A Soldier Comes Home

I'm Day 2 into a four day trip, on my way to Atlanta. After turning in the latest gas guzzling SUV-thing courtesy of Hertz, I go into the terminal to check in for my next flight. Check-in kiosks are great. One less line to stand in and you get your tickets in seconds.

Not quite ready to pass through security, I decide it's time for the second cup of coffee that I didn't have yet this morning. As I sit down with my cup of "plasma", I notice a soldier standing by the door, evidently waiting patiently for someone to show up.

He's maybe in his mid-30's, wearing full "desert cammies", seemingly new. Clean, pressed, not too worn. New boots. Full pack on his back. I'm not sure what he had in his pack, but it looked like it must have weighed at least 40 or 50 pounds. I don't recognize the unit patch on his shoulder. Must be in a reserve or National Guard unit - not one of the main line regular Army divisions. He's a sergeant, an E5. He seems a little old to be holding that rank, but understandable in a non-regular Army group. On his boonie hat, the name Vance is printed on the back.

He walks outside and lights a cigarette, anxiously watching the parking garage across the street, waiting for someone to appear through the doorway.

Suddenly, I'm thinking of a similar scene almost exactly 35 years ago. I "joined" the Army two weeks after high school in 1968. I enlisted so I wouldn't have to go to Viet Nam. They lied, I went and the rest is history. I left for Viet Nam on April 24, 1969, my nineteenth birthday. Happy Birthday from your Uncle. Now, all I had to do was survive to get a ride back in a seat instead of a box. Not really a great challenge for me though - I had it relatively easy over there.

I actually came home 3 days early. April 21, 1970. 362 days in country. Reversed a phone call to my parents from Alaska on a stop over. They said to call when I reached the States - they just didn't say which state. 24 hours or so later, I'm at the Philadelphia airport. I get off the plane and there is my family, waiting at the gate for me. I might have been a big bad soldier with a year in a combat zone under my belt, but it didn't stop the tears from all parties. I was home. I was back in "one piece". They weren't claiming me in a body bag.

We went to see Jane, my girlfriend at the time, that night. My parents had called hers to "set it up." They took me to her house. Conveniently, she was not home when I got there. Needless to say, she was quite surprised when she walked in. I like surprises.

Welcome home parties, banners. Phone calls. Again, tears - grandmother tears, aunt tears, general all around celebrations.

Two weeks later, Kent State. Still a happy time for me - not a particular happy time for America.

I went away again not too long after that. So did my relationship with Jane. Another year and half in another "exotic" locale - Ethiopia. Another story for another time.

When I finally did exit the Army in January of 1972, it was almost anticlimactic. Surviving Viet Nam was one thing. Coming back from Africa was something else. No big parties or celebrations this time - other than the fact I was celebrating being a "free man." And now it was time to get serious about the rest of my life. But the joyous tears, the celebrations, the love I felt "coming home" in April, 1970, is something that will stay with me forever.

Drifting back, I looked over at Sgt. Vance. Someone, his wife I think, was walking very quickly, almost running, across the street from the garage. They hugged. They kissed. The tears were evident. They were obviously very happy. They walked across to the garage hand in hand, not willing to give up physical contact again until they absolutely had to.

I don't know where Sgt. Vance had been. Maybe Iraq. Maybe just activated to a reserve unit in Georgia or Texas for six months or so. But, I knew where he was now. Home.

And there is no greater feeling in the world than "Coming Home." Welcome home, Sgt. Vance.