thedrifter
03-12-08, 11:19 AM
Saying Goodbye
March 12, 2008
By Sgt. William Treseder
It’s five o’clock in the morning in a parking lot at the Del Mar area of Camp Pendleton on January 18, 2008. The sun hasn’t come out yet, it’s freezing cold and the best shelter anyone can find is the wide open canvas tent — with lukewarm watered-down coffee — that is about two degrees warmer than it is “outside.” The people who know, the ones who have done this all before, have blankets and sit silently inside cars and SUVs with their engines and heaters on, waiting until the last moment to exit. The less fortunate (i.e. the least experienced) group stands around shivering and almost hoping for the word to load up onto the buses. Almost, but not quite. For all the movement and people around the area, it’s strangely quiet. Everyone seems painfully self-aware as they mutedly line up seabags and military packs in long orderly rows on the cracked pavement.
These Marines are getting ready to leave for a year-long deployment to Camp Fallujah in Iraq, and if you didn’t already know, one look around you would betray the truth. Everywhere you look people quietly go about some menial task, their eyes reddened and drawn, haggard faces betraying the recent anxiety and sleepless nights. The muted activity of some younger Marines reveals their inner turmoil as they fumble with their gear, the same gear they’ve handled easily hundreds of times before.
There are families here: huge groups of wives, husbands, children, sisters, brothers and parents, all circled protectively around the one deploying as if some circle of love could ward off the impeding departure, separation and danger. Some clusters are smaller, just the spouse and children. The most common sight is a baby or toddler held, an arm around a spouse and any other children tucked in close to the legs and waist. The poor lighting casts deep shadows into these little bands, blurring the lines of their clothing and giving them the appearance of a single person.
Also present are some solo Marines, stamping their feet in the cold ocean air or gathering in small groups to jaw about something unimportant, trying to pass the time. They are a study in unsteady bravado, not really sure what to expect this time “in country;” all of them are wary, excited, exhausted and, whether they admit or not, scared. A few exist who revel in the prospect of true combat and stand out among their tentative brethren; usually those who know what it is — alternately boring, exhilarating and frightening — don’t pretend to enjoy the experience. Most are also unsure of their individual role in this new war, with conflicting reports about improved security and anemic terrorist groups, and this new creeping, deadly brand of military complacency. A stoic face is put on by most, a courageous shell fitting snugly over their shivering teenage bodies; its familiar feeling soothes them and warms their hearts, temporarily convincing them they are not afraid.
Lastly there are the couples who, without families or children, are easily recognizable. An almost unnatural intimacy surrounds them as they prepare for the looming reality of what has been the topic of every conversation for weeks. Barely visible in the predawn light, they resemble a single person, powerfully braced against the winter wind. The more comfortable and familiar they are with one another, the less is said; the older couples just hold each other closely or stand side by side, looking out onto the busy scene before them. Whether either of them spoke a word about it or not over the past few weeks and months, this deployment has factored into every aspect of their lives: every loving gesture, whispered promise and tear shed. And now the time is impossibly here; reassurance is gained through eye contact, a hand squeeze or a soft, lingering kiss. Despite all the activity around, it’s obvious how far away these pairs are, thinking back to a shared moment or trying to absorb every aspect of the other, holding tight to each image, memorizing the details of their loved one’s familiar face. For the more mature and thoughtful, this impending separation is as fully comprehended as humanly possible, and plans are in place for every thinkable eventuality. Others are younger or not as strong and cannot face the bleak reality confronting them everywhere they turn.
Regardless of how prepared they are, the time has come: all heavy gear is already gone and each Marine has only what he or she can carry. After roll call, the word goes out for everyone to get on the buses. One brief moment, shared by all, passes when not a single Marine moves. Slowly, momentum builds toward the long line of idling buses as the exodus begins. The solo ones are the first to go, loading up alone or with a buddy, maybe turning to take one last look at the Pacific coast in the ghostly predawn light. A mass of Marines forms outside each bus door as the main group gets on; a few wives break down and drop any pretense of quiet strength they promised to maintain. A few little children can barely be heard sobbing gently as they are led away by older siblings. All that remains are the senior Marines and a few stubborn couples, drawing out the sweetly painful moment, linked together by a hug, then hands, then fingers and finally just by their eyes. No words pass between them, not in front of the whole group assembled now, but they nonetheless reaffirm together an earlier promise: “Come home safely to me.”
Then the last man is loaded up by the weary leaders, a final count is taken to ensure no one is left behind, the doors shut — a heavy sound in clear, quiet air — and the convoy pulls out of the parking lot, followed closely by the tearful prayers of those left behind.
