Flying Home

They stank terribly.
They cursed profusely.
They talked loudly.
They were flying home.
I spent three fourths of the plane ride trying not to breathe through my nose and tuning them out, wishing they would pipe down so I could concentrate on my reading.
I spent the last moments of the flight fighting back tears of unbridled gratitude and regret.

Last night I joined the masses of weary travelers re-routing to get home after the holidays and landed in the back row of a tiny plane with a handful of soldiers returning from Iraq.
They had been traveling for three days.
They will be home for two weeks.
Once I finally wised up enough to engage them in conversation the cursing turned to family plans, spending time with their wives and children, and rave reviews of the Nashville Zoo playground.

I asked how they felt about being home for such a short period of time.
"Right now it's great. In a couple days it'll be awful. Cause our buddies are out there freezing their "tails" off and we're here at home."
Not every soldier shared that view, but I hadn't anticipated any of them feeling that way.

Before really striking up conversation I had muttered a heartfelt but singular, "Thank you".
Just before landing the flight attendant made special notice of these men, who give of themselves, and daily risk their lives for us. Applause rang out and I was one of the sparse few that got to see their faces and catch their response.
They were surprised.
Something in their eyes revealed a deeper knowing.
"They have no idea what it's really like," they muttered to one another.
This is why none of them will be watching the news while they are home. It is a false reality to them, grounds for fury.

They stank because they hadn't showered in three days, had been sleeping on the floors of numerous airports and were holding out to get home.
They were rowdy because they were eager to see their families.
They were harsh and crass because that is the world in which they live.
They are protecting us, defending us, risking life and limb for us.
And we think we've had a long day after a few extra hours of domestic travel . . . to see our loved ones.

We landed, taxied and deplaned.
I watched as the soldiers politely ushered everyone else off before themselves.
One woman insisted they go first, "You've waited long enough," she stated.
I followed them out.
The youngest soldier, father of a six year old girl, made a bee line for the smoking lounge and for the first time in my life, I wished I was a smoker.
I longed to follow him, to listen to him, to stand beside him, a brave, crass, life-giving man.
It took me a while to pull myself together.
In many ways I hope I never do.
To all who serve: Thank you.