With Eric all packed the night before, we got to sleep in till 4am.

Which gave us a little time to try to wake-up before heading off to the hangar.

[yeah, didn't really work so well]

It was dark. It was cold. It was dark…did I mention it was dark?

One by one the guys arrived lugging their own over-stuffed, cram-packed & way-too-heavy gear.

For us it was easy – we had a car. Pile it up & take off.

But for the majority who live in the barracks - clear on the other side of the base – it meant hailing down an on-base taxi or bumming rides from those with cars.

Nobody wanted to walk their roughly 150 lbs of gear through the cold & dark all the way to the other side.

And one by one the pile of camo-covered gear spread out wider & wider. Each soldier trying to keep his stuff separated from the other’s as long as possible.

I mean, come on…

Have you ever tried finding your camo-covered bag in a sea of exactly identical camo-covered bags?

No?…

Ok, how ’bout your black luggage at the airport baggage claim?

[my apologies to the 2 men who read my blog for the obligatory butt shot - just couldn't resist]

There was last minute packing, unpacking, situating, re-situating & cramming in lovely high-nutritional value vending-machine dispensed goodies – in vibrant chemical colors with artificial sweeteners.

There was lots of standing about, shuffling of boots – trying to keep feet warm.

And Eric…running back to the car to grab the last bag - his assault pack – complete with space-bag-squished woobie, his mini-medicine chest ziploc full of cough drops & DayQuil, the extra wool socks & beef jerky.

Because the boy can’t go anywhere without beef jerky.

Woobie- Not a technical term obviously, but a sentimental one. Woobie’s are the greatest Army-invented travel/snuggle blanket ever. And one day I hope to have enough money to be able to give one away just so you can see what I’m talking about. But yes, it too is camo-covered.

And then he was gone.

A mass of green in a sea of little green Army men.

It wasn’t hard to see him go – not as stupidly hard as it was to watch him pack.

(Still can’t believe how much that memory messed with me.)

But it was a kind of deja-vu.

I’ve been in the dark before – at an un-godly hour – outside a non-descript military building - trying not to trip over the endless piles of camo-covered bags – scanning the sea of little green men for the one that mattered.

It was 2004.

But he wasn’t leaving - he was coming home.

And he was covered in sand.