thedrifter
05-21-07, 08:09 AM
Back from Iraq
A joyous welcome home for Navy hospital Corpsman
By Alexa James
May 21, 2007
Times Herald-Record
Jacksonville, N.C. — The chain-link fence on either side of Route 24 is lined with 'welcome home' banners. Hundreds of them.
"To my son." "To my hubbie." "To the little brat."
Matt Siruchek's family and fiance, here nearly 700 miles away from their Walden home, pull off the highway Saturday in front of those banners.
Matt's dad, Adam, grabs the duct tape. His mom, Becky, and the kids follow with a strip of blue and white vinyl that reads, "Welcome home Siruchek."
Navy hospital Corpsman Matthew Siruchek, 20, is returning today from his first tour as a medic in Iraq. He's been gone eight and a half months, assigned to the 1st Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment in Ramadi, one of Iraq's most dangerous cities.
Nearly 900 men are heading home from Iraq, via Kuwait, then Germany, then the base airport at Cherry Point. They take buses from there, and from the windows, as they ride down Route 24 on the last leg of the journey, they're first welcomed home by the banners.
In two weeks, every sign here will come down to make room for the next homecoming.
Welcome to Jacksonville, a coastal city of 67,000 people, mostly active or retired Marines and sailors. On its wide strips of highway, spit-shined pickups and hot rods cruise by the barber and pawn shops, strip clubs and tattoo parlors, seafood shacks and a surplus store called Saigon Sam's.
Jacksonville is a city that feeds off Camp Lejeune, the world's largest concentration of Marines and sailors.
Here is where the Pentagon's rubber meets the road, where thousands cycle through the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, where thousands more are trained to take their places.
Backs straight. Automatic "yes sirs" and "yes ma'ams." Crew cuts so high and tight you can balance your beer on them.
In fatigues and goggles and flak jackets, they look nearly identical. That's done by design. When they die, and their pictures flash across TV screens and newspapers, they still look the same.
But their families do not. They flood Lejeune's main gate by the car-full, license plates from across the United States. It's been months of worry for the families. In some ways, it is their war, too.
Once inside the base, the crowd gathers in the grassy yards between the barracks. Marines grill hot dogs. A DJ plays country and Gospel and hip-hop.
Folks spread blankets and set up lawn chairs. The Siruchek kids and Matt's fiance, Laura Benedict, scramble off to have a look at Matt's room.
The rows of brick barracks look like college dorms, but stripped of all the posters and dirty clothes and empty pizza boxes. Matt's military home is a cinder block room painted off-white, with thin blue carpet.
Only a few more hours, says Maj. Daniel Zappa. As second-in-command of the 1/6, he returned last week to get ready for the homecoming.
When the unit arrived in Ramadi in September 2006, the city was one of the most hopeless and dangerous in Iraq. No plumbing, electricity or public transportation. "The freedom of movement the insurgents had was complete and unquestioned," says Zappa.
And now?
"We got to see the (Iraqi) police take over," he says. "You can walk down to the main market now." The electricity and plumbing work. A hospital is open and the garbage gets picked up.
Last month, news reports touted a 17-day "incident-free" streak in Ramadi. Seventeen straight days with no casualties or explosions. A welcomed reprieve for Matt Siruchek, whose job these last eights months has been caring for the wounded.
The 1/6 lost 12 men over there, most to roadside bombs.
A black banner hanging from the barrack's balcony carries a roll call of the dead. The Sirucheks wander over to read the names. One of them was Matt's good friend, Corpsman Christopher Anderson, whose funeral the Sirucheks attended in January.
Also on that banner is Jill Puckett's son, who on his second tour was one of three killed Oct. 9 when his Humvee was hit by a roadside bomb. Though she has no one to welcome home, she came here anyway, wearing a T-shirt with a photo of her son, Jon Bowman.
Jon would have wanted her here. "I owed this to my son," she says, "I owe this to these guys."
Then on the loudspeaker, it's Maj. Zappa: "The buses have entered the back gate."
Pandemonium.
Young moms scoop up toddlers in one arm and apply lipstick with the other. Grandmas and grandpas wriggle out of their lawn chairs. Adam Siruchek hoists his 18-year-old daughter, Sharon, onto his shoulders. As the line of buses appears, rolling slowly toward the crowd, she starts to sob, holding a sign above her head as high as her trembling arms will stretch.
"Hey Doc Siruchek," the sign says, with an arrow pointing down. "We are here."
The buses file past the people lining the pavement. It's too dark to see in the windows, but everyone in the parking lot is waving furiously and calling out nicknames and pet names and ranks.
The buses slow. For a second, maybe even two, the scene feels almost calm, like the stillness between lightning and thunder.
The bus doors swing open. Desert camouflage floods the grounds. The Sirucheks search through a sea of tan troops.
They all look the same.
Where is Matt?
He spots them first, starts sprinting hard toward them, like a linebacker. Laura sees him and leaps forward. Their bodies smack hard.
Laura wraps her legs around him. Matt buries his tired face in her hair.
Then he reaches for his mom, then his sister, his brother and then, finally, his dad. Matt whispers to each of them. Then the Sirucheks gather in a circle.
And they pray.
The same happens all around them, over and over. A daddy holds his baby for the first time, studying its little face and chubby knees.
There will be another homecoming later today, just like this one. Those families are already arriving. And in Ramadi, another unit has already taken this one's place.
Here, at barracks, there are new Marines, transfers to the 1/6, watching their companies return from war for the first time.
One of the older Marines stops to extend a hand toward a fresh face on traffic control.
"Welcome to 1/6," he says. "What's your name?"