Ellie
March 12, 2008
By Sgt. William Treseder
It’s five o’clock in the morning in a parking lot at the Del Mar area of Camp Pendleton on January 18, 2008. The sun hasn’t come out yet, it’s freezing cold and the best shelter anyone can find is the wide open canvas tent — with lukewarm watered-down coffee — that is about two degrees warmer than it is “outside.” The people who know, the ones who have done this all before, have blankets and sit silently inside cars and SUVs with their engines and heaters on, waiting until the last moment to exit. The less fortunate (i.e. the least experienced) group stands around shivering and almost hoping for the word to load up onto the buses. Almost, but not quite. For all the movement and people around the area, it’s strangely quiet. Everyone seems painfully self-aware as they mutedly line up seabags and military packs in long orderly rows on the cracked pavement.
These Marines are getting ready to leave for a year-long deployment to Camp Fallujah in Iraq, and if you didn’t already know, one look around you would betray the truth. Everywhere you look people quietly go about some menial task, their eyes reddened and drawn, haggard faces betraying the recent anxiety and sleepless nights. The muted activity of some younger Marines reveals their inner turmoil as they fumble with their gear, the same gear they’ve handled easily hundreds of times before.
There are families here: huge groups of wives, husbands, children, sisters, brothers and parents, all circled protectively around the one deploying as if some circle of love could ward off the impeding departure, separation and danger. Some clusters are smaller, just the spouse and children. The most common sight is a baby or toddler held, an arm around a spouse and any other children tucked in close to the legs and waist. The poor lighting casts deep shadows into these little bands, blurring the lines of their clothing and giving them the appearance of a single person.
Also present are some solo Marines, stamping their feet in the cold ocean air or gathering in small groups to jaw about something unimportant, trying to pass the time. They are a study in unsteady bravado, not really sure what to expect this time “in country;” all of them are wary, excited, exhausted and, whether they admit or not, scared. A few exist who revel in the prospect of true combat and stand out among their tentative brethren; usually those who know what it is — alternately boring, exhilarating and frightening — don’t pretend to enjoy the experience. Most are also unsure of their individual role in this new war, with conflicting reports about improved security and anemic terrorist groups, and this new creeping, deadly brand of military complacency. A stoic face is put on by most, a courageous shell fitting snugly over their shivering teenage bodies; its familiar feeling soothes them and warms their hearts, temporarily convincing them they are not afraid.
Lastly there are the couples who, without families or children, are easily recognizable. An almost unnatural intimacy surrounds them as they prepare for the looming reality of what has been the topic of every conversation for weeks. Barely visible in the predawn light, they resemble a single person, powerfully braced against the winter wind. The more comfortable and familiar they are with one another, the less is said; the older couples just hold each other closely or stand side by side, looking out onto the busy scene before them. Whether either of them spoke a word about it or not over the past few weeks and months, this deployment has factored into every aspect of their lives: every loving gesture, whispered promise and tear shed. And now the time is impossibly here; reassurance is gained through eye contact, a hand squeeze or a soft, lingering kiss. Despite all the activity around, it’s obvious how far away these pairs are, thinking back to a shared moment or trying to absorb every aspect of the other, holding tight to each image, memorizing the details of their loved one’s familiar face. For the more mature and thoughtful, this impending separation is as fully comprehended as humanly possible, and plans are in place for every thinkable eventuality. Others are younger or not as strong and cannot face the bleak reality confronting them everywhere they turn.
Regardless of how prepared they are, the time has come: all heavy gear is already gone and each Marine has only what he or she can carry. After roll call, the word goes out for everyone to get on the buses. One brief moment, shared by all, passes when not a single Marine moves. Slowly, momentum builds toward the long line of idling buses as the exodus begins. The solo ones are the first to go, loading up alone or with a buddy, maybe turning to take one last look at the Pacific coast in the ghostly predawn light. A mass of Marines forms outside each bus door as the main group gets on; a few wives break down and drop any pretense of quiet strength they promised to maintain. A few little children can barely be heard sobbing gently as they are led away by older siblings. All that remains are the senior Marines and a few stubborn couples, drawing out the sweetly painful moment, linked together by a hug, then hands, then fingers and finally just by their eyes. No words pass between them, not in front of the whole group assembled now, but they nonetheless reaffirm together an earlier promise: “Come home safely to me.”
Then the last man is loaded up by the weary leaders, a final count is taken to ensure no one is left behind, the doors shut — a heavy sound in clear, quiet air — and the convoy pulls out of the parking lot, followed closely by the tearful prayers of those left behind.
Ellie