Returning Home from War

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Deployed in Iraq
I was deployed in Iraq in September 2009 for my first four-month rotation flying missions with my new unit. Multiple holidays and a birthday missed with not a single day off. No such thing as a fun Friday night, a lazy Sunday morning or even a Wednesday to think, “I’m halfway there.” Everyday is a no frills Tuesday--the same day over and over again. Same uniforms, same chicken and rice to eat, same routine. There are only the rare tell-tale signs to offer any concept of time: pizza being served in the chow hall so it must be Friday, or a football game on TV so it must be Sunday. But it doesn't matter that it is Sunday because business must be done, a mission must be flown. The games are missed. (God bless those ground pounders who go for a year at a time.)
 
This isn't a sob story, but rather a small snapshot of what any military member must endure on a deployment overseas. Most of us are proud to do it. My time was up for this rotation on Groundhog’s Day. With my replacement in country and orders in hand, it was time to go home. U.S.A. here I come! Eventually.
 
Getting Home from War
The government had no problems sending me to war, why would I have any problems returning home from war? But it isn't so simple. As the only officer heading back to the states from my unit (I am a Lieutenant in the U.S. Navy), my orders were to escort home 11 of our maintenance personnel. When my Commander cut us loose, his only instruction was to get out of the country on any flight heading through Europe. Anywhere else would be too difficult. Lastly, he said, “You’ll be flying space-A, don’t even think about flying space-R.”
 
For the non-military readers, “A” stands for available and “R” stands for reserved. One rides space-R by calling the ticket counter and asking them to reserve you a seat on a flight versus space-A where one has to show up in person to the ticket counter and wait at the terminal for a seat to become available.
 
What’s the big deal about flying space-R? The Air Force charges $1,100 per person to fly in a reserved seat. My command learned this the hard way when, on separate occasions, we received a couple rather large bills from the Air Force for flying us home from Iraq. No more space-R flying for us.
 
Why doesn’t my command request and charter a dedicated airlift flight from the Air Force? The answer: We are too small and do not rotate enough personnel and equipment each month to make such a request. Plus, the cost is astronomical and we are not funded with enough money to pay for it.
 
My command has to do it the hard way--space-A. I have no idea what accounting lines the Air Force uses to let them sleep at night, but I do know, through my experience with Air Force bases, they sleep on very comfortable beds in the nicest rooms and play golf on the greenest, PGA quality golf courses.
 
Day One: Trying to Get to Germany
My on-the-job-training begins by driving with my 11 maintenance personnel all the way across the base--about three to four miles of unprepared Iraqi roads--to the passenger terminal to see what flights are available. The civilian lady at the terminal desk tells me there is a C-17 flight headed to Ramstein, Germany, in two hours with 14 seats available. I could not believe my luck. I have seen guys wait six days to find a flight home, and I get a flight for my sailors and myself on the first try.
 
We fill out the necessary paperwork, go through Customs where the agents unpack every last item for inspection and then we repack our bags. The inconvenience is nothing. We are going home.
 
And just as easily as they gave us our seats, they took them away, for reasons I will likely never know. All available seats on the foight to Ramstein had been denied. I am told there will be another flight in three hours and again in seven hours. An hour passes, and those flights are canceled.
 
Days Two Through Five: Still Trying to Get to Germany
This attempted hitchhiking goes on for five days.  Each day, we call ahead to the terminal and ask for the flight schedule so we can show up for the flights to see what seating is available. Then we drive the 25 minutes to sit at the terminal and wait. For some flights, we would make it as far as getting seats, only to be denied again or have the aircraft break. Most of the time, though, the flights were already canceled in the time it took for us to drive to the passenger terminal. At least in those instances, we did not have to stand in more lines.
 
Finally, on day five, a flight pops up that will be heading south to Al Udeid in Qatar.
 
Quick side bar:  Al Udeid, or “The Deid” for short, is where many military members deploying to either Iraq or Afghanistan have to be processed. It's also purgatory on Earth. Any service member who has had the experience of wasting away there knows exactly what I am talking about--the countless hours spent trying to pass through Qatar customs to be checked in to the country, immediately followed by another multi-hour customs line to check out of the country.  And once through the customs mess, every traveler is placed into a holding pen, with seats at least, until the next flight is available to take you to Iraq or Afghanistan. It is not uncommon for people to have to wait multiple days, during which they must repeate the process each day while they wait for a flight. I was lucky; my time in the pen was a mere nine hours when I was heading into Iraq. Only the military could come up with such a “hurry up and wait” process.
 
Facing "The Deid," Holding out for Germany
Along with the flight to Al Udeid, there are also C-17s to Germany and Greece, but they are not taking passengers. So, despite every fiber of my being reminding me of the pain of the Deid, I decide to roll the dice. At least we would get out of Iraq. I called the passenger terminal at the Deid and they had a direct flight to Texas with available seats that we could make in plenty of time. True, it was not exactly near our home in Virginia, but I couldn't be picky. I just wanted to get my people and myself back to the States. Bracing myself for what could be in store, I told my guys that we would muster the next day at 0930 for the flight to Qatar.
 
That night, I was awoken by a loud banging on my door. It was one of my men: “Sir, there is a flight leaving in 30 minutes and we might be able to get on it.”  He had eked out some insider information from customs on when flights were leaving.
 
We raced across base, made it through the passenger terminal and customs, and pulled up to the plane just minutes before it started to taxi. I stuck my head up into the cockpit to introduce myself to the pilot and thank him for flying us out of Iraq.  “By the way,”, I asked, “Where is this plane going anyway?”  “Germany” he replied.
 
We had sidestepped the Deid landmine.
 
Cont. on page 2.
 
(Photo credit: Matt Persiani)