict more death

Four gave their lives for many.

Following the explosion, the surviving members of the convoy acted

The remaining soldiers killed over a dozen insurgents waiting in ambush

However, it seems that defeating the enemy stories don’t sell.

Combat. The word means so many different things to others.

I want to also tell this man that while he lounges in First Class my friend Dave lies in cargo

What I will say to his wife Cindy when I meet her

Words and thoughts swirl around my head, but I can't locate anything

All I feel is grief, and Cindy does not need me to cry on her shoulder

There are no Army manuals to instruct me on what to do.  I am at a loss.

I am the escort officer who is taking my fallen comrade home for the last time.

For Dave:  Rest Easy, Brother

 Posted 5-19-06