As a follow up to my No Tears In Heaven post, I offer this…
The dozen or so Soldiers were all smiles as they walked through the colorful and patriotically decorated station, having just arrived on the overnight. Stepping from the train, dressed in the standard issue desert camouflage uniform, a light layer of dust still on them, they were all caught by surprise at the welcoming that awaited them. Throngs of people lined the terminal, clapping, cheering, waving, and shouting their thanks and praise. The hand shakes and pats on the back raised the hair on the necks of some, brought tears to the eyes of others, and swelled the hearts with pride of all.
“Welcome home Soldier,” Marine Captain Mike Williams said as he shook hands, grabbing an occasional elbow with his left hand and looking deep into their eyes.
“Thank you sir,” was the general reply, barely heard over the rhythmic patriotic sounds of the military band playing nearby.
“Top McNeely is waiting for you outside with further instructions,” Captain Williams furnished before offering his hand to the next in line, “Welcome home Marine.”
“We got everybody?” First Sergeant Julian McNeely asked the group, not really expecting an answer. “OK, first of all, let me welcome you all home and I’d like to just take a minute to say how damned proud I am of each and every one of you,” he went on, feeling himself getting a little choked up. “You’ve given your all for something greater than yourselves, and that places you into a very special category that few others will ever know. I am truly honored to be standing here among you.”
First Sergeant McNeely went on to explain that just inside the pearly gates atop the hill behind him, on the right, they would find Fiddler’s Green where a sponsor awaited each one of them to help get them settled and show them around the base camp. “The sponsorship program works in this outfit,” he added flatly. “If there are no questions, grab your duffel bags and follow Corporal Sanchez.”
“Uh, First Sergeant?” asked 19 year old Private Jones, his hand raised.
“Yes Jones?” McNeely replied giving his undivided attention to the young Soldier.
A little surprised that the first sergeant knew his name, the native New Yorker asked, “How’d you know my name First Sergeant?”
“What’s your question Jones?” the wise old NCO patiently pressed.
“Oh, we gonna be able to call home or email or somethin’ First Sergeant?”
Taking a moment to look at each member of this latest group to arrive, First Sergeant Julian McNeely spoke softly to the entire formation, “You will receive a series of briefings on how things operate around here, but to answer Jones’ question specifically, no, we can’t call or email our loved ones, but we do have an open line of communication with them any time of day or night, 365 days a year. You will be able to check in and keep watch over them at all times. Now pick up your gear and move out.”
The Soldiers did as they were told, grumbling with questions that would be answered soon enough as they followed Corporal Carmen Sanchez up the hill, who was smiling as she overheard some of their conversations.
“Dawg! How did he know my name man?!?” Jones incredulously asked Specialist Darryl Wilbur from Atlanta, Georgia, who was walking next to him.
“I don’t know man, but it ain’t good if Top knows your name,” the 20 year old artilleryman replied, privately thankful he hadn’t raised his hand, wanting to ask the very same question Private Jones had.
“Who’s in charge here sir?” Command Sergeant Major Jesse Martin asked Captain Williams.
“Welcome home Sergeant Major, I’m in charge of the welcoming team and First Sergeant McNeely takes care of the newly arrived Soldiers, getting them settled in.”
“McNeely? Julian McNeely?” Command Sergeant Major Martin of Cincinnati, Ohio asked.
“That’s him Sergeant Major,” Captain Williams answered.
First Sergeant Julian McNeely had been the senior noncommissioned officer for Alpha Company, 1st Battalion of the 76th Infantry Regiment. Command Sergeant Major Jesse Martin was the 1st Battalion, 76th Infantry Regiment CSM.
CSM Martin hesitated a moment, knowing that his best 1SG had been killed two months ago while leading a convoy through Tikrit. Jesse Martin, at age 46, suddenly realized that he too had made the ultimate sacrifice serving his country. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath through his nostrils, steeling himself at the thought of not ever seeing his five year old son Tommy again.
Looking deeply into Captain Williams’ eyes the 28 year Army veteran managed to say, “First Sergeant McNeely and I served together in Iraq, I’d like to have a word with him when he’s available Captain.”
