By Christian Warren Freed
November is here again. Fall is in full swing. The leaves have changed and continue providing employment opportunities to the great yard waste crews of Holly Springs. We headed up to a friend’s house in Wake Forest to enjoy the fire pit, good times, and meet new people. One guy I met was recently retired from the Air Force. I’m normally standoffish in the beginning until I get the measure of the person I’m speaking with so I wasn’t quick to start a conversation. Once we got to talking, he asked me a simple question: Was it difficult for you to transition from the military to the real world? That train of thought threw me, bringing back the past. The short answer is absolutely. I felt lost, disoriented, like I didn’t really belong since my experiences were vastly different from the majority of Americans’.
I often placed limitations on myself, forcing away those I couldn’t trust. It’s one of the most difficult parts of my life—and that includes spending five years of my life in different combat zones. How does one, I concluded, quit a life they led for over two decades and smoothly enter a new world? I really don’t think they do. (Or maybe I just did it all wrong, which is possible.)
He asked me what I did to help. That was a softball question. We talked about the various veteran organizations, the benefits, and how they help those of us who made a career in uniform adapt and, ultimately, feel at home. I avoided places like the American Legion and VFW for years because of going with my father to the VFW when I was a kid. I remember the angry Korea and Vietnam veterans and didn’t want to be part of that.
My buddy here in town convinced me to head over to the American Legion post on Johnson Pond and the first thing I heard was a Marine talking smack to an Air Force vet. I immediately felt like I was home. This was where I belonged. Not because of rivalries or anything like that, but because no matter the branch, we are all like-minded and speak the same language.
A few beers in and the war stories flow. Most are embellished, but those special few are for chosen ears only. I was in the Army for 11 years before my father, who spent three years in Vietnam, started telling me his stories. And that was only after I returned from Afghanistan in 2003.
We keep these memories to ourselves not out of any sense of entitlement, but perhaps because we know the average person wouldn’t understand. They can’t relate. How could they? My wife always comments on my inability to get a rise from certain stressful matters, but I know there is no one trying to shoot me so there’s no worry.
By this point, my family knows I become reticent the closer I get to Veteran’s Day. It is the familiar haunting of the past that provides comfort during quiet hours, a gentle laugh as a particular memory slips in, or the staggering implications of all I, and the millions of other veterans, have done in the name of something far above ourselves.
Chances are you interact with many of us daily, without knowing. Sure, we are proud of what we did, and, for the most part, aren’t looking for recognition. We go about our lives, trying our best to fit in and, in certain cases, put the past behind us. We don’t think of ourselves as heroes, of being special, of being better than anyone else. We did a job that needed doing. That’s it.
A decade after retiring I still find it odd when people thank me for my service. Not that it isn’t appreciated, but it just feels … off, somehow. I struggle with trying to figure out how to explain what I did or what I saw. I want to connect but seem to miss the mark plenty of times. After all, how do you describe the visceral images of distant battlefields without getting into the bad details?
Perhaps this will do it.
It was late 2002 at Bagram Airbase, eastern Afghanistan. Not the Bagram we see on the news today, but a rugged outpost that was the Soviets’ last stand. Destroyed tanks and MiGs littered the area. The occasional Russian skeleton dotted the minefields surrounding the base. It was a lawless place. The wild west in full swing.
Word came down of a combat fatality. A Green Beret out of Fort Bragg was being sent home. Finished with our mission for the day, my buddy and I grabbed some chow and headed over to Disney Drive to stand with a hundred other soldiers to honor the fallen. The HMMWV carrying the flag-draped casket waited at the end of the road, ready to begin the slow drive to the flight line and up into the back of a C17.
Team members marched around the vehicle. Soldiers snapped to attention and saluted as the casket drove by. It was the first time I witnessed the after-actions of a combat death, but far from the last. Time slowed. Every movement became exaggerated. There was a full moon looming over the perpetually snow-capped mountains ringing the base. The open belly of the aircraft glowed that crimson red.
On the far end of the runway was a company of 82nd Airborne infantry getting ready to go home. They laughed, swore, joked, and felt the elation of having made it out of country in one piece. Simultaneously, another flight had just landed and a fresh combat of 10th Mountain Division troops were officially in-country. Their nerves, which we all related to, as bombs and machine gunfire could be heard in the distance, was evident as they ducked and flinched with each new sensation.
The vehicle passed me. I went to attention, making a point to look into the eyes of each Special Forces man as he walked by. The casket stuck out from the bed by two feet. The stars and stripes adorned it in a scene that would come to be played out far too many times over the next two decades.
Perhaps the most vivid memory of that surreal moment was the total silence after the vehicle crossed onto the flight line and to the back of the waiting plane that would take this fallen soldier home. Not a single man or woman lining the road spoke as we broke ranks and returned to our tents or back to work. What could be said? The quiet inevitability that this might one day be one of us attached itself to our souls and stayed there until that final step across the sand or dirt and onto the back ramp of the Freedom Bird.
So, while many restaurants are dishing out discounts or free meals, and veterans and their families head out to enjoy a quiet moment with loved ones, I think it is important to remember that words or free food mean little at the end of the day. Those men and women wearing their hats declaring which campaigns they fought in didn’t do it for recognition or thanks. They did it because it was the right thing to do. Because they are proud of having had the opportunity to step forward and serve you.
Maybe what I’m really saying is, thank you for always being here for us when we came home. Happy Veteran’s Day, my friends.