Ellie
A joyous welcome home for Navy hospital Corpsman
By Alexa James
May 21, 2007
Times Herald-Record
Jacksonville, N.C. — The chain-link fence on either side of Route 24 is lined with 'welcome home' banners. Hundreds of them.
"To my son." "To my hubbie." "To the little brat."
Matt Siruchek's family and fiance, here nearly 700 miles away from their Walden home, pull off the highway Saturday in front of those banners.
Matt's dad, Adam, grabs the duct tape. His mom, Becky, and the kids follow with a strip of blue and white vinyl that reads, "Welcome home Siruchek."
Navy hospital Corpsman Matthew Siruchek, 20, is returning today from his first tour as a medic in Iraq. He's been gone eight and a half months, assigned to the 1st Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment in Ramadi, one of Iraq's most dangerous cities.
Nearly 900 men are heading home from Iraq, via Kuwait, then Germany, then the base airport at Cherry Point. They take buses from there, and from the windows, as they ride down Route 24 on the last leg of the journey, they're first welcomed home by the banners.
In two weeks, every sign here will come down to make room for the next homecoming.
Welcome to Jacksonville, a coastal city of 67,000 people, mostly active or retired Marines and sailors. On its wide strips of highway, spit-shined pickups and hot rods cruise by the barber and pawn shops, strip clubs and tattoo parlors, seafood shacks and a surplus store called Saigon Sam's.
Jacksonville is a city that feeds off Camp Lejeune, the world's largest concentration of Marines and sailors.
Here is where the Pentagon's rubber meets the road, where thousands cycle through the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, where thousands more are trained to take their places.
Backs straight. Automatic "yes sirs" and "yes ma'ams." Crew cuts so high and tight you can balance your beer on them.
In fatigues and goggles and flak jackets, they look nearly identical. That's done by design. When they die, and their pictures flash across TV screens and newspapers, they still look the same.
But their families do not. They flood Lejeune's main gate by the car-full, license plates from across the United States. It's been months of worry for the families. In some ways, it is their war, too.
Once inside the base, the crowd gathers in the grassy yards between the barracks. Marines grill hot dogs. A DJ plays country and Gospel and hip-hop.
Folks spread blankets and set up lawn chairs. The Siruchek kids and Matt's fiance, Laura Benedict, scramble off to have a look at Matt's room.
The rows of brick barracks look like college dorms, but stripped of all the posters and dirty clothes and empty pizza boxes. Matt's military home is a cinder block room painted off-white, with thin blue carpet.
Only a few more hours, says Maj. Daniel Zappa. As second-in-command of the 1/6, he returned last week to get ready for the homecoming.
When the unit arrived in Ramadi in September 2006, the city was one of the most hopeless and dangerous in Iraq. No plumbing, electricity or public transportation. "The freedom of movement the insurgents had was complete and unquestioned," says Zappa.
And now?
"We got to see the (Iraqi) police take over," he says. "You can walk down to the main market now." The electricity and plumbing work. A hospital is open and the garbage gets picked up.
Last month, news reports touted a 17-day "incident-free" streak in Ramadi. Seventeen straight days with no casualties or explosions. A welcomed reprieve for Matt Siruchek, whose job these last eights months has been caring for the wounded.
The 1/6 lost 12 men over there, most to roadside bombs.
A black banner hanging from the barrack's balcony carries a roll call of the dead. The Sirucheks wander over to read the names. One of them was Matt's good friend, Corpsman Christopher Anderson, whose funeral the Sirucheks attended in January.
Also on that banner is Jill Puckett's son, who on his second tour was one of three killed Oct. 9 when his Humvee was hit by a roadside bomb. Though she has no one to welcome home, she came here anyway, wearing a T-shirt with a photo of her son, Jon Bowman.
Jon would have wanted her here. "I owed this to my son," she says, "I owe this to these guys."
Then on the loudspeaker, it's Maj. Zappa: "The buses have entered the back gate."
Pandemonium.
Young moms scoop up toddlers in one arm and apply lipstick with the other. Grandmas and grandpas wriggle out of their lawn chairs. Adam Siruchek hoists his 18-year-old daughter, Sharon, onto his shoulders. As the line of buses appears, rolling slowly toward the crowd, she starts to sob, holding a sign above her head as high as her trembling arms will stretch.
"Hey Doc Siruchek," the sign says, with an arrow pointing down. "We are here."
The buses file past the people lining the pavement. It's too dark to see in the windows, but everyone in the parking lot is waving furiously and calling out nicknames and pet names and ranks.
The buses slow. For a second, maybe even two, the scene feels almost calm, like the stillness between lightning and thunder.
The bus doors swing open. Desert camouflage floods the grounds. The Sirucheks search through a sea of tan troops.
They all look the same.
Where is Matt?
He spots them first, starts sprinting hard toward them, like a linebacker. Laura sees him and leaps forward. Their bodies smack hard.
Laura wraps her legs around him. Matt buries his tired face in her hair.
Then he reaches for his mom, then his sister, his brother and then, finally, his dad. Matt whispers to each of them. Then the Sirucheks gather in a circle.
And they pray.
The same happens all around them, over and over. A daddy holds his baby for the first time, studying its little face and chubby knees.
There will be another homecoming later today, just like this one. Those families are already arriving. And in Ramadi, another unit has already taken this one's place.
Here, at barracks, there are new Marines, transfers to the 1/6, watching their companies return from war for the first time.
One of the older Marines stops to extend a hand toward a fresh face on traffic control.
"Welcome to 1/6," he says. "What's your name?"
Ellie