Chapter Seven

          Without delving into the obvious cliché that juxtaposes my relationships with both 6th graders and Jihadists, I will simply state: children scare the hell out of me.   

          Maybe “scare” is the wrong term because I’m pretty sure I could handle myself if a group of them decided to launch a surprise attack.  But I certainly don’t like them very much.  This shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to anyone familiar with my past as it would indicate that I didn’t really like any of them when I was a child myself.  It turns out that sarcasm doesn’t make you very popular until your peers start catching on.  Even then, it’s marginal.   

          Erich Maria Remarque’s novel, All Quiet on The Western Front, spends most of chapter seven describing the main character Paul’s return to his hometown on furlough from the fighting.  In the only portion of the story that takes the reader away from the trench warfare of WWI, Paul confronts a personal hell when reuniting with his grieving and sickly mother, his curious father, and a handful of pompous politicos who claim a more thorough knowledge of the war in which he has fought for years.  In the novel, Paul holds back from relating the truth about his gruesome reality in an effort to ease his mother’s fear and maintain his mental reserves for the inevitable return.  Truthful descriptions of the front may also brand him as unpatriotic or aggrandizing.  He eventually breaks down in his mother’s arms and weeps for his lost childhood.       

          I’ve read chapter seven several times over the past few years.  I guess it helps to know that disassociation with civilians is a typical experience for soldiers and maybe I’m not as big an asshole as I sometimes feel.  My most recent return is substantially less difficult than my first.  I had a much less exciting tour, I’ve grown up a little, and maybe my loved ones just expect a lot less.  But let’s be serious, old Paul Baumer was a million times tougher than me and he fought in a time when war was hard.  It’s not like I was out bayoneting the wounded or choking on mustard gas over there.  We had ice cream sundaes and Internet for God’s sake!

          But our returning “heroes” can expect a certain amount of oddness.  While deployed, they are inundated daily with news and information concerning the Iraq war and all that goes with it.  It can be surprising to come home and remind yourself that it just hasn’t been news for at least a couple years.  I guess the general public thinks we’ve won or at least there are fewer of us over there.  For the record, troop levels in Iraq remain above 130,000 (higher than pre-surge) and this does not include the tens of thousands in Afghanistan, and those numbers continue to grow.    

          I don’t waste any time blaming the media for ignoring the wars.  They’ve gotten pretty boring.  Ask anyone over there, they’ll tell you how bored they are.  But it may be interesting for viewers to hear the occasional story about how much everything costs.  Because if there’s one thing that television likes to tell me about, it’s money.  You can’t seem to avoid an economy story unless there’s some sort of ongoing pirate saga.  Pirates?  Seriously?  I’m only glad that the Navy finally has something to do while they’re out floating around.  Now if we could only figure out a way to keep our Air Force relevant…   

          So without the news saying anything about the war, it really is up to the men and women serving to relate whatever they can.  This is a remarkably tall order.  It’s easy to feel like an expert when everyone knows so little.  On the other hand, it can be very uncomfortable describing anything due to the background information required to put any story or situation into context.  It’s much easier to just remain quiet and spare everyone the awkwardness of listening to stories full of acronyms.  I find myself talking about farm animals a lot.  They seem to be a rare subject where the listener and I can find common ground.  And who doesn’t like a good goat story.   

          But let me get back to those kids.    

          Ninety pairs of beady little eyes gripped me with the kind of intensity you’d expect be reserved for the Jonas Brothers.  I felt a little drippy palm-sweat moisten my shirt cuffs and my heart tried to beat through my chest.  I was honestly amused at how incredibly terrified I was to be talking to these little devils.  I can’t remember the last time I was so nervous.   

