2008 and I am standing in the Mohave Desert with the rest of my reserve unit.  It’s pretty hot here in early June, and a drop of sweat is gaining speed on the route from my hairline, down my spine, and on to all points south.  I shift my weight and soak it into my undershirt.  Gathered in a semi-circle around the back of the Humvee where our company commander is perched, we wonder and at the same time know what is coming.  We stand in the early evening desert light.  We drag on cigarettes until the cherries glow in the dusk, suck water out of camelbacks, and we-who-have-done-this-before catch each other’s eyes with ill-concealed grins.  My mind wanders off to the lush light on the surrounding mountains and I can’t help but think of last time.  

It was February of 2003, and rumors had been swirling since the previous September.  We got some new gear, some tan (different from the usual green) equipment showed up at the reserve center, we did a lot of paperwork.  Our company inside joke was “It don’t mean nothing.”  And though we knew it meant something, we had no idea what.  

The United States had not yet invaded Iraq, and there seemed to be no need for our particular specialty in Afghanistan.  And then, in February, it happened.  I got the call on Friday morning, really early.  It was my First Sergeant.  As soon as he identified himself I knew.  “You are ordered to report to the reserve center at 0730 on Sunday morning…”  I don’t remember the rest.

Forty-eight hours.  Call girlfriend.  Cancel classes.  Break lease.  Call Mom.  Quit job.  Dammit.  Call Mom.  Call Dad.  Tell roommates.  Don’t slow down or this will bury you.  Have a party?  Might as well.  Say goodbye.  Tons of questions.  No answers.

The next thing any of us knew we were at Fort McCoy, in the bar on post, and it was Valentine’s Day.  For some reason the powers that be, or the DJ, decided that Valentine’s Day at a mobilization station was a great time to play sappy country love songs.  We got wasted.

Fourteen months later we were home after a brutal year in Iraq.  For a time we held the dubious distinction of being the hardest hit unit in the United States Army – reserve or active.  It took me a good couple of years to fix myself up again, and it shaped my life in ways that I will probably still be figuring out years from now.  Always though, it was a relief to know that I would be safely out of the reserves before it had a chance to happen again.

Back to the Mohave.  There is a certain excitement that is difficult to explain to someone who has never been there.  A nudge.  A whisper.  “Dude, we’re totally going back.”  The stragglers show up and the commander stands up and clears his throat.  He is impossibly young in this moment, twenty-five.  He has never deployed.  The group is silent.  They are all young.  “You’ve probably all heard the rumors…”  Nice one sir, great opening line.  Don’t you know that this is one of those rare opportunities to make a speech that people will tell their kids about?

So we’re going back.  Only this time, we get eight months, not forty-eight hours.  Eight months to get things in order.  Eight months to find someone else to do my civilian job.  Eight months to say goodbye.  Seven months to say goodbye.  Six months to say goodbye.  I should call Mom.  Dammit.  I prefer forty-eight hours.