The newspapers were filled with disturbing reports about both Moqtada al-Sadr's Shiite uprising and the scandal at Abu Ghraib prison. I knew the history, of course - the history of soldiers returning home from an unpopular war to a citizenry angry over the war and angry with those who had carried it out. I was unsure how I would be received by people back home. Finally, I could concentrate on other things, such as trolling the Internet for news of the Red Sox, trying to get in shape for my reintroduction to the feminine half of our species, and anticipating my return to the United States, where I was heading for a month's convalescent leave. When we crossed the border into Kuwait, I felt a release of tension I had not known I was harboring. All too often I had watched them land with deadly precision, but this time we were lucky. In my 12 months in Baghdad, we had encountered quite a few grenades, mortars, and bullets. Another time, a rocket-propelled grenade bounced lazily across the road, mere feet in front of a speeding Humvee, then exploded harmlessly on the opposite side. On the way, one truck in the convoy had two of its tires blown out by small-arms fire, and several bullets lodged in the seat of one soldier. On April 12 our convoy of more than 100 vehicles hit the road, traveling the same route along which we had stormed north almost one year earlier. Though I may not have felt fondness for my quarters, I did harbor mixed emotions of another sort: relief, because we were leaving in the midst of brutal fighting, and guilt, because so many of our fellow soldiers were left behind. Now, we were returning to our home station in Germany. I had spent the last year as a platoon leader conducting offensive patrols, raids, and search operations in the area surrounding Baghdad International Airport. I was staring at an abandoned building just outside Baghdad.
It was not as if I were leaving Boston, my hometown. There were no such emotions in this leave-taking, however. Any time you leave a place of extended residence it's natural to feel some nostalgia, and not a little grief, over the end of a portion of your life. In April, I looked upon the building that had been my home for the previous 12 months.
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