          My sister Jennie, a 6th grade English teacher and the coordinator of this impromptu “assembly” introduced me as her little brother who just got back from Iraq.  “He’s really nervous, so be nice and keep the questions appropriate.”  I wasn’t thrilled to hear her describe me as nervous.  I was doing my best to look cool. Cool and threatening.  One kid told me to just picture them all in their underwear.  I told him I thought I could get arrested for that kind of stuff.  He shrugged in what I perceived was agreement, and I took a second to reflect on how deeply aware our society had become concerning sexual predation.  I’m not sure if that’s a necessarily a positive cultural trait.  Either way, I was uncomfortable enough with everyone’s clothes on.  I ignored his suggestion and just went straight into my farm animal material.  “Hey, bet you don’t know how much cows like to eat garbage?”   

          Remarque’s characters may have dealt with a much harsher reality.  And while they served in a time of nationalistic fervor that catalyzed their enlistment and subsequent sacrifices for the good of the homeland, they were never expected to field the questions of pre-adolescents.   

          And the questions are always good ones.  I was five minutes into the presentation when I heard it:  “Did you kill anybody?”   

          Jennie covered her face and peered at me through the cracks of her fingers, no doubt recognizing this as a query outside of the aforementioned “appropriate question” category.  But I had prepped for it:  

          “Actually I killed a few people on the way over here.  Oh, you meant in the war.  Well, in that case, no.”  

          If you like freedom, thank a vet.  If you don’t mind being disappointed, ask him a question.  

Reintegration

          Before anyone leaves a war zone, the Army insists on providing that soldier with “reintegration” training. It’s related in the same manner you’d expect if you were learning how clear a weapons’ jam or change a tire. Only in the Army would people believe that integrating oneself into society is something that you could be trained on in a two-hour block of instruction.  If I had known in high school that successful integration required only a two-hour class, I may have avoided more of that taunting and harassment. 

          The phrase itself is odd: “Reintegration”. It assumes that we were well-integrated before we left…. we weren’t: look at our haircuts. 

          The training is mandatory, and aims to prevent unspeakable violence that may be committed by some of our more unstable compatriots.  This type of violence is real, it is tragic, and it is more frequent than most folks may be aware.  There is nothing funny about it, no matter how hard I try.   

But this is about me.   

          Do you realize that I am returning in the middle of the American Idol’s 7th season?  Do you have any idea how hard it is to catch up with something like that?  Who the hell is this new judge and what makes her important enough to sit between Paula and Randy?       

          Also, I have been made aware of some sort of auto industry meltdown…  It sounded pretty terrible until I realized what a great deal I could get on that Buick I always wanted.  As a thrifty consumer, I felt I should hold off on buying one until I really needed the extra space for my walker and colostomy bag.  But look out Bridge club! I might be rollin’ in a Lucerne next Monday! 

          While the Army could not prepare me for everything, they did warn me about the family stuff. Chaplains are the ones who give us the training and they say things like, “It will be different.  They’ve changed, you’ve changed.  Your kids will be on a schedule that you’re not familiar with.”  

          This is something that my friends with children always mention.  They feel like spectators in their homes.  While you’re gone, everyone figures it out without you.  I know men who have missed the births of all their children and, conversely, their wives have had the unique opportunity to drive themselves to the delivery room.  Sounds like fun, right?  Yet people still ask Melissa and I why we haven’t had children. 

          “The problems that you had when you left will still be there.” I’ve got one of those problems, it’s called a house and no one seems to want to buy those things anymore.  If anyone reading this would like a house: CALL ME.

          I wasn’t expecting them to cover physical intimacy, but they did. The chaplain displayed a slide with a picture of a hair dryer next to a slow cooker.  This was an attempt to highlight the differences in men and women’s approaches to sex.  Slow cookers require more foreplay apparently.  That’s all I will say about that, I’m still feeling uncomfortable. 

          “Just remember that things will be complicated and you need to be understanding of the new rhythm.  Don’t let little changes upset you, and don’t respond inappropriately to the big changes.” 