Recognizing the raw emotion in the senior NCO’s voice, the Marine Captain replied, “I’ll let him know you are here right away Sergeant Major, please make yourself comfortable in the VIP lounge, and help yourself to some coffee.”
“Julian,” Command Sergeant Major Martin warmly said extending a hand to his former first sergeant.
Firmly accepting the sergeant major’s hand, Julian McNeely replied, “Sergeant Major, how are you?”
“I suppose you can call me ‘Jesse’ considering our circumstances Julian,” the senior said.
“Yes Sergeant Major,” the first sergeant affirmed.
“What in the hell is going on here Julian? The last time I saw you was…”
“…On the tarmac of Al Asad Airfield, at my ramp ceremony. I appreciate the send off by the way; having the entire battalion lined up as my flag draped casket was carried onto the C-17 at two in the damn morning was more than I deserved CSM, but thank you.”
CSM Martin replied, “You deserved each and every one of those salutes, and then some Top. Damn, I can’t believe we’re here.”
First Sergeant McNeely knew what his old Command Sergeant Major was feeling. He had gone through a similar gauntlet of emotions himself just two months ago.
“Sergeant Major, I know this is kinda tough to swallow and you probably have a lot of questions, but let me just say, you’re here for a reason, we’re here for a reason, and it’s a good reason,” Julian McNeely offered, looking directly into the old Soldier’s grey-blue eyes.
“I know Julian, but Tommy,” a tight throat and teary eyes precluded the sergeant major from finishing his thought.
Resting his strong hand on CSM Martin’s shoulder the first sergeant offered, “Tommy will speak to you each night and you will watch over him like you’ve never been able to watch over him before Sergeant Major, trust me, he’s in good hands,” the two old Soldiers hugged one another.
“Excuse me,” their embrace was interrupted by a twenty-something skinny, dark skinned, dark haired man with brown eyes dressed in a white silk shirt and loose fitting black pants, “where am I?”
The two hardened warriors stepped back from each other, looked at the young Muslim and said in unison, “What?” each leaving out “the f*#k” from the question.
“I am Muhammad Ali Zeyad and am wondering as to my whereabouts?” the young man asked.
Command Sergeant Major Jesse Martin turned his head to look at First Sergeant Julian McNeely and asked, “Did he just say his name was Muhammad Ali?”
Pausing to look at the dark young man, Julian McNeely replied, “Yes Sergeant Major, I believe that he did.”
“I am Muhammad Ali Zeyad from Syria and am not understanding where it is that I am. What place is this?”
“Ali, did you by any chance blow yourself up with a vest killing many people along with you,” the first sergeant asked sarcastically.
Muhammad Ali Zeyad suddenly looked embarrassed, “I was supposed to push the red button, but when I heard the baby cry and saw the child talking with the soldier, I could not do it. I could not push the button!” he exclaimed, holding his face in his hands, crying almost uncontrollably.
The seasoned warriors again looked at one another wondering what in the hell was going on.
“Zeyad,” the Sergeant Major bellowed, “are you telling us that you strapped on a vest full of C-4, ready to kill a bunch of civilians and soldiers, then pussied out at the last minute and now you wanna know where in the f*#k you are? What kinda chickenshit is that?!?”
“I was promised 72 virgins, honey cakes, and sweet wine,” the Muslim responded.
“But you just said that you didn’t push the red button!” First Sergeant McNeely rebutted.
Muhammad Ali Zeyad again looked embarrassed, “My vest was remotely exploded in lieu of my failure.”
“Well you just hit the lotto Muhammad Ali, but I’m sorry to inform you that there are not 72 virgins waiting on your ass. You might find some wine, definitely some beer, up the hill on Fiddler’s Green,” First Sergeant McNeely said.
“I am not in Paradise?” the young holy warrior asked.
“Call it what you want,” CSM Martin interjected, “But for whatever reason you are here at the station, at the gates of Heaven, and you damned well better live up to that honor.”
After several silent moments of thoughtful meditation, Muhammad Ali Zeyad said, “Yes, I must respect the honor bestowed upon me, thank you.” Picking up his valise, he started walking up the hill.
