The Last Day in the Office
6 A.M.: The alarm goes off and I am already awake. I have been dreading this moment and the ones to follow for two months now. My big mistake has been to be too much in control; seen as the authority for all the decisions by both the Iraqis and Coalition staff here. I have tried for several weeks to wean them away from my by coming in late, leaving for a few hours here and there but they just ended up waiting for me to return before they sought the answers to the thousands of little questions.
I roll out of bed quickly and look around my trailer. Most of my bags are already in the car and the only thing left here are my clothes for the trip to Kuwait today: DCU’s, rifle, pistol and a small black backpack with my red and white Iraqi scarf. I look at the nightstand and see my watch, ring, some money, and my wedding band. A quick run through the shower, shave, and then the things on my nightstand take their place in my pockets and on my body. I suit up. Uniform, boots, thigh holster, 9mm in place, small black ruck, rifle. The nightstand is clean now and looks sterile. None of the little things that made it look normal are there anymore. The dried flower, the green bottle, the picture. They are all packed away and waiting, like me, for the next thing.
6:45 A.M.: I leave the key on the nightstand, say goodbye to my roommate Bob, and walk out the door for the last time. Three metal steps down to the pre-cast cement tiles that separate me from the sand of Iraq. Navigating through the maze of trailers to the parking lot takes one cigarette; I light another one as I start the car and suppress the urge to run back and unpack all my things. Every action now takes me away from all of this effort and struggle and leads me towards an uncertain future to which I can no longer relate.
7:30 A.M.: The parking lot is almost full but I find a space in between some British vehicles. I carry all my bags to the Humvee that will carry me down to Camp Doha. Walking now through the gauntlet of tactical and non-tactical vehicles from every country, through the guards who know me by name, and down to the office for the last hour of my tour in Baghdad. My desk looks bare without the prayer rug or coffee cup. I open my emails for the last time and discard most. Then the last letter of recommendation for my faithful secretary who promised to come early today and see me before I left. I print the letter, and put it on her desk, where my prayer rug waits for her as a little surprise.
8:30 A.M.: Tim comes over to me and tells me something smart but nice, and uncharacteristically gives me a hug. I can’t start now; it won’t stop if I start now. I walk down the hall and see Ali’a, Rana’s sister, waiting there. She opens her arms and hugs me, too. Not normal at all. She points down the back hallway and Rana is there, small and quiet. I make Ali’a promise to take care of Rana and then walk down the hall. Rana has been crying; we have been so close through all of these days and weeks of stress and laughter and death and fear that being apart now is something that neither one of us can take.
8:45 A.M.: We move into the little room made to receive the end of a tall circular staircase that will take me up and out of the building and away from the work and people that have been my life for the last five months. She starts to cry, then stops, looks up at me and makes me promise to come back. I go to my knees in front of her and hold her hands. I look up into her tears and tell her that if God wants me to come back I will, and if he doesn’t I will be angry with him for not understanding what no one else can understand. I stand and hold her close to me and we both cry a little but I have to go; the convoy won’t understand, either. I tell her to wait for me, and then I turn and clank up the metal circular staircase to the daylight and away from her and them.
9 A.M.: The convoy leaves Iraq.
I roll out of bed quickly and look around my trailer. Most of my bags are already in the car and the only thing left here are my clothes for the trip to Kuwait today: DCU’s, rifle, pistol and a small black backpack with my red and white Iraqi scarf. I look at the nightstand and see my watch, ring, some money, and my wedding band. A quick run through the shower, shave, and then the things on my nightstand take their place in my pockets and on my body. I suit up. Uniform, boots, thigh holster, 9mm in place, small black ruck, rifle. The nightstand is clean now and looks sterile. None of the little things that made it look normal are there anymore. The dried flower, the green bottle, the picture. They are all packed away and waiting, like me, for the next thing.
6:45 A.M.: I leave the key on the nightstand, say goodbye to my roommate Bob, and walk out the door for the last time. Three metal steps down to the pre-cast cement tiles that separate me from the sand of Iraq. Navigating through the maze of trailers to the parking lot takes one cigarette; I light another one as I start the car and suppress the urge to run back and unpack all my things. Every action now takes me away from all of this effort and struggle and leads me towards an uncertain future to which I can no longer relate.
7:30 A.M.: The parking lot is almost full but I find a space in between some British vehicles. I carry all my bags to the Humvee that will carry me down to Camp Doha. Walking now through the gauntlet of tactical and non-tactical vehicles from every country, through the guards who know me by name, and down to the office for the last hour of my tour in Baghdad. My desk looks bare without the prayer rug or coffee cup. I open my emails for the last time and discard most. Then the last letter of recommendation for my faithful secretary who promised to come early today and see me before I left. I print the letter, and put it on her desk, where my prayer rug waits for her as a little surprise.
8:30 A.M.: Tim comes over to me and tells me something smart but nice, and uncharacteristically gives me a hug. I can’t start now; it won’t stop if I start now. I walk down the hall and see Ali’a, Rana’s sister, waiting there. She opens her arms and hugs me, too. Not normal at all. She points down the back hallway and Rana is there, small and quiet. I make Ali’a promise to take care of Rana and then walk down the hall. Rana has been crying; we have been so close through all of these days and weeks of stress and laughter and death and fear that being apart now is something that neither one of us can take.
8:45 A.M.: We move into the little room made to receive the end of a tall circular staircase that will take me up and out of the building and away from the work and people that have been my life for the last five months. She starts to cry, then stops, looks up at me and makes me promise to come back. I go to my knees in front of her and hold her hands. I look up into her tears and tell her that if God wants me to come back I will, and if he doesn’t I will be angry with him for not understanding what no one else can understand. I stand and hold her close to me and we both cry a little but I have to go; the convoy won’t understand, either. I tell her to wait for me, and then I turn and clank up the metal circular staircase to the daylight and away from her and them.
9 A.M.: The convoy leaves Iraq.
posted by tomk at 10:40 AM
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