The bonds of memories

October 30, 2004

Nobody likes change.

You get used to it, living with the U.S. Army. But you never actually like it.

And a big change is under way.

How do I know?

Well, the mountain of duffel bags in 3rd Battalion’s motor pool was the first clue. Laundry hanging between the trailers was the second clue.

A quarter of the battalion is preparing to head home. They’ve reached their 24-month limit on deployment. That means they’ve served their time and it’s time to get back to civilian life.

The soldiers have packed their bags, dumped them out for U.S. customs and repacked them again. And they’re living out of one carry-on bag.

The socks and underwear, pants and shirts hanging around camp are signs of the time passing.

You can only shove a few days of clothing in a carry-on bag.

Soon the soldiers will be home, sleeping on soft mattresses without painful springs and eating whatever they want.

And they’ll be thinking of Iraq.

Well, maybe not Iraq, but of the buddies still here.

And we’ll be thinking of them.

Every now and then, I’ll think of the way PawPaw — Sgt. Gary Melton of Bald Knob — used to sing while he drove, smiling with every word. And yes, he took requests.

I’ll remember the way Sgt. Heath Livesay of Searcy would laugh nervously after a fire fight as he recounted the battle and, with wide eyes, say how scary it was.

I’ll remember the countless times Sgt. 1st Class Charles Allen of Augusta ordered a soldier to “escort the lady” back to the humvee and then roll his eyes five minutes later when he realized I had ignored the command and was still following him.

There’s Staff Sgt. Eric Conyers of Springdale, who can see a shiny object dropped on the side of a road while cruising by in a humvee at 40 miles per hour. He calls them “Sparkly shinys.” If you drop it or lose it, I guarantee Conyers will find it.

And Staff Sgt. Charlie Hightower of Newport, Delta Company’s philosopher and coffee connoisseur. I’ve adopted the word, “Bud,” into my vocabulary in his honor.

I’ll never forget the look on Sgt. Clark Halfacre’s face that horrible day when he stumbled out of the cloud of smoke after a roadside bomb exploded on our foot patrol. His face and teeth were blackened, his head rattled, but his body untouched by the blast.

I remember how he asked all of us if he was OK, because he couldn’t believe it. Neither could we.

And what about Sgt. Pat McCarty of Heber Springs, the brigade’s top sniper, or Sgt. Clay Hughes of Little Rock who captured his platoon’s fight in Najaf on camera and created a movie out of it.

There’s Staff Sgt. Denny Smith of Walnut Ridge, who would always enjoy a cigar on the verandah of Fort Apache before his midnight shift in Charlie Company’s operations center. I bet they’ll be finding cigar butts out there for years to come.

And there’s Sgt. Jeff McDonald, who always carried M&Ms, Slim Jims and orange soda on patrol after hearing those are my favorite war zone snacks.

I remember when Emma Martin was born. Her daddy, Sgt. Randall Martin of Searcy, beamed that day here in Taji, showing her picture to everyone. I’ve watched Emma grow up in pictures ever since.

She turns six months old this month and he’ll be home to see it.

I’ll laugh every time I think of when Sgt. Johnny Cartwright of Searcy had to run away from a hornet’s nest he angered while hunting for weapons. It took a harmless smoke grenade to calm the buzzing beasts.

I could go on and on, listing 240 names, each with their own story that brings either a smile or a tear.

In some ways, we’ve lived a lifetime here over the last eight months in Iraq. And in other ways, it seems as if life has stood still.

As they return to the lives they left behind all those months ago, we’ll remember those snippets in time, those moments and the men who made them happen.

Posted by Amy at October 30, 2004 12:24 PM