Before The First Entry
It was January 2nd, 2003, "O'Dark A.M."
It would be March before the official announcement of invasions into Iraq, expanding the defense plan spurred forth by the September 11, 2001 attacks on America. But we continued to get troops in place.
I remember the opposition to this. I remember the arguments to push forward.
My hope is that regardless of your views, you can read these entries with your heart, and appreciate the human side of each of these heroes who sacrificed for our country. Some of them didn't get to come home to their families. It may be surprising to see that some of them weren't even necessarily in agreement about the reasons to invade.
I had asked to work the flight on January 1st, after celebrating New Year's Eve the night before.
I sat down in my jump seat, facing the back half of our plane, staring into stoic faces, weapons under their feet...full of emotion, but covering it well.
At first, my mind wandered to my less-than-stellar New Year's celebration, but immediately, I was zapped back to the harsh reality of those faces I was looking into.
MY less than stellar celebration?! I was humbled instantaneously. These (mostly) young men and women didn't celebrate a thing! They were packing from a regimented list, and saying good-bye to loved ones...possibly for the last time. This wasn't the kind of fun packing and preparation most of us know for vacations. Even a boring business trip would be a lively choice, in comparison. These soldiers were packing up survival gear to keep themselves alive, while going off to defend our country, after the horrific 9/11 Terrorist Attacks. They were headed out on an adventure unlike most of us could, or would, even want to imagine.
I wondered what they were thinking, how they must be feeling. The more I looked in each of their faces, each one seeming to say something different, I wondered if they'd come back to the galley and share anything. In past flights, troops had come back to talk with us, often just to be up out of their tightly fitting seats, and share about their families and home. This time I didn't think they would share anything at all. It was ridiculous to even consider asking — what? Standing there in the aisle? With all their buddies right there? Awkward, to say the least. More like incomprehensible.
I thought about what I do when I don't feel like talking, but am overwhelmed with feelings. I write. I can let it out, and speak freely, on paper.
So I flipped over my own personal spiral-bound journal, and offered it to the first person, deep in thought, who still had his eyes open, of course. He wrote...then the person he handed it to...then the next, and the next. So many were willing to share, and seemed grateful to have a place to do so. It almost seemed enough to them that someone just cared what they were feeling, or going through, in their own minds.
My intention was always to allow them a safe place to let out those thoughts, so I only left intact their initials or sometimes, first names, ranks, and cities, if they left these. So as not to expose them, but imperative to keeping the integrity and real person behind each entry, and to see the actual entries in their own handwriting. It's very personal when someone shares from their heart, and I wanted to honor that, in the best way I could. I do hope those closest to them will recognize handwriting or initials.
I also mended some sentences or punctuation in my transcriptions, to allow it to read as closely to what was meant by the soldier. There is also a rank abbreviation cheat-chart in the back of the book.
It was the soldiers, themselves, who insisted I publish these entries, in order for people to know what they were thinking and feeling. That came as a shock, as I didn't pass it around as something to publish.
Sometimes they left home with so much still inside — maybe they didn't have words to share with those closest to them right then — or they needed to stay strong for a plethora of reasons. For me to have the opportunity to offer them a place to share, to be real, to be vulnerable...a place to just write, to let whatever was inside have a way out...felt like a gift from day one.
I'm told that in some cases, our men and women didn't even make it to their base in order to write their "last letter" home, to their family... so this might be the last heartfelt words on paper for them to see. I pray those who knew them will find solace in this publication. My intention is to present these with all the respect they so much deserve.
Some entries just make me giggle. Ones like: "Iraq was hot." Well that sums it up, doesn't it?
Or, "Bring me some food, NOW!"
Truly heartfelt. lol
Or funnier were the entries from the people who wanted more! It was airplane food! I guess that says an awful lot (emphasis on "awful") about what they were being fed in the desert, that they wanted more airplane food!
We all loved our jobs very much, long before these journals began. We just enjoyed a deeper appreciation and insight with these, along with all those conversations we had with them in the galleys.
I think we often felt somber...almost helpless, in a way. We would take care of them for a long flight, only to drop them off in what we could only imagine to be Hell. At that point, it was only fate, their intense training, and their God, who would bring them back home safely.
The military was not about making them the least bit comfortable. So we tried. Our crews were awesome, and I feel very lucky to have worked with such a great group of professionals. We loved serving the troops, and the appreciation was reciprocated ten-fold. It was a wonderful job, where we could still treat soldiers as people...something they did not get the luxury of, once they walked off our planes.
I'm touched that so many of these entries are addressed to me, but I think it was because they were my books. I feel honored by their kind words, because I wanted to do a good job of honoring them.
This is the beginning. The entries that follow were written by the men and women on these flights — in their own words, in their own handwriting.
If you were on these flights, or know someone who was, or just found your way here--your story doesn't end here. I want to hear from you.