C'EST MOI!

 

Recently, I visited Baumholder, Germany, respectfully nicknamed “The Rock” and home of the 1st Armored Division. On the two-lane highway leading there, I noticed an odd sign posted on the guardrail to my right. The sign read, “Getting warmer.” Puzzled, I had no clue as to what those words meant until I saw another sign a short distance ahead. In the middle of a field, a large white cloth draped over a rolled bale of hay read, “Welcome home, SSG Santiago.” These two signs were only small indicators of what lay ahead. Approaching the gate, I admired more homemade signs, particularly the patriotic ones in red, white and blue paint, which welcomed home the battle-weary troops who had recently returned from Iraq. Once on post, I marveled at sturdy trees standing at attention, proudly boasting streaming yellow ribbons and plump bows fastened sporadically around their trunks. I was amazed at the various-sized yellow bows visible as far as my eyes could see. Several fences and sides of buildings held more hand-painted signs, which the troops could not have possibly missed as they rolled in that day. I was proud of that. Wanting to do a little shopping, I stood in a long line leading to the ATM near the Post Exchange. In line ahead of me stood two soldiers in Battle Dress Uniforms and three in civilian clothes. I could tell the ones in civilian clothes were soldiers too as I unintentionally overheard bits and pieces of their conversations about being back home, the things they had done or planned to do. These young soldiers, looking barely out of their teens, bore skin with deep tans as if they had spent too much time lazing in the sun on some beautiful tropical beach. However, Iraq was no day at anyone’s beach. I felt sad about that. As I neared the ATM, the post speakers came to life with the familiar crisp bugle notes, which signaled “Retreat” to lower the flag and end the duty day. Seemingly, a special reverent hush fell over the area, proof that this traditional ceremony had taken on a new meaning, especially to these young men. Those in line ahead of me snapped around sharply to face the source of the music. I turned too and a panoramic view of the parking lot revealed even more patriotism. Soldiers in either BDUs or desert cammies readied themselves to pay their respect to our flag. On the road in front of the PX, a few cars were stopped, its drivers had stepped out onto the street ready to do the right thing to the flag too. Nearby, I noticed a young toddler of about two standing next to her dad in uniform, proudly looking up at him and probably wondering what she should do. She connected her tiny fingers with his left hand and stared straight ahead just as her dad did as he prepared to salute with his right hand. That touched me. I stood at attention and placed my hand over my heart as the bugle continued and the color guard slowly lowered the flag. Everyone that I could see stood still, some with a salute, others with their hands over their hearts, honoring the flag as it descended into the soldiers’ waiting hands. When Retreat ended, drivers stepped back in their cars and awakened their engines to continue their journeys. The soldiers and others resumed their pace through the parking lot to their intended destinations. Finished with my shopping, I headed home, but at the last minute decided to ride down the street near the theater to view more of what welcomed the soldiers on the day they returned. The fence surrounding the track behind the theater held even more signs: “We love you, 1-6 INF; You are our heroes, 2-6 INF; Welcome home, 1-45,” and so on.” More yellow bows and ribbons on a chain-link fence filled spaces between the signs. Near the fence stood a group of fresh-faced young men with that unmistakable ‘Iraqi’ tan. As I slowly drove by, I noticed that they were laughing and talking amongst themselves. One quickly puffed repeatedly and nervously on a cigarette. Others punctuated their conversations with animated hand gestures and brotherly hugs. Even from my car, I sensed their lingering uneasiness, yet they seemed relieved to be back on “The Rock.” I was happy for them too. As I turned towards the traffic circle to head off post, I saw a lone soldier jogging in his gray and black PT uniform. As he approached the crosswalk ahead of me, I stopped to let him pass so that he would not break his stride. That is when it all came together for me. My heart filled with both pride and sorrow. I felt profoundly proud of these soldiers who served so bravely and had returned safely to enjoy this extremely well deserved heroes’ welcome home. A deep sadness overwhelmed me as my thoughts turned to the soldiers who never made it back. With my heart full, I cried as I drove away. So I say to each of you on the “The Rock” and to all our soldiers who have returned safely: I SALUTE YOU FOR A SUPERB JOB EXTREMELY WELL DONE!