“Top, I think I’ll accompany Mr. Zeyad up the hill. Thank you for the warm welcome, it’s damned good to see you again,” Jesse Martin offered.
“It’s good to see you too CSM, and I’m proud to have served with you. We done good CSM, we done good.”
“And I see that you haven’t stopped doing good Julian, thank you.”
Sgt Hook out.
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This post is filed under: Fiddler's Green & Homecoming
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Sgt. Hook’s Makin’ Me Cry……Again!
The Long Way Home- First Installment
With the onset of my final Afghan dusk I walked the quarter mile to the passenger terminal, my duffel bag slung across my shoulder digging in just enough to remind me that I had packed too much crap, and carrying my laptop in the opposite hand. It was quiet as I stepped out of my hooch, most of the soldiers were undoubtedly at chow or those on night cycle would be down on steel beach standing ready to launch, which translates to playing HALO in the ready room. Just as well, I had had my full of “goodbyes” earlier in the day. So, I did the duffel bag drag under the ever darkening purple sky walking past the plywood hooches that were canvas tents a mere nine months earlier. Listening to the gut rumbling roar of an EA-6 Prowler courageously taking to the skys, I thought to myself that those guys have proven their worth time and again in spite of repeated attempts by a bunch of bean counters to put them out to pasture in some Arizona bone yard. I recalled that the four seater jet was invaluable to us during the early days of the Bosnia affair.
As the noise began to subside, I stopped at a row of conexes to look at the damage caused by that one rocket that finally did make it into our camp in the weeks preceding the Afghan elections. Of the countless attempted attacks, one son of a bitch made it just inside the tall sand filled Hesco walls to take out one of our conexes. Unfortunately, a piece of shrapnel from the wounded conex parked itself in the leg of one of my soldiers who was walking to his hooch nearby. I whispered a little prayer begging for that to be the only Purple Heart awarded to any of my soldiers for the entire deployment. My thoughts were interrupted by a large “jingo” truck painted in fantastic bright colors with tassles and trinkets hanging from various places inside and out of the cab. The Afghan driver flashed a broad smile and waved as he drove past, leaving me standing in a cloud of dust half waving and coughing. I resumed my solitary walk to the passenger terminal with a twinge of excitement in my heart as I thought about seeing my lovely and talented and downright sexy Mrs. Hook and our merry band of pirates again in a few days.
I came upon a row of several up-armored turtle-back humvees with their engines running, black-out drive lights on, and a group of soldiers mulling around the hood of the lead vehicle. I felt a little rush looking at the weapons mounted atop each one of the dust covered workhorses. An NCO was speaking to the group, reading from notes on a clipboard undoubtedly briefing them on their upcoming mission. I overheard him review the rules of engagement and then announce a commo check in “five mikes” as the group broke up and headed to their respective chariots. The Army goes rolling along.
Stepping into the plywood passenger terminal, I dropped the duffel at my feet with a “clunk” and sat down on one of the dozen couches that were lined dress right dress in rows of three facing a large screen television airing the Armed Forces Network to help those of us waiting to catch a flight outof the Stan pass the time. There was no travel agent to book my ticket out of the desert, so I silently hoped that a good dose of patience and a lot of AFN would be enough to keep my sanity as I waited to begin the first leg of my long journey home. A large white dry-erase board hung on the wall next to the televeision screen with the schedule of outgoing flights hand written in blue ink. Noticing that I was in luck, only two hours until the next scheduled flight, I settled in for the wait. It wasn’t long until the announcement was made for “those passengers wishing to travel this evening to please report to the manifest window with a copy of their orders.” I obediently reported to the manifest window with a copy of my orders in my hand.
We were notified that the flight had been cancelled and that there were no seats available on the following one, but there was a flight with some thirty open seats scheduled in about eleven hours. I sat back down and waited noticing on the mission board that a red line had been drawn through the listed flight I had anticipated being on. What the hell, eleven hours really isn’t that long of a time compared to nine months. Sgt Hook out.
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This post is filed under: Homecoming
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