Deployment Blogs (Part 1 of 4)
The approach of Memorial Day carries some weight in our house. Like tremors on a fault line, it can raise the settled dust in our memories. This year it prompted me and The Captain to review the big black binder of old emails and blogs from the Navy days. Even our new Daughter-in-Law waded through some of the pages. This year, I thought I’d honor the national day of remembrance for our war dead with some of my old writings. Maybe re-visit some of the feelings and emotions that need airing-out once in a while. The Captain made three trips to “the wars.” All of them very different, and yet there were unifying themes. Read along with me, and if you haven’t personally been down this road, maybe you can share some of the feelings that make Memorial Day more important than just a long weekend.
This entry is my initial attempt to write about our family’s experience. It’s from the first deployment. Iraq.
When the orders came down in the fall of 2006, it was common knowledge that the “war” in Iraq wasn’t going all that well. Our political and military leaders were determined to turn it around. They called it a “surge,” and the Navy was reaching deeper into the reserves of people and capability to make it happen. My wife, then a Lieutenant Commander, fresh from a Trauma-Critical Care Fellowship at the University of Pennsylvania, was one of the folks who got tapped to go.
January, 21, 2007
Deployment Day 1
This morning, in the pre-dawn darkness, The Kid and I put Angie on the bus to Camp Lejeune, and eventually Iraq.
The assembly was harsh and dream-like all at once. There was a chill wind and the sky was a cheerless overcast. We stood in the driveway of the Naval Medical Center Portsmouth, shivering along with the families of some fifty other officers and sailors joining the 2nd Marine Logistics Group. Most everybody was dazed by the cold and early hour. Children clung to their mother’s legs, or cried softly on shoulders. Olive green sea bags were stacked in the open baggage compartment of the waiting tour bus. The departing service members, out of place in crisp new desert camouflage and standing in a less than Marine like formation, tried to look strong, lending confidence to the morning affairs, but tears still streamed from many eyes.
The hospital’s commanding and executive officers, Admiral Cullison and Captain Gillingham were there to see the sailors off. The Admiral addressed the formation for a moment, and then addressed us, the families. His voice was soft and fatherly, almost lost in the background noise of the idling bus. He reassured us that we would get every support at his disposal, and that our service member would do great things. The Command Chaplain offered a prayer. I don’t recall the words, but the emotion matched the moment. His voice was strong and carried over the clatter of the bus. It was obvious he’d served with the Marines before and his message was heartening.
After the short comments, the formation broke and each officer and sailor said their last good byes. An official photographer flitted in and out of the clustered families. Angie hugged and kissed me and Brendan once more. That would have to do. When the detachment’s senior Chief Petty Officer announced it was time, it was hard to let go. With heavy hearts, The Kid and I watched Angie climb aboard the bus. She sat up front with the detachment’s senior officer, another surgeon and old friend from residency. We watched the massive white vehicle pull away and circle back to the main gate, where it disappeared from view.
The Kid and I hardly spoke a word on the way home. He didn’t cry or complain. I wasn’t entirely sure if I could have said anything without choking up. Later on, after we had some breakfast and went to Sunday Mass, we managed to talk a little about the morning. We have a long road ahead, but the first part is behind us.
The Kid hugging his mom was the lead photo in the local news.