Last days.

It starts early. First there are a handful of men in gray uniforms, unloading their bags and stacking them inside the empty armory. The polished drill floor empty, waiting, expectant. These are the shortest goodbyes. They are the single men, the guys with a trip already under their belt. Some are first timers, the volunteers and the eager. This is the last day.
We stand around and wait. Smoking cigarettes and drinking giant coffees. We watch and welcome the new arrivals as they come through the gate. I watch one soldier do it absolutely right. He arrives in a new BMW 5 series driven by an older man. The driver gets out. He is wearing the retired military uniform, a light blue button up shirt and tan slacks. He helped his soldier unload, shook his hand gave him a hug and then got back in the car and drove away.
The rest of us do less well. The longer the good bye, the more it hurts. We stand in Limbo. No fake limbo is this. We cannot leave behind the warmth and comfort of home, nor can we shoulder our packs and march forward to an experience of a lifetime, again. Anchored to one world and with the next not quite ready for you. We stand in clumps, wives, parents and girls standing close but not too close. They want to hold on, to get one last touch or conversation. Each taste a little cut, a little pain to carry along.
Families stay around, wondering when will be the actual last moment with their soldier. SLA Marshall says that a lack of information breeds fear. Here it also breeds pain. Then there is the problem of selective hearing.
Later the soldiers have departed for lunch, some with their families, some with their comrades. I am sitting with the wives of some senior enlisted. Because I like to complain, I mention that the family support people have not covered some of the important information. Like how to get a hold of their soldier in case of an emergency. During the last trip families would call the Red Cross because Sergeant Rodriguez’s father is in the hospital. They know the good Sergeant is Iraq, but not exactly where or with what unit. The Red Cross does their best. Do you have any idea how many men by the name of Rodriguez, between the pay grades of E-5 and E-8 there are in Iraq?
So messages are sent to all the likely units, and the hunt begins. It begins to be like Saving Private Ryan, but via E-mail and phone calls. Then there are families who have an emergency and notify the soldier but not the Red Cross.
We have had a soldier packed up and ready to come home, but no Red Cross message. That message is the key that unlocks the magic carpet ride home. I explain this, and give all the information to this poor lady.
She hears that the only way to ever talk to a deployed soldier is to call the Red Cross! That a senior NCO has not told his new bride how this system works boggles my imagination. I had my spouse fully briefed on these things and I was only married a week when I deployed last time. (And isn’t that a tale of woe.) She goes ballistic, he has three hours of crying to deal with. Who gets blamed. Your favorite Pinball, never mind the mis understanding, the two other wives of men equal or senior to her husband. Never mind that if the family support people had included it in their briefings I would have been spouting old news. Or just maybe she was a little stressed about her husband leaving and not knowing when would be the for real last time she would see him.
Commence the ass chewing. SFC Daddy chews my ass a little and warns me it is coming. Then SSG Lifeguard flips me some shit over it. Finally SFC Caine chooses to pull a public ass chewing and a superiority complex on me in a crowded office with my seniors and peers all over the place. I ‘Yes sergeant’ and execute a hasty withdrawal.
Maybe there is something to this family support thing. I may have been incorrect in my prior smack talking. I hate to be wrong.

There is a good cause for clean breaks. It may hurt, but like pulling off a band aid faster is better. Since I got bit by the riding bug I have learned the art of packing my gear, putting on the helmet, jacket and gloves, and riding off into the sunset. I am quickly out of sight, and so both parties may be spared the pain of seeing the others tears.
My sister said it best. Ride Hard, Ride Long, Ride Safe, Ride Home. Now I sit and type, waiting for the ride to start. For the most part the civilian world behind me, my gear packed, the motor purring, If we would just grab the clutch, stomp on the shifter and ride off. But for now we sit in a strange holding pattern, and the tension builds.