          What the chaplain was alluding to with that statement is the embarrassing track record that the Army has garnered concerning domestic violence following deployments.  “Letting the little changes upset you” probably refers to the open hand slap-method of conflict resolution.  As for the “big changes”… He’s talking about those deployment-induced bouts of infidelity.  They are rampant on either side of the ocean and the R-rated vault of racy stories that I possess concerning this phenomenon is best left off the Internet. 

          It’s the “big changes” that make people hurt themselves or someone else.  The Army is trending above the national averages on both suicides and violence in general.  They have responded with massive amounts of new training to confront the problem.  A new interactive video has been released to teach us how to deal with our stress and how to identify warning signs in others.  Of course, if we deployed a little less I imagine the numbers would improve.  But a video can’t hurt I guess. 

          I left Iraq well trained in reintegration techniques and procedures.  I was prepared to reintegrate with anyone I came across: friend, stranger or loved one.  I figured I wouldn’t know exactly how to react until I was forced into a real reintegration situation and then hopefully my training would just take over.    

          

          Melissa probably dry-cleans more clothing than any other American.  Each week, great mountains of clothing avoid our hamper in order to take that special trip down the street to the place where they can receive the essential combination of heat, chemicals and big plastic baggies.  As her errand-runner, I have a surprisingly close relationship to the staff at our dry-cleaner of choice. Fresh from the war, she probably noticed my heightened sensitivity and broke the news to me gently, “we’re using a different dry cleaner.” 

          The words hit me like a ton of bricks, “What happened?”  I assumed it was a matter of damaged buttons or maybe they switched to those really flimsy hangers that just seem to fold in half when you’ve got a really heavy coat. 

          “They laid off that nice little Irish lady that worked there.” 

          “Linda?  Those bastards, why?”  Linda had been like family.  Not so much like my family but probably to someone else at the very least.  She had the sweetest disposition and an Irish accent that made the whole dry cleaning experience seem effortless and refreshing like a stroll among the moors on a foggy day, or like cutting open my soap and taking a satisfying whiff before showering.  You know, Irish stuff.   

          Melissa, sensing my anger and aware of the fact that I had just left a war zone assured me that Linda would be okay.  She was now a sandwich artist at the Subway next door to the cleaners.  Her former employers hired someone as a replacement and were clearly paying him much less, given his tendency to not understand English.  “We’ve started going to the Korean people in the place next to the new Starbucks.”             

          I wasn’t sure how to react to all of this.  “Have you at least been to the new Subway?"

          Melissa frowned and I remembered that she developed a fear of lunch meat sometime in 2007 and rarely eats it anymore.  She’s sworn off Subway completely.  Its clinical name is “subaphobia” but may also be referred to as hero- grinder- or hoagie- phobia depending on your preferred regionalism associated with long sandwiches.             

          I took off with my mind full of questions and a back seat full of blouses. I couldn’t help eyeing the old Korean woman suspiciously as she sorted my enormous pile of garments.  As I left I decided that I’d stop by the Subway myself and maybe say hello.  I didn’t want to eat anything, I had just purchased a delicious muffin from the Starbucks next to the cleaners.  It was pretty convenient.             

           I looked for Linda but she must not have been working, and that left me just standing there staring at the kid behind the register.  He asked if I needed help and I told him I was just looking, as if window-shopping for cold cuts was a perfectly normal activity.

          The little bell rang behind me as I left, it’s lilting sound betraying the dark cloud of confusion and melancholy settling over me as I headed back to my car.  I gripped the steering wheel and tried to make sense of the world that had changed without me.  Muffin crumbs bounced down my shirtfront as I tried to make sense of it all.              

          Can that new lady really add something to my beloved panel of judges?  Am I ever going to feel good about my dry-cleaning again?  Is there a Buick in this world that’s right for me?  Did I remember to turn on the slow-cooker?              

          This is reintegration.  It’s not easy, but I’ll get through it.  I’ve been trained for this.